The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 27

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 27
The news that Lissandra was out of danger reached the king almost at the same time Randal and Agon crossed the doors of the royal hall. There was no ceremonial announcement, no formalities: only the smell of blood still clinging to both their clothes, Agon’s short breath, and Randal’s firm presence carrying a small wooden box that belonged to no inventory in the palace.

The Lycan King sensed the gravity before hearing a single word.

He saw the state of both of them, saw the way Agon walked like a living embodiment of nerves, and saw how Randal held the box as if inside it lay the most powerful and also the most fragile thing he’d ever had the chance to hold.

When Agon explained what was in the box, the Lycan King didn’t react with relief. He reacted with contained fury. The whole room seemed to tremble with the growl forming in his chest as he heard that the flowers stolen from the Cathedral had been used to create an experimental antidote. It was impossible to tell whether he was more irritated with the theft itself, the risk, or the fact that no one consulted him before acting. The Lycan King wasn’t a tyrant, but he was used to carrying responsibility on his shoulders, and few things angered him as deeply as decisions made in the shadows.

Agon didn’t step back. He didn’t defend himself either. He spoke only what was necessary: the blight was advancing too fast, the laboratory alone didn’t offer enough resources, and if there was any chance of saving the kingdom, they had to act, even if it meant crossing lines considered sacred.

Randal didn’t ask forgiveness for anything. He simply confirmed every word Agon said, steady, bearing the weight of an heir who recognizes urgency before tradition.

The Lycan King didn’t approve of the method. Didn’t approve of the boldness. But he approved of the result. He ordered the antidote to be tested immediately. Ordered more samples to be produced, so that the farmers be summoned, that Doctor Eron work side by side with Agon under the direct supervision of the prince. Nothing would enter the fields without his oversight. Nothing would be distributed without the Lycan King himself seeing the first effects.

As for Tristan, there was no debate.

The Lycan King did not need to see Lissandra’s wound to decide. The news came alongside confirmation that Tristan had lost control before her, that he had lunged at Agon, that he had nearly prevented the delivery of the antidote. The sentence was spoken without a hint of hesitation: one year in custody, stripped of any public function, accompanied by guards day and night. Not as punishment for an enemy, but for a son who had become too dangerous to himself and to others.

The weeks that followed were restless.

At first, the antidote worked too slowly. The fields remained dark, dry, as if the blight had sunk its teeth into the earth. Farmers stared at the horizon and spoke of despair. Agon stayed awake entire nights, reviewing calculations, rediscovering nonexistent errors, reorganizing vials already perfectly organized. Each morning, he crossed the infirmary to check on Lissandra—who recovered slowly, still pale, but alive—and then left for the fields with Randal and the Lycan King.

Until one sprout appeared.

A single sprout, small, leaning, with a timid shade of green. The farmers gathered around it as if it were a miracle. Agon knelt before the plant as if it were a living equation, an unexpected answer. Randal placed a firm hand on his shoulder, saying nothing—but there was pride there, silent and intense.

Then came other sprouts. Then more. Then an entire row of plants, standing, bathed in sunlight.

In a few days, the landscape changed. The black of the blight gave way to vibrant green. The soil, once wounded, began to pulse again. Farmers who had lost hope knelt in the mud, laughing or crying, or both at the same time. Children ran between the new leaves as if a second spring had arrived.

Norden flourished, at last. The antidote worked. The blight receded. And the kingdom that had been consumed by shadow awakened once more.

During that same period, inside the palace walls, another cycle was coming to an end: the old Oracle, already frail from years of service, prepared herself for her final act. Lissandra, still recovering, would be summoned to witness the final passing of the light.

She would become, at last, the Oracle of Norden.

…

Lissandra walked slowly, but she walked. That, by itself, already felt like a small miracle. The wound had left a pale mark on her skin and another, deeper one in her memory, but her muscles obeyed again, the pain no longer pulsed like a constant thunder, and her body reclaimed its own balance. Two guards accompanied her through the corridor—not out of necessity, but because Randal had insisted. “Just until you stop limping,” he had said, which in practice meant they would escort her until he decided they had done enough.

Morning light entered through the great Cathedral windows, golden and calm. Each step echoed softly, and Lissandra felt the strange sensation of walking toward something that had been decided long ago, even before she was born.

When they reached the round door of bluish wood, carved with lunar symbols, the guards stopped.

“Only you go in,” one of them said, bowing his head.

Lissandra nodded, took a deep breath, and pushed the door.

The Oracle’s chamber was very different from what Lissandra had imagined: a simple room, well aired, without exaggerated decorations indicating the function of its occupant. The walls were curved, made of pale stone polished in ancient patterns. At the center, there was a kind of nest of light fabrics, cushions, and mantles where the Oracle rested.

Even though it had not been that long, she was smaller than Lissandra remembered. Her body seemed to have folded into itself, like a breath ready to escape. Her bright white hair, once long and thick, lay loose over her shoulders, almost faded. Her skin had the fineness of old silk.

“Come, child of the moon,” said the Oracle, her voice weak but firm in intent.

Lissandra approached and knelt beside her. The Oracle touched her face with light fingers, as if confirming something she already knew.

“You took your time,” she whispered.

“I… needed to recover,” Lissandra answered with a timid smile.

The Oracle laughed, a short laugh, almost breathless, but real.

“Recovery is part of the path. The chosen stumble as much as fools. The difference is that they keep walking.”

Lissandra lowered her head, moved by that blend of affection and wisdom only Lady Hestira could reach at the same time.

“Why did you call me?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

The Oracle looked at the light coming through the high window, where the invisible moon still left faint traces.

“Because my last night is coming,” she said, without sorrow, without lament. Simply as a natural truth. “And no one should face their last night alone.”

Lissandra swallowed hard.

The Oracle sighed, and the air seemed to vibrate around her, as if the environment itself were listening.

“You know, when I was chosen, I was as stubborn as you,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps more. I believed the light was a debt, something far too heavy. It took years for me to understand that light is not a prison, but an invitation.”

She lifted her hand and touched Lissandra’s chest, right over her heart.

“The Moon Goddess does not choose perfection. She chooses those who have the courage to keep feeling. And you feel so much, my girl… You even try to hide it, but I know.”

Lissandra felt tears rise before she could brace herself.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she confessed.

The Oracle smiled with tenderness that almost hurt.

“Oh, no one ever is. That’s the beauty. Do you think I was? I was terrified. I spent my first year thinking the goddess had dozed off when she looked at me. But over time, I learned to see the world through her light. I learned that power is not a burden, but a flame asking to be kept alive.”

Lissandra closed her eyes for a moment.

“And what happens now?”

The Oracle adjusted her posture, like someone gathering the last strength of their entire body for a single gesture.

“Now comes the final cycle,” she said. “The passing. My body is at its end, but the light… the light never dies. It only moves.”

The air seemed to grow warmer. The Oracle took Lissandra’s hand and squeezed her fingers with unexpected firmness.

“Lissandra, listen. The blight, the cure, the wound, all the chaos… none of it was random. You walked where you needed to walk. You were tested like souls who carry worlds are tested. Now it is time to hear the light. Not with ears, but with spirit.”

Lissandra held her breath.

The Oracle raised her hands and placed one atop the young woman’s head. The touch was light, but it seemed to pierce through flesh and bone.

The room darkened. Not as though the light had faded, but as though the world had stepped aside for a moment. The air vibrated, and something began to pulse—weak at first, then stronger, like a heart beating outside the body.

The light appeared.

Not an ordinary light. It was silver, alive, almost liquid. It rose from the Oracle’s chest, flowing to her hands, then into Lissandra. It didn’t burn, but it wasn’t gentle either: it was intense, pulsing, carrying centuries.

Lissandra felt the energy cross her skin, run through her veins, climb her spine like a cold flame. Her breath escaped her, but there was no panic; there was a deep, strange understanding, as if she were remembering something she had never lived.

The Oracle, even frail, held her posture. Her eyes now glowed like lamps about to go out, but her expression was peaceful.

“Accept,” she whispered. “Don’t fight. The light does not like being tamed. It likes being welcomed.”

Lissandra let out a sob, not of pain, but pure emotion. The light kept flowing, filling every space inside her, illuminating memories, emotions, scars. Until, slowly, the glow began to fade and concentrated into a single point above her eyes.

When the light left the Oracle, a silence remained so deep it seemed to have weight. The Oracle exhaled—a light breath, almost transparent—and her body relaxed onto the cushions.

The glow vanished from her eyes and hair.

Lissandra held the elder woman’s hand until she felt no strength left in it. And even then, she didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” she whispered, even knowing the one who needed to hear had already departed.

The entire Cathedral fell quiet in that moment. Perhaps it had felt the passage. Perhaps the power had echoed through the corridors like a whisper.

Lissandra remained there for long minutes, breathing slowly, feeling the weight and lightness of the new light inside and around her. A strange sense of wholeness and responsibility, as if she had been stitched back into the world in a different way.

When she finally stood, still holding the Oracle’s mantle in respect, the moon already cast a gentle beam through the window. It was almost a silent greeting.

Lissandra left the chamber with slow steps.

She walked differently now.

She carried the light, and her eyes and hair glowed with the same light as the moon itself.