The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 9

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 9
The great hall of Norden glimmered in golden light. The flames of the lamps danced across the chandeliers, reflected in the goblets and in the crowns of the lictors guarding the doors. The royal table was long and heavy, made of ancient oak, carved with intricate details. Beneath the scent of roasted meats and aged wines, a tense silence lingered.
Lissandra kept a straight posture, her eyes lowered. But her restless fingers betrayed her discomfort. To her right, Randal smiled openly—the kind of smile that turned the weight of etiquette into ease; to her left, Tristan drank too much and watched everything with the cold gaze of someone constantly measuring strength. At the head of the table, the Lycan King spoke in a deep, measured voice about the state of the realm and the efforts to contain the cold-born sicknesses.
“The situation seems to be stabilizing,” said the king, his gaze moving from one son to the other. “The latest reports show fewer cases. Perhaps the convenient interest Doctor Eron’s son has in plants is having an effect. He’s suggested many teas and elixirs that seem to be working well. I wonder what he could do for us once the planting season begins.”
A murmur rippled down the table. Randal nodded, raising his goblet.
“Doctor Eron is a remarkable man. And his son has that spark in his eyes—the kind that belongs to those who believe they can change the world,” he said lightly.
But Tristan leaned forward, setting his cup down with a sharp clink.
“‘Spark’ might not be the best word right now, brother,” he said, his voice soft but cutting. “Some confuse spark with arrogance. Especially when they forget their place in the world.”
Lissandra lifted her gaze. At first, she tried to take the words as a casual jab, but Tristan’s half-smile gave him away—he was talking about Agon.
The Lycan King didn’t answer right away. He studied his children with the gaze of a seasoned predator—patient, yet ready to step in if blood threatened to spill.
“Crossing lines can be useful sometimes,” he said finally. “No progress ever came from blind obedience.”
“I agree, Father,” Tristan replied, his tone dripping with false courtesy. “But there’s a difference between innovation and defiance. Some men of science forget who feeds them.”
Lissandra’s fork froze midair. She drew a slow breath, hiding the urge to respond immediately. Tristan’s words had the same venomous perfume as his schemes: they sounded reasonable, but dripped poison underneath.
“I believe Doctor Eron and his son know their place,” said Lissandra at last, her voice calm. “Their knowledge has saved lives. If there’s danger in that, then it’s a necessary one.”
The silence thickened. Tristan turned his gaze to her, surprised by her boldness.
“Careful, sister,” he said softly. “Not everyone deserves your trust.”
“And not everyone deserves your suspicion,” she shot back, meeting his eyes.
Randal cleared his throat, cutting in before the air turned unbreathable.
“Well, look at us,” he said with an easy grin. “A banquet fit for philosophers. And here I was thinking we’d debate the wine, not the fate of science.”
This time, even the queen laughed a little, relieved to see her eldest steer the talk back to safer ground. The Lycan King, however, remained still, watching every gesture with eyes that missed nothing.
Tristan forced a smile, but his jaw stayed tight.
“You’re right, Randal,” he said, raising his cup. “To progress, then. May it not consume us before it saves us.”
“To progress,” Randal echoed with a hint of irony.
Lissandra raised her goblet out of courtesy, but the wine tasted bitter. She knew Tristan’s words weren’t mere rhetoric—they were a warning. He had seen, or heard, more than he should have about her visits to the laboratory.
The conversation spread down the table like a river seeking new paths. They talked about gossip from other Lycan Kingdoms, the approaching planting season, and the upcoming celebrations. But beneath the surface, tension lingered. The king carved the roast with ritual calm, watching his children as if reading omens in the entrails.
Lissandra’s gaze drifted to the dancing flames. In each one, she saw the reflection of the lab—the gleam of glass, the smell of alcohol, and Agon’s quiet laugh when something finally worked. A laugh that didn’t belong in this hall—a laugh of freedom.
Noticing her silence, Tristan leaned toward her again.
“You know, Lissandra,” he said quietly, “they say curiosity is a virtue. But in certain hearts, it looks a lot like disobedience.”
“And some confuse control with wisdom,” she replied without hesitation. “A common mistake among those who fear what’s new.”
The murmuring stopped. Even Randal hesitated before laughing again, this time a bit nervously.
“Brother, sister… at least let the wine cool before you devour each other.”
The Lycan King slowly set down his knife and fork. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of judgment.
“Enough. Dinner isn’t the place to decide who’s more right. We are a family—and we need harmony, not disputes.”
“Yes, Father,” said Lissandra, lowering her head.
Tristan merely nodded, but his eyes still gleamed with that same cold light—a warning glint.
Randal tried to revive the easy mood with stories from his recent travels. The queen, ever gentle, smiled politely. Still, the spell was broken.
As the servants cleared the plates, Lissandra let her eyes wander. The Lycan King was now speaking about border security, but her mind was elsewhere—so was Tristan’s, wandering back to the corridor where, hours earlier, Agon had faced him with sharp words.
His courage had surprised him—and annoyed him. And though Lissandra didn’t yet know it, she felt that each day the lines between duty and feeling grew thinner. There was something in that man that defied not just hierarchy, but fate itself.
When dinner ended, the Lycan King rose first. His children followed, each bowing in respect. Lissandra did the same, but when she looked up, she met her father’s eyes—and saw something deeper than disapproval there. Understanding. Maybe even sorrow.
As they left the hall, Tristan walked beside her for a few paces. Neither spoke. Only their footsteps echoed on the cold marble.
“Lissandra,” he said at last, almost gently. “Don’t get too involved. That man doesn’t belong in our world.”
She stopped.
“Maybe that’s exactly why he’s so interesting,” she said, not looking at him.
Tristan sighed and walked away.
Randal caught up to her soon after, his face still lit by his usual good humor.
“You know you just started a family war, right?” he said, amused.
“I don’t want a war,” she replied. “I just want to be left alone to make my own choices.”
“And Father?” he asked.
Lissandra hesitated. The king’s gaze during dinner still haunted her.
“I think he noticed something,” she murmured.
Randal nodded, now more serious.
“Our father rarely speaks of feelings, but he understands more than he shows. He’d never stop you from following your heart. I think we only need to worry about Tristan—and his worldview.”
She didn’t answer. They walked together to the end of the corridor, where the guards opened the doors for them. Outside, the moon rose behind Norden’s towers, silvering the gardens.
Lissandra stopped at the top of the stairs and lifted her face to the cold light.
Out there, under that same moon, Agon was likely awake—scribbling notes, grinding herbs, searching for answers the world didn’t yet understand. She thought of what Tristan had said: “That man doesn’t belong in our world.” Maybe that was true. But part of her felt he belonged to something greater.
And if the world wouldn’t have him, she would.
Behind her, the doors closed. Inside the palace, the intrigues went on. But there, beneath the moonlight, Lissandra felt the pull of a destiny no title could restrain.
The wind carried the distant scent of moon-herb—and with it, the memory of a smile amid the chaos.