The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 13

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 13
Winter was gone. The hills of Norden, once asleep beneath a blanket of ice, now stirred in shades of damp green. The last patches of snow melted down the slopes, mixing with the dark, fertile soil as the streams began to sing again beneath the stone bridges. The air carried that unmistakable scent of living earth — the rough perfume of wet wood and new leaves. The wind still had teeth, but it blew with promise.
The palace garden mirrored this change. Where once there had been only whiteness and silence, tiny, stubborn flowers now bloomed, dotting the beds with touches of lilac and white. The vines curled back around the columns, the shrubs stretched toward the light. The sound of human work blended with the hum of insects: shovels striking the ground, buckets lifted, voices calling orders. For a fleeting moment, Norden seemed at peace.
Out in the fields, the crops swayed under the soft wind, golden as if the sun had decided to rest upon them. The ripe wheat moved in steady rhythms, producing a gentle sound — like a collective breath. The barns were full, carts came and went along the roads, and there was a general feeling of abundance.
From the high palace windows, Lissandra watched it all. With every new season, she noticed how the world seemed to change moods. The people who had hidden under blankets and silence through the winter now filled the terraces with laughter. Merchants set up stalls, children ran with flowers in their hands, and even the guards, stern in other times, looked a little less severe.
She herself had changed, too. Her hair was now tied back in a practical knot, held by a pale blue ribbon that kept the strands out of her face while she worked in the greenhouse. Her hands, once soft and unmarked, now bore fine cuts and small stains from sap and soil. When she looked in the mirror, Lissandra barely recognized the young woman who, months ago, had only studied what it meant to be a priestess.
Her routine with Agon had become constant, though hidden behind a dozen excuses. Even after Tristan’s harsh words, the two kept meeting — first out of necessity, then by habit, and finally for something neither dared to name. She would say she needed to check the soil conditions in the garden; he would show up with samples of strata and compounds to test. Sometimes they exchanged only brief notes about temperature and how the lunar cycle affected what the sun did not. Other times, they stayed silent for long minutes, just listening to the drip of water through the glass pipes in the greenhouse.
There was something curious about that closeness. No gesture was bold, no word crossed the boundary set by appearances, yet there was a new ease — as if they had found a way to exist within the rules.
In a way, the seasons had taught them both the same rhythm. Spring now opened before them, and the world seemed willing to let whatever had been held back finally begin to bloom.
Lissandra went down and crossed the garden, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots blending with the rustle of new leaves. The gardeners greeted her, and she replied with a faint nod before vanishing among the greenhouses. The heat inside was almost suffocating, but familiar. The glass panes, misted with dew, scattered the light in shades of amber. The moon-herbs were strong again, and she felt a quiet pride seeing their leaves regain their glow.
There was comfort in the predictability of her routine. Even her notes — temperature, humidity, light — seemed a way to hold the unpredictable in place.
Outside, a group of children — the servants’ kids — ran laughing toward the gates, chased by a dog. One of them tripped, laughed, and got up with a crushed flower in hand. Lissandra watched and smiled. Everything — the fresh air, the sound of footsteps, the smell of soil — seemed to say that Norden had awakened once more.
But beneath that surface of harmony, something subtle was shifting. A bird crossed the sky and landed on a dry branch. In the distance, clouds were gathering — too thick, too heavy for a spring day.
Lissandra looked up, distracted, and thought how treacherous time could be. The seasons changed without asking, like feelings — quiet at first, until everything around had already transformed.

…

The morning started bright, with the kind of pale sun that usually promised a good day’s work in the fields. The wind carried the sweet scent of ripe wheat, and life in Norden moved in its usual rhythm.
But something broke that harmony.
A farmer arrived at the castle gate, his face covered in dust and eyes uneasy, carrying a basket under a linen cloth. The guards let him through in a hurry, and soon word spread through the halls: something was wrong with the harvest.
When Lissandra reached the courtyard, Agon was already there, crouched beside the basket. The farmer trembled before him, hat in hand, trying to explain what he’d seen. “The ears started turning dark from the inside, sir. One night they were golden, and the next morning… like this.”
Agon lifted the cloth, and the smell he’d already sensed from afar filled the air. It was sharp, sour, almost metallic. Lissandra instinctively stepped back. The ears in the basket had lost the glow of ripe wheat. Their tips were coated in a thick, purple layer — a mold far worse than what grows on walls. When Agon touched one with his tweezers, a fine dust rose, floating in faint lilac clouds.
“The smell…” Lissandra murmured, covering her nose with her sleeve. “Like rotten fruit mixed with iron.”
“This isn’t normal rot,” Agon said, leaning closer. “Look at the texture. The fungus is inside the husks, not just on them. It grows from within.”
He placed one of the ears under a magnifying lens. The glass reflected a greenish gleam — the mold seemed to pulse under the light. “Never seen anything like this. Not in winter-mold samples, not in southern crop diseases.”
“Could it be poisonous?”
“If it’s a fungus, maybe. But it looks… too well adapted.” He looked up, brows drawn. “Like it learned to disguise itself. From a distance, anyone would think these are healthy ears — until it decides to show its face.”
A chill ran down Lissandra’s spine. “Disguised?”
“Yes. That’s what makes it dangerous. It can spread before anyone notices what’s happening.”
While they spoke, a servant ran up, breathless. “Miss! Doctor! The western fields are… withering. The grains dried before harvest. And now they say it’s happening in the north too.”
Agon stood upright, eyes wide. “How many fields?”
“The steward counted five, but they’re checking others.”
Lissandra met his eyes. The worry in Agon’s gaze was technical, analytical — yet real. There was something almost offended in the idea that the land itself could fall ill.
“Bring samples from those fields to my lab,” Agon ordered. “And don’t let anyone eat anything that came from those crops.”
“But sir, the harvest—”
“This is contamination now. If it spreads, the grains will infect the rest of the stock.”
The servant nodded and hurried off. The silence that followed was heavy. Lissandra looked at the basket, then back at Agon. “Do you think it’s a sickness of the soil?”
“Maybe. Or something that came with the thaw. Fungi act like opportunistic travelers — they sleep through the cold, then wake and take advantage of the warmth.” He spoke more to himself than to her, eyes fixed on the samples. “But this one’s… different. It fuses with the plant tissue in an unusual way. Almost like it’s mimicking a healthy grain.”
From the hallway, footsteps echoed — firm, deliberate. Tristan appeared in the doorway, his expression severe, posture unyielding. “So this is what keeps the good doctor busy now? Sick ears of wheat?”
Agon didn’t look up from the basket. “If the wheat dies, the kingdom dies with it. Not all of us can just return to our roots and hunt with claws and teeth. And eventually, even we would suffer, because herbivores—”
Tristan let out a short, cold laugh, cutting him off. “There’s always a natural explanation when one lacks faith.”
“And always an invisible culprit when one prefers demons to reason,” Agon replied, calm as ever.
Lissandra stepped in before the air grew heavier. “Tristan, he’s trying to understand what’s happening. The farmers need answers.”
“The farmers need blessings, not bottles and theories.” He shot Agon a warning look and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the stone corridor.
For a moment, silence returned. Lissandra watched as Agon gathered the samples — calm, but with a tension in his movements that hadn’t been there before. She said nothing, but their glance was enough. It was the kind of trust that didn’t need words.
The news spread quickly. Soldiers were sent to the villages to inspect the grains, collect samples, and isolate the storerooms. The Lycan King summoned his advisors and stewards, and the castle corridors, once full of laughter, became heavy with murmurs and hurried steps.
In just a few days, the fields that had once looked so promising wore a different face. The gold had turned pale, almost gray. The birds had gone silent. Only the crows, tireless, circled above the dying crops, their shadows crawling over the ground like omens.
The wind that once carried the scent of wheat now brought the bitter odor of decay. And when Lissandra looked out from the greenhouse window, she understood that the golden glow of the fields had been only a brief promise — the kind the world rarely keeps entirely.