The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 14

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 14
Light streamed through the stained glass of Norden’s throne room, coloring the marble floor with shades of gold and blue. The air was thick, heavy with the resinous scent of torches and the distant echo of guards’ boots along the columns. High above, the Lycan King’s throne imposed silence on all who stood before it.
To the left, Randal stood straight and calm, his gaze sharp. To the right, Tristan wore the kind of impatience one hides only out of respect, drumming his fingers against the chair’s armrest.
Lissandra stood near the throne, her pale blue dress striking against the crimson carpets. Her hands were clasped before her, betraying her anxiety.
The doors opened.
Agon entered with measured steps, followed by Eron. His father, stern-faced, gave a short bow before quietly retreating to the back of the hall. Agon, in turn, kept his chin high and eyes locked on the royals. Formal clothes had replaced his apron, crooked collar, and deep shadows under his eyes still gave away the laboratory wolf beneath.
The sound of his footsteps echoed across the marble, sharp enough to make even Tristan stop drumming.
The Lycan King broke the silence.
“Agon, I was told you have answers. What kind of blight threatens our soil?”
Agon inclined his head in respect before opening the small case he carried. Inside, translucent vials shimmered under the stained glass as if they contained miniature storms. He placed them carefully on the stone table before the throne.
“What threatens the harvest is not magic, nor curse, but life — a life small and ravenous.”
The words rippled through the hall. Even Randal raised a brow.
Agon continued, uncapping one of the vials. A purple liquid glimmered in the light.
“It’s a fungus. It feeds on the sap of the roots and spreads through the plant’s veins, blending with the very fibers meant to sustain it. Look.”
He took one of the samples — a blackened ear of grain sliced open — and pointed to the purple veins running through its core.
“It imitates the plant, until it can no longer tell itself from the invader.”
Lissandra watched closely, her eyes following every movement.
“The cycle is quick. Every drop of spring dew accelerates its growth. Within days, the whole field could be lost.”
Tristan leaned forward, his eyes flashing.
“So, according to you, we’re to believe the land itself has turned against us?”
Agon met his gaze, a faint, restrained smile at the corner of his lips.
“Maybe it’s simply tired of being misunderstood.”
A murmur ran through the hall, cut short by the Lycan King’s command.
“Silence.”
Randal looked between them, clearly entertained, but said nothing.
Agon took a steady breath, returning to his scientific tone.
“There’s a chance to stop the cycle. I propose developing an alchemical compound — a mix of minerals and extracts that would form a barrier at the roots. The fungus would die before reaching the stem.”
The Lycan King watched him silently — part invitation, part test of patience.
“For that,” Agon continued, “I need access to every source in the kingdom: the greenhouses, the gardens, the Cathedral’s reserves.”
Tristan straightened immediately.
“The Cathedral’s reserves? You’d desecrate what this kingdom has guarded for centuries?”
“I only wish to preserve what it has built for centuries,” Agon replied, calm, almost kind.
“And when you fail?” Tristan shot back. “What will you tell the people? That science killed the crops?”
Randal spoke before the King could.
“Let him try. Nothing is more dangerous than doing nothing.”
Tristan turned away, checked by his brother’s authority.
The Lycan King leaned back slowly, his heavy gaze fixed on Agon.
“You ask much, young one. The Cathedral’s flowers are sacred. They will not be touched.”
Agon nodded with respect.
“But study the tree they came from. Perhaps it holds the answer.”
A long silence lingered. The Lycan King drummed his fingers on the throne’s arm, then rose to his feet.
“You have leave to begin your research, under supervision, but you’ll have what you need to start.”
The tension in the room began to ease. Lissandra let out a quiet sigh — relief, and a flicker of pride.
Agon bowed his head.
“My thanks, Your Majesty.”
The King’s eyes fell briefly on Lissandra, then on Tristan.
“And let everyone remember: this is the kingdom’s effort, not a contest of pride.”
The echoes of voices faded as the advisors and guards began to leave the hall. Randal was the first to approach Agon.
“I don’t usually trust men in lab coats who hand me foul-tasting medicine when I’m ill,” he said with a small smile, “but you speak with conviction. I hope you’re right.”
Agon nodded — no arrogance, just quiet gratitude.
When he turned to go, his eyes met Lissandra’s. No words were needed; her look said enough — trust.
Tristan stood motionless beside the throne, his face cast in shadow. His silence was a promise of future clashes.
The audience was over, but what had just begun was not only the path toward a cure — it was the seed of conflict.
…
The throne room still carried the weight of the decision when the doors closed behind Agon.
Descending the steps, Tristan leaned toward his brother, his voice low and sharp.
“The alchemy commoner is meddling where he shouldn’t. Soon he’ll think he can command the rhythm of the harvest.”
Randal kept his eyes on the exit, arms crossed.
“Maybe it’s precisely because he owes nothing to tradition that he sees what we can’t.”
Tristan glared, his jaw muscle twitching.
“You’ve always had a weakness for idealists.”
“And you, a crippling fear of being wrong.”
Silence stretched between them until the Lycan King stood, ending the exchange without a word.
…
Hours later, the greenhouse corridor was empty, save for the amber glow of the lamps and the lingering scent of damp soil. Agon walked slowly, his shoulders tense, his eyes burning from fatigue. The voices, the stares — all of it clung to him like dust.
Lissandra appeared from the opposite end, the soft sound of her sandals echoing lightly. When she saw him, she hesitated, searching for the right tone.
“You faced the whole throne,” she said at last, “and still walked away with permission to experiment.”
Agon stopped, turning toward her. A flicker of exhaustion crossed his face, but his eyes still held a quiet fire.
“Permission isn’t the same as freedom,” he replied. “But it’s a start.”
She moved closer, fingers brushing the leaves that lined the corridor.
“Tristan’s furious. He’ll try to stop you.”
Agon shrugged, his expression calm, almost amused.
“Resistance is a kind of proof. If no one opposes you, the idea’s weak.”
“And if the idea’s too strong?”
He smiled slightly.
“Then the problem will be surviving it.”
A soft silence settled between them. Lissandra watched his face in the dim light — the young lycan who had challenged nobility with the ease of someone solving an equation. His confidence unsettled her as much as it drew her in.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice low.
“And you shouldn’t be alone,” she replied firmly.
They stood there for a moment, between the distant wind and the whisper of leaves. No bold gestures, only the weight of what couldn’t be said.
When Lissandra turned to leave, Agon looked down for a heartbeat, then lifted his gaze back to her.
“Thank you for believing in me.”
She didn’t answer. She only inclined her head and walked away, the hem of her dress fading into shadow.
Agon remained there, breathing deeply. The scent of soil and green things felt sharper, as if the garden itself were waiting for something. He knew the Lycan King had set his limits — but his mind was already past them.
…
The fields were drowned in shadow when Agon returned. Torches stuck in the ground threw trembling circles of light over withered wheat, and the cold wind made the blackened leaves sway. Each gust lifted faint particles — nearly invisible — drifting through the air like glass dust: the fungus, spreading in silence.
Agon stopped where the path met the field. The smell was strong, bittersweet, a mix of rotting sap and ancient dampness. The moon, veiled by thin clouds, cast a pale glow, and the insects’ hum felt distant — muffled, unreal.
He knelt. Ran his fingers through the dark soil, feeling its damp, wrong texture. The fungal veins wove beneath the surface, pulsing like a living web. His breathing slowed. There was something hypnotic in that microscopic motion.
He took a small vial from his bag. As he filled it with contaminated earth, he watched closely, noting every detail — the metallic gleam of the mold, the way the air seemed to vibrate around the dead roots. The act carried a hint of ritual, but there was no faith in it. It was science, pure and stubborn. A young lycan seeking answers in a world that still believed in omens.
The wind picked up. The torches flickered, and Agon lifted his face, following the silver motes floating toward the hills. Each one could carry the ruin of an entire village. He wondered how many nights he would spend here, trying to stop something that might already be greater than will itself.
From the palace balcony above, Lissandra watched. The distance between them was vast, yet it felt as though they shared the same heavy air, the same silence, the same space. And inside her grew a quiet certainty: the kingdom’s hope now rested in the hands of someone her brother would never understand.
The moon broke through the clouds. Its light flashed on the glass vial in Agon’s hand — a cold, ethereal shimmer.
That same moon shone over the distant cathedral windows, where the sacred flowers slept under guard — the flowers that, perhaps, could save Norden.