The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 16

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 16
Tristan had never been a light sleeper. Since he was a kid, the creak of a door or the rustle of wind was enough to wake him—alert, tense—as if something far deeper than his lycan instincts refused to let him rest. In the past few weeks, that instinct had been screaming.
Something was wrong.
He noticed it in the details—things no one else would catch. Lissandra’s cloak is hanging in the wrong place. Muddy footprints in the corridor leading to the inner garden. A candle snuffed out too early. And most of all, her gaze—calm, too calm, as if practiced.
Lissandra had never known how to lie. She was made of transparency—until the day she started vanishing into the nights of the palace.
One night, Tristan waited on the staircase. He heard soft steps, then the muffled sound of the patio door closing. He waited a bit longer, but when he looked, there was no one. Only a trail of fresh mud on the stones—like a signature.
The next morning, he called for his sister’s closest servant. He started gently.
“Tell me,” he said, pouring wine into a glass he didn’t plan to drink. “I’ve noticed my sister’s been… distracted. Does she go out often at night?”
The woman hesitated. “The princess has been praying more, my lord. The garden soothes the spirit.”
“Praying in the garden?” He tilted his head, his amber eyes fixed on her. “Strange, since the gardeners haven’t seen her there for more than a few minutes in weeks.”
The servant’s silence was the answer he expected. A muscle in Tristan’s jaw twitched.
“You know something,” he said, voice suddenly cold. “And you’re going to tell me.”
She tried to deny it, but his gaze was a blade. Finally, in a whisper, she gave in: “The… the royal physician’s son, my lord. She’s been helping him. In the lab. Says it’s for the good of the fields.”
Tristan leaned back in his chair, wine untouched. That cursed string of words—the royal physician’s son—echoed in his mind like an insult.
When the woman left, he stayed there for long minutes, motionless, staring at the wall. His heart thudded like a drum, but it wasn’t just anger. It was something heavier, darker.
Betrayal.
Not just of a brother—but of duty.
Agon. The common-born alchemist. The young lycan who thought himself wise enough to question traditions older than the very palace where countless Lycan Kings and Queens had been born and died. And now, apparently, he dared approach the princess as an equal.
Tristan stood abruptly and strode down the corridor to the balcony. Night had already fallen, and a flickering light caught his eye—the laboratory window, glowing in the dark like a watchful eye.
From where he stood, he could see shadows moving inside. Two figures—one tall, the other slender—passed before the flames. The golden glow of the lamps danced across the walls. The scene was almost innocent, but in Tristan’s mind, it turned poisonous.
Jealousy, pride, duty—they all tangled together. He couldn’t decide what hurt more: that Lissandra was hiding something from him, or that the “alchemist” had convinced her to disobey.
First, a commoner gained a voice in court. Now, a princess lowered herself to serve him.
Tristan gripped the stone railing so hard his knuckles went white, and the wall cracked a little. Outside, the wind howled through the towers, carrying the scent of sick soil. It mocked him—reminded him the rot wasn’t only in the fields, but within the palace walls themselves.
“Enough,” he muttered to himself. “This ends now.”
And with the icy certainty of someone who believes they’re doing right, Tristan descended the stairs, his boots echoing like the herald of a storm no one else could see.

…

Tristan climbed the steps to the laboratory. Every footfall was a drumbeat in his chest. Silence surrounded him, thick, almost complicit. When he reached the door, he didn’t hesitate. He shoved it open.
The wood slammed against the wall like thunder. Glass clinked, and something crashed to the floor.
Agon lifted his eyes from a table cluttered with tubes and papers. He didn’t flinch. Just watched. The firelight flickered in his pupils—and in them, not a hint of surprise.
The smell hit hard: sulfur, alcohol, burnt herbs. The lamps cast yellow light over rows of bottles, some glowing green or blue, like tiny hearts pulsing in glass.
Tristan, though disgusted by the stench, stepped forward, his boots striking the stone floor. His breath echoed.
“So this is how the savior of our kingdom spends his nights,” he muttered, voice more a growl than words. “Doesn’t look like you’re close to saving anyone, if you ask me.”
“I know why you’re here, Your Highness.” Agon calmly closed the book before him—so calmly it was almost insulting. “This is where I work. And where your sister chooses to help.”
Tristan crossed the space between them and swept part of the table with his arm. One of the bottles shattered on the floor, fizzing and smoking, a sharp smell filling the air.
“What are you doing with my sister?”
Agon watched the vapor rise, then looked back at him. “Working. And trying to save Norden’s fields.”
Tristan stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You think you can use the kingdom’s name as an excuse? You’re bewitching Lissandra with your theories and potions. She doesn’t see what you are—a manipulator, an opportunist.”
Agon didn’t back down. He picked up a cloth and calmly wiped the table, as if Tristan’s fury were just another spill to clean.
“She sees more than you think,” he replied, voice steady. “Helping isn’t weakness. It’s a choice.”
The lamps flickered.
Tristan stepped forward again, face inches from Agon’s. “You forget your place. There’s a line between those who serve and those who rule—and you crossed it.”
Agon held his gaze, unshaken. “Maybe that’s why the land’s dying. Too many lines. Not enough hands.”
The words fell between them like blades. Tristan clenched his fist, jaw tight. “You dare insult me in my own palace?”
“No.” Agon’s calm was unnerving. “The blight grows because no one faces it. And if your sister hadn’t the courage to act, we’d all be starving before next winter.”
Tristan drew a breath, eyes burning with rage—and something else. Doubt.
“Courage?” he snarled. “Is that what you call it? Disobedience? Betrayal of royal trust?”
Agon tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Maybe it’s easier to call betrayal what you can’t understand.”
The prince moved fast, grabbing the alchemist by the collar. Bottles rattled on the shelves.
“If you keep this up, I’ll lock you in this lab and toss the key into the river. And I’ll tell my father—and yours—that the young alchemist’s gone mad.”
Agon didn’t flinch. His steady gaze never wavered. “Do it,” he said quietly. “And the poison will stay in the fields. But if you let me work, there might still be bread on the tables of the people you swear to protect.”
Tristan’s fist stayed clenched for long seconds. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The alchemist’s breathing was calm—infuriatingly calm.
For a moment, Tristan wanted to strike him. To spill blood just to remind him who held power. But there was something in Agon’s eyes—something that stopped him. Not fear. Not defiance. Conviction.
Tristan released him suddenly, shoving him back. The collar was wrinkled, and the air between them hung heavy with an unfinished battle.
“Remember what I said,” Tristan hissed, turning toward the door. “There are limits even knowledge can’t cross.”
Agon only replied, eyes returning to the vials, “And there are walls even ignorance can’t hold.”
Tristan paused at the threshold but didn’t look back. He slammed the door so hard the lamps trembled—one nearly went out.
The echo of the impact rippled through the lab. The sharp smell of burnt reagents lingered.
Agon took a slow breath, straightened his collar, and looked down at the smoking liquid on the floor. The vapor rose, pale blue, as if the night itself were sighing.
“Limits,” he murmured to himself. “They always start with fear.”
And he went back to work.