The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 17

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 17
The palace corridor still carried the chill of dawn when Lissandra found Tristan. Her brother stood by the window, his face hardened, his posture militarily rigid. The pale morning light carved shadows into his features — his gaze, cold and sharp, seemed sculpted from ice, as if winter itself had suddenly returned.
“So you defend him, then?” he asked without preamble. His voice came out more like a verdict than a question, spoken through his teeth and laced with a growl of threat. “An aspiring… alchemist… who defies our father’s throne? Who disrespects our beliefs and stains our family’s name?”
Lissandra stopped before him. There was no tremor in her voice, no wavering in her gaze. “I defend what’s right, not what’s convenient.”
Tristan let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right? You call it right to sneak out at night with a commoner? To let yourself be fooled by his words, his formulas, his colored glass? He’s using you, Lissandra. Like every parasite that feeds on the weakness of the powerful.”
She took a slow breath, weighing each word before speaking. “Agon doesn’t use me. He listens — which is more than I can say for some people around here.”
The verbal strike hit home. Tristan looked away, but his gaze quickly returned, anger replacing discomfort. “You’re forgetting who you are—forgetting the blood that runs through your veins. We are the guardians of Norden. And he, no matter how well he pretends to serve, is an outsider. A stray hound who thinks himself above our laws. How long will you keep defending that… heretic?”
“It isn’t heresy to seek to understand the world, Tristan.” Her voice rose a note, but kept the calm of someone finally breaking free. “If the gift we’ve been given is divine, then it shouldn’t fear understanding.”
“You’re starting to sound just like him now…”
“Maybe because he taught me to think freely — something you’ve always feared.”
The silence that followed weighed heavier than words. Tristan breathed hard, his fists tight at his sides. “You’re playing with fire. You’re putting the kingdom at risk.”
“No.” She took a step closer. “I’m trying to save it.”
“Sister… think. Instead of saving us from this blight that eats our fields, he’ll end up creating something worse. Something that doesn’t only rot the grain that feeds our mills, but the hearts of our people, who might start to—”
Lissandra silenced him with a furious look. “Enough, Tristan.”
His eyes wavered between brotherly love and fury. There was a wounded brother there, not just an outraged prince. “You profane the gift you were given,” he insisted, now almost pleading. “The Moon Goddess gave us power to protect, not to question.”
Lissandra raised her chin, unflinching. “Faith that fears knowledge is just fear in disguise.”
The phrase echoed down the corridor, sharp as a drawn blade. Tristan tried to answer, but words failed him. The air between them hung suspended, thick with everything they’d never said to each other. At last, he stepped away — his stride firm, his pride intact, but his silence betrayed defeat.
Lissandra stood still for a moment, her heartbeat slow and steady. What she had just done wasn’t merely defiance; it was the beginning of something irreversible. For the first time, she didn’t see herself in the shadow of her priestly duty, but in the full light of her own thought.
Later, she walked to the inner garden. The afternoon sun filtered through the glass, painting the leaves gold and green. The air smelled of damp earth and hope. The seedlings she and Agon had cultivated were still there — fragile yet persistent. Among them, a few dry leaves bore signs of the silent fight against the blight, but at the center of one pot, something caught her eye.
Tiny sprouts broke through the dark soil — shy, but alive.
Lissandra knelt, touching one leaf with her fingertips. It was cold, but firm. Its texture reminded her of the moonherb when newly sprouted.
She smiled, a tired, tender smile.
The blight hadn’t been defeated yet. The kingdom still suffered. Tristan would still look at her with suspicion, and her father would still demand proof. But there, in that hidden little garden, something had taken root — something that could no longer be stopped.
Knowledge, she thought, is a seed. It takes courage to let it grow. And in that moment, between the sunlight and the scent of herbs, Lissandra understood she had already chosen her soil.

…

The tolling of the Cathedral bells broke the morning like an omen. Their tone was deep, slower than usual, and each chime seemed to weigh down the palace stones. In the inner garden, the wind carried the pollen of herbs and a murmur of unease.
Lissandra lifted her face from the flowerbed where she knelt. The moonherb leaves shimmered under the pale sun, but their beauty felt sorrowful — as if they sensed the same foreboding that filled the air. Agon, beside her, studied an infected sprout. The stem was nearly black, the fungus branching like faint purple veins beneath the plant’s skin.
“These bells sound kind of nervous today,” he muttered without looking up. “What do they mean?”
Lissandra wiped her hands on her skirt. “It’s been years since I last heard them ring like this. I was just a child. But it means our Oracle has returned from seclusion.”
“And why was she secluded for so long? If she last came when you were still a child… that means she’s been gone for ten years or more. I thought Oracles were supposed to stay in their Cathedrals, reachable.”
“She’s always been that way, from what I’ve heard,” Lissandra replied. “She comes, stays for a few days, makes her prophecies, then disappears again — gone for years.”
“And what is she? Human, lycan, werewolf?”
“A werewolf. They say that during her seclusio, she remains in her wolf-shape, never returning to her human form, living among wild wolves all that time.”
Agon raised a brow. “And here I thought I was the only odd one alive.”
“Apparently, you have competition.”
She laughed softly and rose to her feet. Her heart was racing. There were too many stories about the she-wolf who lived alone in the mountains — stories whispered by servants and soldiers, always with reverence: the Oracle of Norden, Lady Hestira.
What kind of message could she have received that would prompt her to return now?
The bell’s sound repeated, echoing through the air, cutting across walls and sweeping over rooftops. Agon glanced at her, curiosity and worry mingling in his eyes. “You’re a priestess. Shouldn’t you be meeting her right now?”
“Not yet…” she murmured. “Let’s finish what we started here first.”
And so they stayed, until Eron called for his son’s help, and Lissandra withdrew to prepare for her meeting with the Oracle.
The procession arrived at dusk. At its head walked Hestira, wrapped in a gray wool cloak, her face marked by wrinkles that mapped decades of silence. But her hair and eyes — white and shining like the full moon against a night sky — were proof of her bond with the Moon Goddess, the sign that she spoke in Her name.
The palace gates opened slowly. The Lycan King, solemn in bearing, came to greet her himself. Nobles and servants lined the courtyard, lowering their heads as the old woman passed.
Lissandra watched from the upper balcony. Her heart clenched in a strange mix of awe and unease. It wasn’t fear, but the reverence you feel when something you’ve long admired finally stands before you.
When Hestira lifted her eyes, for a fleeting instant the young princess had the clear sense that the woman’s gaze cut straight through her — reading, without haste, every thought she tried to hide.
Later, when the procession dispersed and the servants returned to their chores, Lissandra descended to the great hall. Hestira sat by the fireplace, her thin hands holding a steaming cup of tea.
Silently, Lissandra wondered why she had chosen to come to the palace on the very day of her return, without resting even a little at the Cathedral — and whether that choice had anything to do with why she’d come back to Norden now. Lost in thought, she didn’t realize she was already close enough to be noticed.
“You’re the youngest daughter of the Lycan King,” the old woman said before anyone could introduce them. Her voice was firm yet gentle, as if every word had been chosen long before it was spoken. “The one walking the path of faith.”
Lissandra bowed her head. “I am, my lady.”
Hestira studied her quietly, then reached out and touched her wrist — her fingers cold, her skin nearly translucent. “What blooms in silence will one day need a voice.”
Lissandra blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.”
The woman only smiled — a brief smile, more like a memory than an expression. “You will, in time. Time always speaks, even when the heart prefers silence.”
And releasing her wrist, she turned her gaze back to the fire. Lissandra stood there for a few seconds more, an inexplicable chill running down her spine.