Ksenia Chernov’s gaze, usually so sharp and commanding, was a fractured thing, darting from Anja’s unmoving form to Pavel, then back again. Her lips moved, forming the name 'Volkov' a second time, a sound laced with a revulsion so profound it felt ancient. “Your house was… erased,” Ksenia stammered, her knuckles white against her robes. “Their Kin, a blight. A heresy. The Sunder-Blood, they called it. How is this possible?” Pavel stepped between them, breaking the line of sight. “Irrelevant, Headmistress. What’s relevant is that Anja just demonstrated a highly efficient, albeit uncontrolled, mana-severing capability. Imagine that, but aimed, precise, and… stable.” He let the silence linger, watching her digest the prospect. Ksenia, still pale, swallowed hard. The mention of ‘stable’ seemed to reorient her. Her Archon’s mind, disciplined by dogma, began to grasp the raw power, not just the terror. “You mean… you could weaponize this?” “Weaponize it? We could *understand* it,” Pavel corrected, leaning forward. “Which means we could replicate it, control it, and most importantly, counter the Bleed. But for that, I need chemicals. Very specific, pure compounds. Things the Academy, in its infinite wisdom, probably considers ‘unmagical junk’.” Their journey took them far from the gilded spires of Vodyan, past the last vestiges of noble estates, and deep into the fetid, ramshackle sprawl known as the Mire-Bazaar. Here, the air was thick with the scent of fermented grains, unwashed bodies, and something vaguely sulfurous that Pavel identified as poorly refined naphtha. Ksenia, draped in a shapeless, mud-brown cloak and a wide-brimmed, frayed hat that obscured her severe features, looked utterly miserable. Her usual authoritative posture was replaced by a series of awkward hunches, as if trying to shrink herself out of existence. “This is… an affront,” Ksenia muttered, pulling the coarse fabric of her disguise tighter around her face. “My station… I am the Light Archon! To walk among… *them*.” She gestured vaguely at a trio of goblins haggling over a live, squawking bog-chicken. “Consider it a practical lesson in supply chain diversification,” Pavel said cheerfully, navigating a puddle of questionable origin. He wore a simple tunic, his usual aristocratic attire replaced by something indistinguishable from a dozen other commoners. Anja, in practical dark leather, looked as stoic and menacing as ever, her hand never far from the hilt of her blade. Her presence alone seemed to clear a path through the throng, vendors instinctively avoiding her direct line of sight. Their destination was a stall overflowing with bizarre, mostly inert curiosities, overseen by a portly merchant with a single rheumy eye and green, leathery skin. Pavel pointed to a dusty flask containing what looked like clear, viscous oil, and another with silvery, crystalline dust. “The oleum of Chronos,” Pavel stated, tapping the glass. “And powdered lunar-zinc. Both refined to a minimum purity of ninety-nine percent. Am I correct, shopkeeper?” The vendor squinted at Pavel, then at Anja. “Aye, human. Best in the Mire. Not a speck of Kin-taint.” “Excellent,” Pavel said. “Now, your asking price is three silvermarks for the oleum, two for the mineral powder. A total of five.” The trader’s yellow eye stretched wide. “Five? Ha! You joke! My prices are firm! Five for the oleum, four for the powdered stuff! Nine total!” Pavel shook his head. “Unacceptable. Your initial offer was five for both, which aligns with prevailing rates for inert stock. My research indicates a glut of these materials, particularly after the collapse of the northern mines, which produced a mountain of mana-dead rock. The supply shifted. Demand stalled.” The green merchant blinked, unaccustomed to pricing analysis. He looked from Pavel to Anja, whose expression remained flat stone, her fingers tightening on her crossguard. “Tell you what,” Pavel continued, sensing hesitation. “I will offer six silvermarks for both. A twenty percent premium on my opening bid, paying for immediate liquidity so you avoid bartering with fools. Furthermore, I guarantee future bulk orders if these batches prove effective.” The merchant’s cheek twitched. Accustomed to crude haggling, he struggled to counter Pavel’s rapid ledger arithmetic. He glanced at Anja, gulped, and snatched the six coins Pavel offered. “Done! But no refunds!” “Of course not,” Pavel murmured, securing his purchases. “The concept of ‘refund’ is anathema to a properly optimized transaction.” As they turned to leave, boots crunched heavily against damp cobbles. A dozen figures, cloaked in charcoal wool and bearing the stylized raven crest of House Voronov, barred the alley mouth, their Kin-barriers shimmering with an oily luminescence. “Pavel Orlov!” the lead mercenary snarled, his voice warped by a vocal charm. “Our patron demands your… cooperation!” “Mercenaries?” Ksenia whispered, clutching her collar. “They target an Archon in the street? The insolence…” “No, Ksenia,” Pavel said, his voice calm, already rummaging through his satchel. “This is an attack on *my* ability to disrupt their profitable apocalypse. Anja, create a distraction. Headmistress, stay low.” Anja did not hesitate. Without a word, she lunged, steel whistling as it cleared leather. The guards’ defensive auras deflected her initial blow, but the raw bite of her blade chipped away the luminescence, sending ripples of dead grey across their magical aegis. Meanwhile, Pavel worked with practiced speed. He uncorked the oleum of Chronos, splashing three fingers into a clay flask. Then he dumped in the grey powder, followed by a crystalline shard pinched from the Academy stores—a hyper-reactive nitrate salt. He thumbed the stopper shut, gave it a savage swirl, and wedged a twist of dried vine into the seam. “Close your eyes!” Pavel barked, lobbing the clay bottle overhead. It ruptured with a deafening magnesium-bright snap that ricocheted between the tenements, blinding the hit squad and scattering their spellforms. Seizing the gap, Pavel uncorked a glass vial of fuming vitriol and tipped it over the remaining mineral powder inside a hollow ceramic egg. “Hold your breath!” he shouted, hurling the ceramic casing. It shattered against the flagstones, releasing an invisible, blistering vapor of sulfurous gas. Magical visors offered zero defense against alkaline irritation. Choking on bile and their own saliva, the attackers dropped to their knees, their shimmering barriers collapsing into thin air as their concentration shattered. “This way!” Pavel seized Ksenia’s elbow, dragging her down a butcher’s drainage trench. Anja, having dropped three men with brutal hilt-strikes to the throat, fell in behind them, wiping foul grease from her blade. The panicked screams of scattering shoppers masked their retreat. As they ran, Ksenia, wiping away tears from the chemical fumes, looked at Pavel with a fresh, sickening understanding. “They would stop you. They would let the world fall, so long as their coffers remained full. This isn’t about heresy, Pavel. This is… greed. The rot is deeper than I imagined. Saving the magic… it may not be enough.” Pavel didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on their escape route. He knew. He had always known. The world wasn’t just dying; it was being murdered by those who stood to profit from its decay. And as they broke free onto the muddy carriage trails beyond the ditches, Pavel checked his satchel, satisfied to feel the vials intact. The chemical revolution was no longer a theoretical exercise; it was open conflict. He glanced at Ksenia, who was spitting canal grit from her tongue, and smiled faintly, ready for the next batch.

A Practical Demonstration of Distillation