Ignas Veliura clawed at his throat, a raw shriek tearing free. His back slammed against the unyielding stone wall of the narrow dorm room, splinters of an unfamiliar, rough-spun bed frame digging into his palms. The taste of copper bloomed on his tongue, acrid and metallic, a brutal reminder that this was no nightmare, no fleeting hallucination. The room reeked of stale sweat and unwashed linen, a far cry from the opulent, dust-moted Grandmaster’s sanctum he’d fallen asleep in. Outside, perpetual grey fog pressed against the grimy windowpane, blotting out the fortress grounds, just as it had ten years ago. Ten years. The figure thudded in his head like a dull mallet. He remembered the raven, its feathers impossibly dark, its eyes like polished obsidian. It had landed on his balcony railing, not with a caw, but a guttural croak that vibrated through the very stones of his tower. Clutched in its talons was a single, shriveled black lotus, its petals like dried blood, its stem pulsing with a faint, malevolent light. He’d reached for it, curiosity overriding caution, and then… this. The scream had been for Saule, her final, agonizing breath echoing in his mind, and the grotesque, half-formed god-spawn that had torn her life away. He drew in thin, freezing air. This was impossible. He was Ignas Veliura, the alchemy grandmaster who had concocted the god-slaying draught, only to watch everything burn. "No," he rasped. "Not again." A voice, dry as crumbling horn and layered with ancient pleas, grated inside his skull. [Initiating Chrono-Temporal Regression Protocols. Subject: Ignas Veliura. Temporal Displacement: -10 Years.] [System Core: The Whispering Crucible. Binding to Host Consciousness.] [Directive: Brew. Hesitation is met with Agony.] White fire surged through his left arm, racing along the veins from fingertips to shoulder without blistering a patch of flesh. He ground his molars against the phantom burn. The Crucible had followed him across ten years, carving its demands straight into his marrow. If he was back, if the fortress-monastery still stood in its early days, Rasa was here too. She would be a newcomer, just as he was. He pushed onto his feet against the ache in his arm, lunging toward the iron-bound footlocker. He ripped it open. Inside lay the regulation ash-grey tunic of an initiate, stiff and smelling of lye. He tore off the tattered remnants of his nightclothes, shoving his limbs into the coarse fabric. He had to find her. Now. The corridor stretched through cold granite blocks and low murmurs. Torches flickered in recessed alcoves, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with unseen malice. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, burnt reagents, and the faint, metallic tang of beast marrow—the lifeblood of their alchemical craft. Ignas moved with a frantic urgency, his senses screaming for any sign of her, his ears straining for her soft voice, her infectious giggle. He shoved past clusters of senior pupils, their sallow skin worn thin by sleepless nights, following the clink of glassware and the hiss of volatile vapour toward the main laboratory. The lab was a cavernous chamber, filled with dozens of crude stone workstations. Heavy iron pots boiled over low flames, spewing iridescent scum. The air here was even thicker, a suffocating miasma of chemical fumes. He searched the benches, fury already prickling the back of his neck. Then he saw her. Rasa sat hunched over a dented iron pot, soot smudging her temples. But she wasn't alone. Towering over her, a sneer twisting his features, was Domantas, a third-year prodigy whose arrogance was as legendary as his talent. He wore the emerald-green sash of a third-year across broad shoulders. His voice, a grating baritone, carried easily across the lab. "Look at this novice. Still struggling with a basic Verdant Catalyst? Even crypt mites could brew a clearer broth than that sludge." Domantas jammed an iron rod into Rasa’s pot, sloshing murky bile across the rim toward her knuckles. "Perhaps alchemy isn't for you, Veliura. Maybe you should just stick to sweeping the crypts. At least you can't botch *that* too badly." Rasa flinched, drawing back her reddened fingers. Rage surged through Ignas, hot and reckless. His fingers twitched, ready to crack the senior's throat against the stone flagstones. But no. Not yet. He couldn’t reveal himself, not with Domantas’s cruel eyes fixed on her. He had to draw attention away, make himself the target. He had to be the incompetent fool, the liability. It was a role he despised, a humiliation that chafed at his very soul, but it was for Rasa. He closed the distance to an empty slab and reached for the grimy pot resting there. Snatching jars at random, he flung pinch after pinch of crimson cinder-ash, blue spar, and violet marrow-bile into the vessel. He didn’t even bother with a proper fire, just slammed a hand on the base, forcing a burst of raw, untamed essence into the concoction. The liquid within hissed, boiling violently, turning a nauseating shade of sickly orange, then a bubbling, violent black. "Step back, Veliura!" an initiate barked, jumping aside as the vessel rattled against the trivet. "You'll crack the mortar!" Ignas grinned, a wide, foolish grin that felt utterly alien on his face. "Oops! Too much… uh… 'oomph'? Heh heh." He winked, then deliberately, with a flourish of exaggerated ineptitude, poured a full flask of corrosive acid directly into the volatile mixture. The vessel screeched like torn sheet metal, then burst apart. Not with enough force to cause serious harm, but a spectacular, steaming eruption of black smoke and foul-smelling, sticky residue that coated his entire workstation and splattered onto his tunic. Shouts broke out across the chamber. Domantas pivoted from Rasa, mouth pulled back in revulsion as black soot drifted over his clean sash. "Veliura! You idiotic, blundering dolt!" Domantas stalked towards Ignas, his footsteps heavy. "Can you not boil ditch-water without causing a disaster? You're a blight on the cloister! Get out before you ruin my batch!" Ignas simply hung his head, shoulders shaking, feigning quiet sobs. The phantom pain from the Crucible still gnawed at his arm, but the humiliation was worse, a bitter gall in his throat. Yet, Rasa was no longer the focus of Domantas’s scorn. The arrogant prodigy had taken the bait. It was enough. Just then, the heavy oak doors of the lab swung open with a soft sigh, admitting a shaft of the perpetually diffused light from the outside. A figure stepped in, silhouetted against the hazy glow. Her hair was the colour of dawn-kissed wheat, braided loosely down her back. Her eyes, a startlingly vibrant blue, scanned the room with a gentle curiosity. She wore the plain grey tunic of a novice, yet carried herself with an easy, untroubled posture that drew every gaze. Saule. She was alive. Uncorrupted. Oblivious to the horrific fate that awaited her, to the torment he had endured, to the paradox that now threatened to unravel everything. [Warning. Proximity to Preserved Timeline Anomaly detected.] [Rule: To save the lover is to erase the blood.]

The Withered Lotus