“What was our mother’s favorite song?” Mateusz’s voice was flat, a dull echo in the confined space of the alley. The question hung in the grimy air, colder than the Shard’s permanent chill. Kamil’s hand, still on Mateusz’s shoulder, twitched. His trademark cheerful grin vanished into an uneasy scowl. “Mateusz, what are you talking about? Are you hurt?” He scanned Mateusz’s gaunt face, then his hands, searching for a visible injury, a wound that might explain the sudden, unsettling shift. Mateusz didn’t blink. His eyes, typically darting with nervous hesitation, were unnervingly still. “The song. The one she’d hum while baking chrusciki on Sundays. Before… before the fracture.” Kamil went rigid. He recalled that song—a lullaby about a little lost bird, flour-dusted hands, the scent of vanilla and yeast. But how could Mateusz forget it? They had heard it a thousand times. “*Ptaszek w klatce*,” Kamil said slowly, forcing the words past a sudden tightness in his throat. “’Little Bird in a Cage.’ Mateusz, what’s going on?” His voice was barely a whisper now. “Are you feeling alright?” Mateusz’s gaze cleared, a flicker of his old self returning. A faint blush crept up his neck. “Right. Of course. Just… a momentary blank. The shock, I suppose.” He offered a weak, unconvincing smile. “It was a lot, seeing… that.” He gestured vaguely towards the street where the brawl had erupted. Kamil didn’t buy it. His warding art cast an almost imperceptible dome of warmth and stillness, insulating their small, cobbled-together hideout from the Shard’s constant hum of despair. It was here, within these flickering walls, that Mateusz often retreated, seeking solace from the world’s sharpened edges. Kamil led him inside, the metallic tang of fear thick in his own mouth. He pushed Mateusz gently onto a worn crate serving as a chair. “Mateusz,” Kamil began, his voice dropping to a serious tone he rarely used. “Tell me about our first day at university. The ethnographic field trip to the old Mokotów district. The one where we got lost and ended up helping that old lady chase her pigeons.” Mateusz frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “The pigeons? We… we did that?” He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. “I remember Mokotów. The old market. The smell of rotting fruit and exhaust fumes. But the pigeons…” He trailed off, a vacant look returning to his face. “I can’t quite… picture it.” Kamil’s fist clenched. He knew the answer. He’d been there, laughed until his ribs ached, watched Mateusz, typically so reserved, shriek with panicked delight as a flock of startled birds took flight around their heads. This wasn't just shock. This was… worse. “Mateusz,” Kamil said, his voice raw. “That day, the Intrusion happened. Do you remember? We were separated. You ended up with… with *that* skill. And I got [Sanctuary]. I found you three days later, wandering the ruins, already hollowed out.” He’d seen the System mark Mateusz, seen the cold, silent designation: `[Skill: The Glutton's Pantry]` and had dismissed it as useless, a cruel joke. While others awakened with powers of destruction or defense, Mateusz got… a kitchen. Kamil had felt a crushing responsibility then, a bitter regret that he hadn’t somehow protected his friend from this mockery of a gift. Mateusz flinched at the mention of his skill. He ran a hand over his face, a gesture of deep weariness. “I remember the hunger. The constant, gnawing emptiness.” He looked at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. “And the recipes. They just… appear.” Kamil nodded, his gaze distant. He’d been trying to fix it, ever since. In a hidden alcove of their flat, behind a stack of salvaged data-slates, lay a small, chilled container. Inside, suspended in a preserving fluid, were several vials of murky, pearlescent fluid: Grief Ichor. He’d risked his neck in the Shard’s perilous Lower Reaches, hunting down the creatures, harvesting their vile essence. He’d been researching, sifting through corrupted data-logs from before the arrival, looking for any mention of memory-based skills, any way to sever the entity’s parasitic bond without destroying Mateusz entirely. He believed the System had made a mistake. He *had* to. “Mateusz,” Kamil said, pulling himself back to the present. “That draught. The one you said you could make. You saw the ingredients. Does it still… apply?” Mateusz looked up, a glint of the old, curious ethnographer returning to his eyes, battling against the shadow of the pantry. “Purified Water. Grief Ichor. And… one personal memory.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I think… I can do it. I have some purified water, and I know you hoard ichor like it’s gold.” He looked at Kamil, a desperate plea in his eyes. “I need to prove it, Kamil. Prove this isn’t just… a curse.” Kamil hesitated. The thought of Mateusz willingly sacrificing another piece of himself, another fragment of their shared past, made his skin crawl. But the desperation in Mateusz’s gaze was raw. It was a need to validate his existence, to find purpose in a world that had stripped him bare. And Kamil had, indeed, been hoarding ichor. For Mateusz. He retrieved a small, sealed vial of the pearlescent Grief Ichor from his hidden stash. He watched as Mateusz carefully measured out 100ml of purified water into a salvaged beaker. The air in the room grew still, thick with an unnatural charge. Mateusz took the vial of ichor. His hands, usually clumsy, were steady as he added a single milliliter to the water. The two liquids swirled, resisting each other for a moment, then began to merge, an unsettling, milky luminescence blooming in the beaker. Then came the final ingredient. Mateusz closed his eyes. His face, already pale, seemed to drain of what little color remained. He focused, a visible tension seizing his body. Kamil watched, horrified, as Mateusz’s skin around his temples seemed to ripple, to *sink* inwards, as if something was being physically extracted from his very being. A faint, hazy ripple rose from his head. He was choosing. He was sacrificing. “My university acceptance letter,” Mateusz whispered, his voice thin, reedy. “The congratulatory email. From the Jagiellonian.” The words were barely out before a profound weariness settled over him, a physical weight that pressed him down. His shoulders slumped. When he opened his eyes, they held a profound sadness, but also a flicker of grim satisfaction. He looked at the beaker. Within the glass, the milky luminescence pulsed, contracting, then expanding into a clear, vibrant emerald green. It glowed with an inner light, a liquid jewel. A draught born of sacrifice. He had done it. [Elixir of Fortitude (Tier 1) created] [User Mateusz Nowak Level Up!] [Skill: The Glutton’s Pantry (Level 2)] Mateusz stared at the System prompts, then at the glowing vial in his hand, a strange mix of triumph and desolation on his face. He had gained something, but lost something irrecoverable. Before either of them could speak, a sharp rap echoed through the room, rattling the flimsy door. Kamil’s defensive dome shuddered under the sudden force. A cold draft, laced with ozone and the metallic scent of raw power, seeped through the cracks. Kamil exchanged a panicked look with Mateusz. No one knew about their bolt-hole, or Kamil’s ward. This made no sense. The rapping came again, harder this time. “Mateusz Nowak? Kamil Wojcik? I know you’re in there.” The voice was clear, sharp, feminine. It cut through the air like a blade. “Don’t bother with the parlor tricks, Kamil. Your little bubble won’t hold out against a sustained Kinetic assault.” Kamil stepped back, alarm tightening his features. Kinetic. That meant… Aneta Kulesza. The Rival. He knew her reputation, a rising star in the Upper Levels, known for her relentless ambition and a terrifyingly potent [Kinetic Transference] skill that could tear through concrete like tissue paper. The door splintered inward, not violently, but with a precise, almost surgical crack. Standing in the fractured doorway, framed by the Shard’s perpetual twilight, was Aneta Kulesza. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid, and her eyes, the color of polished steel, swept over the meager apartment, landing on the glowing elixir in Mateusz’s hand. She held up a small, intricate device, a detector of some kind. Its core pulsed with an angry, crimson light, throbbing in sync with the elixir’s emerald glow. A faint, predatory smile touched her lips. “Someone’s been cooking. And I want to meet the chef.” Her gaze, hard and assessing, shifted from Mateusz to Kamil. “Give him to me, and I’ll guarantee your safety in the Upper Levels.”

The Price of a Potion