“Oskhara’s Sweetheart Returns: Lisseth Adair back at the Institute, Citing Mysterious Alchemical Ailment.”
The lurid red banner pulsed, throwing a garish glow across the Registrar’s office. Tevari reached for her lapel, tucking away a stray sprig of silver-thyme to avoid looking at the broadcast. Rhovand’s fingers dug into the stiff brocade at her ribs before sliding away.
“A mysterious ailment?” Rhovand muttered, inspecting the cuff of his doublet for copper dust. “Her symptoms invariably align with primetime viewing slots.” He released Tevari, turning to pace the cramped space. “She left Oskhara three cycles ago, claiming she needed to ‘seek spiritual clarity’ in the northern Atrium Peaks. Said the pressure of being a Chymist of Renown was stifling her ‘artistic soul’.” He flicked an errant speck of sulfur from his sleeve. “The truth? My family’s syndicate was facing a temporary downturn. She jumped ship the moment my funding looked less than pristine. Now that the ‘Prime-Time Potion Scandal’ has made me a household name, and the Cup offers unprecedented exposure, suddenly her ‘artistic soul’ has found its way back to the Institute gates.”
Tevari locked her elbows to her sides, retreating into the rigid posture that kept interviewers at bay. Rhovand had kept receipts on Lisseth’s ledger balances for three straight years; his indignation was cataloged down to the copper.
Eldra, their designated ministry minder, kicked the door open with the heel of her platform boot. “There you are, lovebirds! The Lumen-screens are clamoring for your first official ‘couples brewing’ photo op! We need to capture the magic of your blossoming affection, right now!” She rapped a clipboard against the doorframe. “Up, up! Wardrobe sent over some lovely coordinated tunics. Quick, into the prop room!”
The staging bay smelled of staged smoke and dried belladonna, crowded with copper alembics buffed solely to catch the overhead arc lamps. Lumen-lenses swiveled on bronze tracks, their glass apertures clicking as Eldra pointed two fingers toward a fake workspace. “Rhovand, darling, arm around her waist! Tevari, a little closer! Smile! Like you’ve just discovered the formula for eternal bliss!”
Tevari bared her teeth in a stiff square, the corners of her mouth twitching under the dry studio powder. Rhovand’s palm clamped around her shoulder, firm as a wooden splint. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for her ear, yet projected with perfect clarity for any hidden mic. “Keep this up, botanical witch. We have fourteen days. And if you think I’m letting that parasitic ex-fiancée of mine derail our chances, you’re mistaken.”
Just then, a flash of peacock-blue silk swept into the room, trailing an exotic scent of fermented lychee. Marnix, the notorious socialite and gossip columnist for *The Alchemist’s Eye*, air-kissed a nearby camera lens before zeroing in on Tevari. His gaze, tinted violet by cosmetic drops, flicked across the ring of recording crystals. “Tevari, darling! You look… absolutely radiant. If a touch stiff, but what’s a little rigor mortis between lovers, hmm?” He winked. “Rhovand, you brute, give the poor girl some space. She’s practically wilting.”
He pulled Tevari away from the flashing lights, into a corner cluttered with oversized glass retorts. “I saw Lisseth’s grand entrance. Truly, the woman never misses a beat. Or a camera. Listen, my dear, I happen to have… access. To her inner circle. To her very particular ‘playbook’, if you will.” Marnix’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his gaze darting around. “She’s convinced she can waltz back in and snatch Rhovand from under your very nose, temporal ward or no. But I can help you. I can be your eyes and ears, feed you her every move, her every conniving little secret.”
Tevari stared at his collar pin, refusing to indulge his familiar grin. Marnix was a viper dressed in silk, known for selling secrets to the highest bidder. “What do you want?”
Marnix’s smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be natural. “Ah, always so direct, my dear Tevari. I adore it. My price is simple. I’ve heard rumors of your unique aptitude for… accelerated truth serums. Nothing crude, mind you. Something subtle, potent, undeniable. A few drops in a drink, and the target sings like a caged nightingale. I require such a serum. A career-making scoop is within my grasp, but I need… absolute certainty. Brew it for me, and Lisseth Adair’s machinations will become your open book.” He balanced on his heels, waiting.
Seven drops of distilled veritas extract would cost two grams of dried shade-moss from her private store, but the fourteen-day ward left no margin for surprises. “A small phial. One dose.”
Marnix clapped his hands softly, his eyes alight. “Splendid! You won’t regret this, my dear.” He glided away, melting back into the crowd.
That evening, the grand banquet hall of the Institute of Chymistry glittered under a canopy of suspended Lumen-orbs. The air hummed with the polite chatter of Oskhara’s elite, all of them secretly glued to the live broadcast playing on discreet screens. Tevari, clad in a stiff cerulean gown, stood beside Rhovand, who engaged in a terse conversation with a Chymistry Board member. She picked at a delicate pastry, her gaze sweeping the room, anticipating Lisseth’s inevitable, dramatic appearance.
She didn’t have to wait long. A brass latch clicked, and the carved oak doors parted on oiled hinges. Silhouetted against the bright corridor light stood Lisseth Adair, her usually vibrant emerald gown now a muted sage, her face pale, almost translucent. The room went dead, every head turning toward the doorway.
Lisseth shuffled across the threshold, knuckles curled over her sternum. A dry rasp rattled through her throat, timed precisely to catch the acoustic sweet spot of the entry vault. She clutched a delicate lace handkerchief to her mouth, and when she lowered it, a stark, crimson stain bloomed against the white fabric. Whispers scraped through the crowd like dry husk-beetles.
“Rhovand,” she gasped, pitching her voice into the directional boom-horns hanging overhead. “I… I couldn’t bear to leave you in the dark.” Her slippers slipped against the marble. “The chirurgeons... they diagnosed a marrow-calcifying vapor. Only days, perhaps hours...” She tilted sideways, lids fluttering shut, dropping directly against Rhovand's chest as he stepped forward with stiff arms to arrest her descent. Her voice, barely a whisper, yet caught perfectly by the hot mic pinned to his lapel, carried clearly through the suddenly silent hall: “I only have weeks left, please hold me... for old time's sake.”