A few apprentices coughed, shuffling their boots on the coarse pumice floor. No one met the Rector’s gaze. Veldin felt Tuhk’s tiny, warm weight shift in his deep pocket, calm and steady. He watched the melting fiend-core, tallying the precise acid-base reaction and the unexpected catalytic properties of the solvent on the tainted crystalline lattice. He knew the solution, but speaking up now would expose him, pull him from the shadows he so carefully cultivated. Then, a haughty drawl broke the hush. “Rector Thurn!” Kaspar Tarm strode forward, chest puffed out, a smirk on his lips. He ignored the lingering scorch marks on his fine robes, the evidence of his earlier failure. “I did not throw the solvent myself, no. But I *did* weaken the fiend with my Scorching Ember brew just moments before. Its outer carapace was surely compromised, leaving it susceptible to even the most rudimentary alkalis!” He gestured vaguely towards the puddle, then toward Veldin, half-hidden behind an initiate's broad shoulder. “Perhaps some clumsy junior, startled by the fiend, dropped a cleaning agent in the panic. A fortunate mishap, of course, but only *after* my formidable efforts opened the way!” Veldin felt a prickle of annoyance. Kaspar was not wrong about the clumsiness – that was Veldin’s preferred cover – but to claim credit for the effect was galling. He kept his mouth shut, letting the lie take root. Thurn’s heavy brows furrowed, his gaze sweeping from Kaspar’s preening face to the dissolving puddle, then finally, with deliberate slowness, to Veldin. The Rector's stare narrowed, sharp as obsidian shards. “Clumsy junior, you say?” He took a stride toward Veldin. “Is that so, Ojas?” Veldin kept his eyes down, heat rising along his neck. He gave a small nod beneath his messy curtain of hair, mumbling, “Yes, Rector. I… I tripped. My apologies.” The lie felt like ash on his tongue, but the alternative was far worse. Thurn stared at him for a long moment, then let out a breath like grinding stone. “Another slip from the bottom-tier, eh?” He shook his head, a flicker of exasperation crossing his stern features. “Ojas, you’ve proven yourself a hazard in the upper halls too many times. Your brews are wretched swill, your attention wanders, and now you’re dropping caustic agents during an incursion.” He pointed a thick finger towards a gaping maw in the cavern wall, where a draft of hot, sulfuric air belched forth. “To the Lower Vents with you. Two weeks. Scrape the crust from the primary ducts. Perhaps the sulfur will teach you discipline before the seasonal trials. Report to Overseer Jerek at once.” Kaspar’s smirk widened, cruelty gleaming in his gaze as he watched Veldin slink back. The other novices parted, relieved the Rector’s ire had fixed on someone else. Veldin offered a deferential bow and turned, heading down toward the noxious throat of the Lower Vents. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of sulfur and minerals, as he descended the narrow, slag-coated passageway. The lantern glare of the central hall faded above him, replaced by the faint, copper glow of distant lava flows. He walked until the heat baked through his soles, reaching an isolated stone ledge over a trench of churning magma. Thermal updrafts hissed along the rock, and the basalt walls wept oily crusts of mineral melt. He opened his worn pouch and drew out a dark nodule. It was unrefined terrestrial sediment, rich with dormant resonance. He gently nudged Tuhk out of his pocket. The tiny homunculus, no bigger than his thumb, chittered softly from the shade of his sleeve. Tuhk snatched the nodule, gnawing with rapid, clicking jaws while ember-bright pinpricks flickered in its face. The mineral feed sustained the creature Veldin had distilled in isolation, a quiet ward against solitude. His gaze fell to the bubbling lava, its surface swirling with fiery currents. He remembered the hearth in their hillside cottage, boiling down bark alongside the woman he had loved. Her quiet laughter still resonated in his memory. He pictured her face in the swirling patterns of the heat, her pale features and the faint mark across her cheek. A profound ache settled in his chest. He had tried, with every ounce of his grandmaster knowledge, to cure her. He had exhausted every known elixir, every transmutation, every desperate prayer. The divine rot had consumed her regardless, mocking his every effort. His failure was a brand, burned deep, an unforgivable truth that fueled his desperate, regressed pursuit of the Pinnacle. He had to succeed this time. He *had* to. A harsh voice tore him from his reverie. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Vent-dwelling trash.” Veldin pivoted on the gravel. Kaspar Tarm stood on the upper ledge, flanked by two senior peers with bored, insolent grins. “Didn’t think you’d be down here, Ojas. Expected you to hide in some dusty corner of the main hall, like the pathetic little worm you are.” “Kaspar,” Veldin managed, keeping his tone thin and low. He instinctively reached for his pouch, a habit from his previous life, before remembering it was empty. “Oh, don’t mind me,” Kaspar sneered, kicking a small, heavy satchel Veldin had left on the platform. It clattered loudly, spilling Veldin’s meager brewing supplies across the rock: a handful of crushed mineral powders, a small vial of acidic catalyst, a few dried, common herbs for basic brews. “Just ensuring you don’t embarrass the cohort during the Trials next month. Wouldn’t want some… blundering junior dragging our rank down, would we?” Kaspar seized the vial of catalyst and pitched it over the drop. The glass popped against the red-hot lake, releasing a brief puff of white vapor. Then Kaspar drove his boot into the bundle of dried leaves and mineral salts, scattering them into the abyss. Veldin kept still, his gut twisting. He had spent weeks scavenging those common stems—worthless to an adept, but essential plumage for a struggling beginner. “That should spare us any more of your blunders, Ojas,” Kaspar laughed, turning on his heel. “Come on. Leave the wretch to choke on the fumes.” The trio strutted away, their taunts echoing in the humid air, fading into the sounds of the vents. Veldin stared at the bare flagstones. His fingers curled, blood surging hot behind his temples. He could swallow insults and banishment, but interference with his cauldrons prodded the veteran temper he fought to smother. He drew a measured breath through his nose, forcing his posture back into dull compliance. At that moment, Tuhk, who had been hiding behind a small rock, scampered out. The homunculus looked at the last few grains of spilled mineral powder and a tiny, damp fragment of herb that Kaspar’s boot had missed. Tuhk blinked its glowing eyes, then let out a sudden, high-pitched sneeze, a tiny puff of soot-smoke erupting from its mouth. The sneeze landed precisely on the remaining scattered ingredients. Immediately, the microscopic dust and herb fragment began to glow. A brilliant, ethereal violet light pulsed from the minuscule pile. The specks whirled, drinking in the volcanic heat. The material did not simply react; it refined upward, drawing together into a smooth sphere that hummed with concentrated force. Fine silver lattices webbed its skin—a Tier-7 panacea distilled from dross. [WARNING: CHRONICLERS OF VARNJA – THE CHARNEL GOD’S GAZE APPROACHES. PURGE IMPURITY.] Veldin stepped back, gazing from the brilliant sphere to the runes flaring in his vision. The Echo had never struck with such raw menace. Below in the molten churn, the crust split into the unmistakable contour of the woman he had failed to save, her features calm and tragic, framed by fire.

The Dregs of the Vents