Sweat gathered on Argolaith's brow—not from heat, but focus. One mistake in sequence, temperature, or ratio would render the elixir unstable, or worse—deadly.
He remembered his first few failures, early on—when elixirs exploded in his hands, or made him vomit green smoke for hours. He had no teacher. No guide. Only the notes he'd found in books from Athos's library, and whatever instinct had been carved into him by solitude.
Now, those instincts guided his hands.
He crushed crystal, stirred clockwise, ignited oils at specific intervals. Each step a dance between art and science.
The mixture cooled and condensed. Slowly, the cauldron's glow dimmed, and the scent of bitter fruit and metal filled the air.
He poured the thickened liquid into a curved vial, its surface etched with faint runes he hadn't seen before. As the liquid touched the glass, it stabilized—turning from a dull purple to clear gold.
The vial pulsed once with soft light.
Kaelred leaned closer. "What is that?"
