Roland looked absolutely haggard. He had spent the last agonizing month trekking across the treacherous wilds of Aetheria, desperately dodging demons, feral beasts, bloodthirsty monsters, opportunistic bandits, and whatever else the world decided to throw at him—all while fiercely protecting a fragile cargo housed inside literal glass. Sure, it wasn't ordinary glass; the magically sealed jar was significantly tougher than standard crystal... but at the end of the day, it was still glass.
"Goddess, I'm so tired," he muttered miserably to himself, violently hacking his way through a dense patch of thorny undergrowth. Taking this overgrown, untamed route had been his brilliant idea to cut the journey short, seeing as he was already significantly late for his delivery. "Can't wait for him to yell my damn ears off after I finally get there," he sighed, already rightfully dreading the explosive temper of his employer.
"Hope his Beloved is actually worth all this," he grumbled. Pausing for a brief second, he carefully pulled the sealed jar from his pack, double-checking the pristine, crystal-clear water of the Healing Springs sloshing safely inside. "Getting this thing made me feel like I aged ten years," he complained to the empty woods, before securely stowing the irreplaceable jar back into his padded bag.
Resuming his grueling hike, he wearily vaulted over a massive fallen tree. His heavy boots slipped and caught as he navigated across large rocks coated in a strange moss that was somehow both sticky and incredibly slick. After ruthlessly cutting his way through a final thicket of bushes, he stepped out from between the dense tree line and let out a massive sigh of relief.
Looming in the near distance was the imposing, three-story mansion of Lord Matheus. The grand estate was constructed of stark, oppressive black stone, completely surrounded by an ornate, gold-painted metal fence.
As Roland dragged his exhausted feet toward the arching golden gate, the two sentries stationed outside immediately spotted him. Clad in heavy black armor accented with deep crimson, they leaned against their tall halberds. As he drew closer, their rigid postures softened into looks of deep, unmistakable pity.
"Roland. You're finally here," one of the guards said, wincing sympathetically.
"Yeah. And don't look at me like that. You're going to make me dread this even more than I already am," Roland shot back with a tired, defensive scowl.
The other guard gave a grim, sympathetic nod. "We know. It's just... he's really angry."
Roland took a deep, shuddering breath, looking exactly like a condemned man preparing to step up to the executioner's block. "It's what I expected," he muttered in quiet resignation.
The guards smoothly hauled the heavy golden gates open, allowing him to pass through into the meticulously groomed courtyard. Several maids were scattered about the grounds, sweeping the pristine stone paths and carefully tending to the scarce exotic plants. The moment they noticed his bruised and battered state, their faces fell into the exact same expressions of profound, helpless pity.
Just as his heavy boots hit the front steps, the massive double doors swung open. Standing in the threshold was the head butler, an aging, impeccably dressed man sporting a long, drooping mustache.
"Roland," the butler greeted, his voice entirely devoid of warmth, painfully professional. "I saw you approaching from the window. Come with me. Lord Matheus is waiting for you in his laboratory."
Roland gave a mute nod, not bothering to offer a verbal response to the butler. It didn't really matter anyway. As the aging servant began guiding him through the dim corridors toward Matheus's laboratory, Roland's mind raced, desperately trying to string together a plausible excuse for his severe delay. He became so completely engrossed in mentally rehearsing his defense that he didn't even notice they had stopped until they were standing directly in front of a heavy, reinforced door.
"Lord Matheus is inside," the butler announced quietly, abruptly snapping Roland out of his anxious thoughts. Without another word, the servant spun on his heel and walked off at a brisk, urgent pace, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near the impending explosion.
"Alright," Roland muttered to himself, turning back to face the imposing door. He took one last, steadying breath. "Let's get it over with."
He pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside. The very second he crossed the threshold, an overwhelming, noxious wall of odors slammed into him—a pungent, eye-watering mixture of harsh chemicals, bitter herbs, dried blood, choking sulfur, and goddess knows what else.
"Who entered my lab without my permission!?" Matheus barked aggressively from the far end of the room, looking up from a cluttered alchemy bench. He whipped around to face the doorway. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second in recognition before violently contorting into a vicious, unhinged glare. "You. You're late!" he snarled.
Roland flinched backward, every single carefully constructed excuse instantly wiped blank from his terrified mind. "I'm sorry, Lord Matheus, it's just the— the—"
"I don't care!" Matheus roared, violently cutting him off. He abandoned his workstation and stalked across the room, aggressively closing the distance between them. "You are severely late! You were supposed to have this here three weeks ago! And that deadline was already me being generous!"
Roland instinctively threw his hands up in a desperate gesture of surrender, shrinking back from the furious lord. "Please, just calm down! I swear I didn't—"
"Shut the hell up!" Matheus screamed right in his face. "Just give me the damn water! Now!"
Fumbling with sheer panic, Roland frantically dug into his pack and yanked the sealed jar out. Matheus instantly snatched it from his trembling hands, lifting the heavy glass up to the harsh light to meticulously inspect the pristine liquid sloshing inside.
"At least you actually managed to get this. It means you aren't utterly worthless. Just almost completely worthless," Matheus sneered coldly.
Completely dismissing the terrified mercenary, Matheus turned his back and carried the jar over to his chaotic alchemy bench. He set it down gently among the scattered instruments. Then, with trembling, reverent fingers, he reached up and unclasped the heavy necklace he always wore. Dangling from the chain was a small crystal vial filled with crimson blood. Strangely, the thick red liquid inside seemed almost alive, shifting and pulsing against the glass in a deeply unnatural, mesmerizing way.
"Finally. I have everything I need. I can bring her back," Matheus whispered to himself, his voice dropping into a fanatic, obsessive murmur as he stared transfixed at the pulsing vial. "My Beloved Eirisse."