In the afternoon of Cold Emerald City, sunlight slouched lazily through the tall stained-glass windows of the Alchemists' Guild, casting mottled red and green speckles across the dust-covered brass pipes. The air carried a mingled scent of bitter almonds and acid fumes; after breathing it long enough, one almost grew accustomed to it.
Elian bent over, using fine tweezers to adjust the joint of a mechanical gecko. The tiny metallic clicks of gears meshed together—tick-tick-tick—like someone quietly counting time.
Master Paracelsus stood at the center of the workshop beside the great mercury pool. The cuffs of his robe were scorched black, rimmed with a circle of white frost. He dripped something into the seething quicksilver and murmured under his breath, saying he was going to refine the very tracks the stars had run—sounded fanciful, yet it was the sentence most often on his lips these past few years.
The chiming clock struck twelve.
Before the last note had faded, the sound of hooves rose outside. Not the light clip-clop of ordinary passers-by, but heavy hooves pounding the stone slabs, each strike a dull thud that landed somewhere in the chest. Closer. Then stillness.
The door was flung open with force. A cold gust rushed in, carrying the acrid smell of scorched sulfur that tightened the throat.
Without turning, the master's hand trembled slightly around the test tube. His voice came low: "Ember Knights."
He half-turned, placing himself between Elian and the doorway.
The leader pulled back his crimson hood, revealing a face deathly pale. Malak—the most infamous name among the inquisitors. He was never seen without a fresh lily in his fingers, and today was no exception. His eyes swept the workshop as though appraising a broken ornament, carrying a faint trace of regret.
"Interesting." He stepped closer to a still-spinning difference engine and ran a fingertip lightly over the gears. "Must you insist on writing your own footnotes on God's script?"
The master tightened his grip on the test tube and took a step forward. "Malak, there are only people here trying to understand how things work. No criminals for you to hunt."
Malak gave a small smile and tossed the lily upward.
While the white flower was still rising, his right hand lifted. A pale light flashed in his palm. In an instant, every motion in the room seemed to be sucked away. Gears jammed with a grating screech; flames in the furnace shivered and froze into icicles; the alchemical liquid in the beakers bubbled violently—then went perfectly still, its surface glazing over with frost.
Elian's chest constricted, as though an invisible hand had seized his throat. Everything that should have moved had stopped.
The master shoved him hard—hard enough to send him stumbling several steps. "Run! The stables—find that girl who reads star charts!"
Before Elian could steady himself, Malak's voice returned, this time utterly cold: "Since you love meddling with these things so much… then stop, just like they have."
The knights drew their swords and charged. Pale fire licked along the blades. The master retreated one step, glanced at the mercury pool, and the corner of his mouth actually lifted slightly. In a whisper meant only for Elian he said, "Go."
Then he crushed the red phosphorus catalyst in his hand and leapt into the mercury pool.
BOOM——
The entire workshop shuddered. Mercury surged like a tidal wave; silver-white vapor rolled outward. Wherever it passed, stone cracked, wood decayed in an instant. Elian raised an arm to shield his eyes. Through the gaps between his fingers he saw his master's body stiffen within the white blaze—from fingertips to face, turning ashen gray inch by inch. At last it froze there: a stone statue caught mid-leap into the abyss, posture unchanged.
A lead box burst through the white mist and flew toward him. Elian caught it instinctively. The box was heavy, still warm, almost alive.
No time to think. He scrambled onto the windowsill, fingers finding purchase in the brickwork. The gecko gloves adhered to the wall, letting him slide down the outside. The moment his feet touched ground, he bolted into the alley.
Behind him came continuous rumbling, interwoven with Malak's unhurried footsteps and low chant. Ahead, the lane twisted and turned seven ways, leading toward the old stables in the west of the city. That girl who could read the stars was still waiting there.
The sky was still bright. Sunlight remained lazy. Only this city, from this moment onward, was no longer the same.