Chapter 62 – Oaths in Firelight
By the time John and Tamara reached the hill road, the sun was a bruised coin sinking behind brass domes. Heat bled out of the stones in long exhalations; lanterns kindled one by one along the terraces like patient stars.
The mansion's gates stood open. Warmth spilled through them—real warmth, the kind forged by people and noise. Laughter from the central hall. The soft clatter of bowls. The contented thump-thump of Ember's paws—
—and then silver fur and light hit John like a comet.
He staggered two steps back with a surprised grunt, arms full of Lumibear. Ember butted his cheek, snuffling, then pawed at John's chest with theatrical outrage, as if accusing him of betrayal for leaving without him.
"Alright, alright," John said, half-laughing, steadying the bear's weight. "I missed you too."
Tamara's mouth curved. "Sera bribed him. He was ferrying her around the courtyards all afternoon."
From inside came the smell that owned the room: rich stock, pepper, fried scallion, the faint copper-sweetness of serpent meat. Sera had made a City-of-Sands specialty—snake dumpling soup. The steam hung in the air like a silken veil, braided with voices.
They stepped through the arch.
Mara and Blake were already at the long table, trading quiet jabs about who'd missed more parries that morning. Lysa sat near the window-line, knife idle above a slice of bread as she watched the street's lamplight through the lattice. Sera ladled soup into deep bowls, sleeves rolled, hair tied back. For once, the mansion didn't feel cavernous. It felt full.
A door banged.
Vulgrat burst up from the cellar stairs in a puff of heat and pride—and a face absolutely blackened with soot. His hair stood in small, scorched horns. For a blink, he stared at John with the intensity of a starved pilgrim sighting a shrine.
John stared back.
Then he started to laugh—an unguarded, easy sound he didn't offer the world often.
"Explosion?" he asked.
"A Minor… one," Vulgrat said with the dignity of a king in cinders. A small curl of smoke uncoiled from his left ear. "I recalibrated the heat baffles on the furnace."
"By detonating them?"
"By discovering their tolerance."
Tamara pressed her lips together to strangle a smile. "You smell like failure and fennel."
"It was anise," Vulgrat said, wounded.
Ember sneezed so violently his whole body rocked.
John lifted the crate disks with a thought and the runes hummed, following him toward the stair. He paused halfway, glancing back, the humor cooling to purpose.
"Vulgrat," he said. The young alchemist straightened instinctively. "It's time I show you the method I use."
Vulgrat's eyes widened. The soot didn't hide the sudden brightness there.
"But—" John added, voice even, "before that, we're going to eat. Then we work. And before I teach you anything beyond what the Association would approve, we bind it. Soul pact. You don't share what I teach. Not with friends, not with mentors, not with yourself in a mirror."
Vulgrat blinked. "A soul— That's an oath-work."
"It is," John said. "My master requires it."
In his mind, Alaric's tone rolled like smooth stone. Caution doesn't make thieves; it prevents them.
Vulgrat swallowed, then nodded once. "I accept."
"Good," John said, the edge of command there and gone. "Go Wash your face."
Dinner felt like the first unarmored breath after a long fight. The bowls came hot and fast; the broth glowed deep amber, dumplings fat-bellied and gleaming with sesame oil. Ember sat on his haunches beside Sera and tried to look dignified until she smuggled him a dumpling; he failed, accepted it solemnly, then gulped it like a starving thief.
Conversation moved the way it only does when no one is pretending.
"New house rule," Blake declared through a mouthful. "Sera's the cook."
Tamara ate in small, measured motions, but her eyes kept sliding to John. He noticed and pretended he didn't.
When the clink of spoons eased, John set his bowl down and let his gaze circle the table. It wasn't a speech; it was a decision allowed to breathe.
"For the next stretch," he said, "ill be buried in the lab. I'll be making potions that can push us all to Step Three first. Then we start work on Step Four—each potion will be tailored to your affinities."
Mara's chin dipped—agreement without ceremony. Blake was already half-grinning in anticipation. Lysa's eyes flicked, quick tallying of routes and patrols. Sera's quiet yes was a light you felt instead of saw.
"While I brew, you train," John finished. "Together. Daily. Full-unit drills in the yard at dawn and dusk. Individual work mid-day where you will be cultivating with potions."
Tamara lifted her bowl, concealing her mouth, but her words were clear. "Looks like we won't be seeing you much, then."
John held her gaze for a breath longer than a leader should. "You'll hear me swearing at furnaces."
"Comforting," she said softly, and the smallest smile touched her eyes.
Vulgrat reappeared, scrubbed pink and hair damp, and made it halfway to the table before John stood. The crate runes brightened, murmuring with contained weight.
"Eat fast," John told him. "Night's long."
Vulgrat sat and inhaled the soup in six warrior's gulps.
"Done."
They descended to the cellar together, Ember skittering down the steps in small, eager hops, determined to be the First Follower. Vulgrat attempted to outrace him. Neither won; John didn't comment.
The lab glow met them like a low sunrise. Alchemical glass winked in ordered rows; the new brass furnaces hummed with banked heat; shelves of mineral and leaf, powdered bone and dried flower, cast neat shadows. It felt like a place that could make or unmake a future.
Alaric filled the room without being seen. The circle. Chalk from the third drawer. Red. Not white. White is for binding bodies. Red binds intention.
John drew the ring on the flagstones—precise arcs, nine marks on the perimeter, a small notch facing west. He handed Vulgrat a thin knife.
"This is an oath," he said. "You can't break it without breaking yourself. You sure?"
Vulgrat didn't hesitate. "I'm sure."
They stood across the circle. John opened his thumb with a small cut, letting a single drop fall. Vulgrat mirrored him. Red lines drank red.
"Repeat," John said, voice gone level, ritual-calm. "I bind my tongue, my hand, and my thought to secrecy."
Vulgrat's voice was steady. "I bind my tongue, my hand, and my thought to secrecy."
"I will not reveal what I am taught, nor mimic it for those not bound."
"I will not reveal what I am taught, nor mimic it for those not bound."
"If I break this oath, let the pact return what I stole."
Vulgrat's throat moved. "If I break this oath, let the pact return what I stole."
The circle's marks brightened, then cooled. Something subtle tugged at the air; the promise seated itself like a blade sheathed under the floor.
Acceptable, Alaric murmured. Now he is your student in truth, not just in convenience.
Vulgrat let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "What now?"
"Now," John said, "we begin with the old ways."
Vulgrat stared at it like it might bloom into a flower. "I've never seen it look like that."
"Get used to it," John said. "Again."
Vulgrat swallowed a grin and reached for fresh leaves.
While Vulgrat repeated, John drew the second tome from the locked shelf—Association vellum, neat and spare. The core-based enhancement formula he'd chosen lay there like a map with half the roads erased. He read it once, then again, mind translating written ratios.
At the next bench, Vulgrat poured his second draught. The hue landed a breath shy of the first, but the scent was right—clear, clean, a hint of mint behind the blossom.
John nodded once. "Again."
Vulgrat laughed outright. "Again."
They fell into the work the way old soldiers slide into drills—no spectacle, no speeches, just repetition carving the shape of a future.
At some point, John asked without looking up, "what's your affinity?"
"Fire and Light," Vulgrat said, a little too quickly.
John's hand paused on the page. "Pure?"
Vulgrat's ears colored. "That's what the testing slate says."
"Good," John said
Ember yawned, a sound like a bell under a blanket. The furnaces breathed. The mansion above settled into midnight.
John set the vellum aside and drew a clean slate toward him, chalk flowing under his fingers—ratios, timings, the small adjustments.
This is the road, Alaric said softly. It's not going to be easy
I know, John thought.
Do you?
He didn't answer. He just worked.
By the time the last draught cooled, the lab smelled of honest labor: warm metal, crushed green, a sweetness that wasn't cloying. Vulgrat wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of clean skin back into ash.
"How late do we go?" he asked, exhilaration fighting exhaustion in his voice.
John tilted the draught to watch the meniscus catch the light. "Until your hands stop working."
He corked the vial and set it with its brothers—row on row of small beginnings.
Above them, somewhere in the quiet mansion, boards creaked. A city breathed. A tournament invitation waited on John's desk like a coin flipped mid-air, not yet fallen.
He looked at Ember. The Lumibear lifted his head, eyes bright, as if to say: we will outlast the dark if we keep moving.
"Again," John said.
Vulgrat nodded and reached for the poppy. The flame caught, steady and low.
Night slid by on careful hands. The oaths they'd spoken did not weigh them down; they made the room lighter. It felt, for the first time in a long time, like the world ahead could be built, not begged.
When the hour thinned enough to taste dawn in the ash, John finally let the flame sleep. He stood, shoulders protesting, and listened to the lab's hush.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Vulgrat swayed where he stood, smiling stupidly. "Tomorrow."
They climbed the stairs with Ember pacing between them like a proud shadow, and behind them, on the bench, a neat rank of tier-two draughts reflected the first shy hint of morning—gold held in glass, waiting for the hands that would turn it into strength.