Chapter 71 – The Weight of Flame
The lab breathed with firelight.
Glass tubes sang softly as heat rolled through them, thin curls of vapor tracing circles in the air. Three rune-rings pulsed across the floor, steady as heartbeats. Every sound in the room was measured — liquid dripping, glass creaking, the low hum of a controlled inferno.
John stood at the center, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, hands steady over the cauldron. The flames beneath it burned pale gold, their heat disciplined, alive but obedient.
Alaric's voice murmured from somewhere inside the silence.
"Steady now. You're holding too much heat in the left coil. Let it breathe a little."
John shifted the rune under his palm, adjusting the airflow. The fire responded instantly, its color evening out to a deep honey hue. The mixture inside the cauldron brightened, shedding sparks like stars under water.
"Good," Alaric said, tone calm but edged with pride. "You're not forcing it anymore. You're guiding it."
Across the table, Vulgrat scribbled furiously into his notebook, the quill squealing against the paper. He hadn't blinked in minutes. Sweat beaded along his forehead, not from heat — from focus.
The young alchemist muttered, "Stabilization ratio point-eight, transition window fifteen seconds … gods, he's not even using the chart."
John didn't glance up. His hands moved with quiet rhythm, pouring, stirring, shaping. He wasn't following a written recipe — he was listening. Every shift in the flame, every hum from the essence, spoke to him in a language only Alaric had taught him to hear.
Vulgrat finally broke his silence.
"You're not even checking the formula. You're just … doing it."
John smiled faintly. "Reading slows you down."
"Because you memorized the book," Alaric said, half amused.
The final ingredient — a crystal sliver of condensed Light — dropped into the cauldron. The potion surged once, then settled into perfect stillness. Its surface gleamed a clear gold, light breathing through it like the chest of something living.
Vulgrat's eyes widened. "That's — that's perfect!"
John tilted the cauldron, pouring the liquid into a rune-lined vial. The essence slid smoothly, no residue left behind. The flame beneath dimmed on its own, obedient to his control.
He corked the vial and set it beside a neat row of identical ones. The shelf shimmered faintly with heat and pride.
"I think we can call this a finished product," John said.
Vulgrat grinned, almost boyish. "You make it look easy."
"It's never easy," John replied, wiping his hands with a cloth.
Vulgrat nodded, still staring at the vials. "I can't believe you're already moving on to Tier Five. I barely have tier 3 core potion down."
"You'll get there," John said. "You already understand the language. You just need to some more practice."
Vulgrat blinked. "You're right"
John chuckled. "You have to fail to succeed."
The younger alchemist sighed dramatically. "You and your cryptic advice, Master."
"He's learning," Alaric said, quiet warmth under the words. "He just doesn't know it yet."
They cleaned the benches together. The room smelled of scorched metal and faint mint — the scent of success.
Vulgrat packed up his notes, tucking the quill behind his ear. "I'll try my own batch tomorrow."
"Good," John said. "Failure is the quickest way up."
Vulgrat laughed as he headed for the stairs. "Easy for you to say."
The door closed behind him, leaving only the whisper of the furnace.
The quiet after a day's work was its own kind of gravity. John sat for a while, listening to the sound of cooling glass. Then his gaze drifted toward the sealed case on the far bench.
Inside, a Tier Four Fire Core pulsed with faint crimson light — the remnant of a beast that had almost reached Step Five before dying under his blade.
Alaric's presence stirred, wary.
"That one's different. It still hums with its own will. Beasts like that don't die easy."
John studied the glow. "Then it'll make a stronger potion."
"Or a dangerous one."
"Same thing."
He set the core in the alchemy cradle. Runes flared, drawing heat from the air until the walls shimmered. The crystal cracked open, releasing threads of fire-light that coiled like living veins. He mixed them with stabilizing essence, shaping the reaction through memory and instinct.
The liquid inside the cauldron didn't just boil — it growled. Waves of heat rolled across the room. Sweat beaded on John's brow; his aura flared instinctively to keep the temperature stable.
Alaric's tone sharpened.
"Ease your will into it, not over it. This isn't domination, it's negotiation."
John focused, breathing through the rhythm. The fire's pulse began to match his heartbeat — resisting, then yielding.
Minutes stretched. Then, at last, the glow dimmed to a steady crimson. The potion was complete.
It looked alive.
John lifted the vial. Inside, motes of red light swirled like embers in blood.
"You should rest," Alaric warned. "Drink it tomorrow."
John turned the vial in his fingers. "If I rest now, I'll talk myself out of it."
"You just reached mastery on Tier Four. You don't need to—"
But John was already uncorking the bottle.
He drank.
The liquid hit his tongue and turned to lightning.
Fire exploded down his throat, through his veins, into his bones. He staggered, gripping the table as light tore through him. The cauldron behind him rattled; rune-rings screamed as they absorbed the shockwave.
His vision fractured into shards of gold and red.
"John!" Alaric's voice thundered. "The core's still carrying its spirit—anchor yourself, now!"
John fell to one knee. The world narrowed to pain. Every inch of his body burned as if molten metal poured through him. His heart pounded in double rhythm — his and the beast's. For a heartbeat he saw through another set of eyes: fire, claws, endless sand.
He forced breath into his lungs. "I … can handle it—"
"Then prove it!"
He slammed both palms on the floor. Runes flared under his hands, light carving through the air. His aura surged, colliding with the invading essence. The lab filled with the roar of unseen fire.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. His skin split in fine lines of light; steam rose from his back. The smell of burning impurities — sour, metallic — flooded the room.
"You're breaking the wall!" Alaric barked. "Push through it quickly!"
John roared, soundless but violent. The golden light within him collapsed inward, compressing, condensing — then burst outward in a silent quake that shook the shelves.
Flasks rattled. Flames bowed outward from the center of the blast.
When the light cleared, John was on the floor, breath ragged, every muscle trembling. A thick black resin coated his skin, sticky and stinking of sulfur. His vision swam, but the energy coursing through him was different — cleaner. Denser. Heavy with control.
"Step Five," Alaric said softly. "You made it."
John exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. "Barely… it feels like I almost died."
"It should."
He stood unsteadily. The resin cracked and fell away in flakes, hissing where it hit the floor. His aura pulsed once — white and violet — and the last of the impurities burned to ash.
The air smelled like ozone and victory.
He stayed like that for a long moment, letting the power settle. His heartbeat slowed. The flame at his side steadied. His light didn't flicker anymore — it breathed.
Upstairs, the house had gone still. Only faint laughter from distant rooms remained.
Tamara sat at a small table near an open window, wiping the dust from her twin blades. Moonlight spilled over her shoulders, tracing pale lines across her skin.
Blake leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. He'd been watching her work in silence for a while.
Finally he said, "You're really not going to tell him, huh?"
Tamara didn't look up. "Not now."
"He deserves to know."
Her hands paused. "It won't change anything if he know."
Blake frowned. "Yes it will. Sooner or later your past will catch up to us."
Tamara looked up at him, eyes sharp. "It will be okay just leave it be."
"I don't think it will. Your a princess that deserted the kingdom. They will come looking for you."
She sighed and leaned back. "If he finds out what I am … that I'm a princess of Rina… he'll never look at me the same."
Blake pushed off the wall, pacing a few steps. "You've seen how he treats people, Tam. He doesn't care about the past. You have seen the way he looks at you — "
A faint sound interrupted him — a soft creak from the doorway.
Both froze.
Lysa stood there, half in shadow, eyes wide. She must have been walking by — or listening — long enough to catch the wrong words.
"Lysa—" Blake started, but she turned and bolted down the corridor.
"Light," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "That's not good."
Tamara's gaze stayed on the door. Her face was unreadable, but her knuckles were white around the blade cloth.
"She didn't hear everything," Blake offered weakly.
"She heard enough," Tamara said.
The silence stretched, thick with things neither wanted to say.
Back in the lab, the air had cooled.
John sat cross-legged on the floor, a faint glow still lingering around him. Ember dozed nearby, tail twitching, the rhythm of his breath matching John's aura perfectly.
Alaric's voice returned, quieter now, like the last echo of thunder.
"You've climbed another step, boy. The air gets thinner the higher you go."
John opened his eyes, the gold and violet light fading back into their usual calm. "Then I'll just have to keep climbing."
"That's the spirit."
He looked around the lab — the cracked glass, the scorch marks, the faint shimmer of containment runes still alive. A mess, but a good one.
Outside, the night pressed against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled — three slow notes.
John leaned back against the wall and exhaled.
And the climb had only just begun.