Morning in Frostmere didn't rise; it scraped itself off the ice.The light came thin and apologetic, filtering through frozen arches that never thawed. Our ship-home groaned as the river ice shifted, reminding us that comfort was just a rumor with good marketing.
Kayra ground herbs in a clay bowl, the smell of comfrey and bitter frost filling the air. Ragnar stretched his shoulders, still sore from last night's bout. Klaus sharpened his naginata in the corner, the sound steady as judgment.
Lucifer sat on the ceiling beam upside-down, humming off-key and eating half-frozen bread. "Well, family," he said cheerfully, "what's for breakfast? Regret? Ambition? Maybe a nice soup of anxiety?"
"Bread," Kayra said flatly, tossing him a crust.He caught it mid-air, upside-down. "Ah. My favorite emotion."
1. The Pit Routine
By dusk, we were back at the poor fighting club. The crowd was larger now; word of the Shadow Kid had spread. Some bet silver this time. Some bet hope.
Ezio sat at the black shrine again, feeling the pulse of his mark sync with the hum beneath the arena floor. Each fight made the Shadow Elf more confident—faster, sharper, a dancer learning her own rhythm.
Ragnar fought beside him tonight. His katana's spirit, the Light Oni, appeared behind him—half fire, half laughter, dual blades gleaming like stolen dawns.
"First one to fall buys dinner," Ragnar said.
"I'm broke," Ezio answered.
"Then don't fall."
The bell clanged. The ring filled with echo-steam as four opponents entered—mercenaries turned entertainers. Their elves flickered in mismatched colors, unstable from hunger and cheap ink.
"Shadow and Oni," one sneered. "Let's see what the gutter breeds."
They saw.
Shadow Step. Light Slash.The air itself folded. Darkness carved through frost, light followed, and the ground shuddered under their combined rhythm.The crowd screamed. Coins flew.
Lucifer lounged on a post, slow-clapping. "That's it, kiddo. Make misery look marketable."
By the time the fight ended, Ezio's scythe dripped with fading light instead of blood. The arena reeked of ozone and envy.
Ragnar laughed, teeth white against soot. "Dinner's on them."
2. The Alchemist's Corner
Next morning, Kayra set up a small stall near the pit's exit: a table, a cloth, three jars of balm, and a sign that read in careful runes:
Mercy Ink – For wounds that can't wait.
Fighters came limping. She patched them up for coins or food scraps.The balm shimmered faintly—Echo Essence and herbs, the soul of their first true invention.
Lucifer sat cross-legged on the edge of the table, legs swinging through solid wood, grinning at every deal. "You're a born merchant, Kayra. Sell them salvation; charge extra for refunds."
She ignored him, but he kept talking, handing her the right herbs before she reached for them—helpful in the way storms are helpful to sailors who know how to steer.
By evening, they'd earned enough to buy a small plot of frost-cracked ground near the river—a broken house frame, really, but it was theirs.
3. Building Something Small
Three nights later, Ezio hammered the last plank into place. The shack leaned, but it stayed up. Kayra set her cauldron inside; Ragnar hung weapons from the rafters; Klaus blessed the door with an old family rune.
Lucifer perched on the roof, balancing a bottle of cheap mead. "Congratulations," he said. "It's ugly, crooked, and entirely yours."
Ezio leaned on his scythe. "You think it'll hold through the storm?"
Lucifer tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly red in the snowlight. "Depends. Do you mean the weather or the next war?"
4. The New Potion
Kayra's hands never stopped working. Each night she refined their balm, chasing something better. One evening she called them over to the bench.A small vial glowed faint gold—warm, steady, alive.
"It amplifies strength for a few breaths," she said. "But it burns if overused."
Ragnar drank half. "Then I'll burn bright."
Ezio took the other half. The warmth hit like music, flooding his limbs.His Shadow Elf stirred, sharper than ever, her eyes two eclipses burning through frost.
Lucifer clapped softly. "Congratulations. You've distilled ambition."
5. The Poor's Hope
The next day, Kayra handed small flasks to the pit fighters, charging less than market rate. Word spread. The Machiavellis became known as the poor alchemists—a strange family who sold miracles out of a crooked house and fought like devils to protect it.
Each night, the shrine they'd rebuilt behind the house glowed faintly, pulsing with life.Each morning, Lucifer was somewhere new—on the roof, under the table, sitting in the snow pretending to smoke frost.
"Kiddo," he said one dawn, voice quiet for once, "you've done something impossible."
"What's that?"
He smiled. "You made poverty look holy."
Ezio didn't answer. He watched the first light crawl over the ice roofs of Frostmere, turning them silver. The mark on his arm pulsed once, the Shadow Elf whispering softly inside his skin.
"More."
End of Chapter 10 — Blood and Bread