Kharg really enjoyed the next few days, filled with training and bonding. They woke up early each morning, and after a quick but hearty breakfast, they headed over to the Academy to hone their skills. By noon, he would leave his friends and devote the afternoons to his alchemy. Although he didn’t feel as though he had advanced significantly in pure battle skill, he still noticed that something was different now. Where he had once been prone to impulsiveness, rushing his strikes or overreacting to an opponent’s feint, he now found a growing calmness in his movements. His deflections and counters flowed together more smoothly now, whereas before they had been executed more mechanically. Perhaps there was something about being tempered on the path of peril, he mused. It was a phrase he had once read in a book when he was younger. He had thought little of it at the time, but now it had come to make more sense to him. His life-and-death fight with the thugs had shown him that he really had what it took, and he now felt far more relaxed when he faced off against sparring partners.

  The new flow in his combat style gave him openings where there previously had been none, and he found a measure of satisfaction in being able to analyze the fight from a more strategic perspective. Before, he had struggled to merely parry and counter as fast as he could. As this realization dawned on him, Kharg understood that this was a new facet of mastery, a mental discipline that elevated his skill beyond the physical. It opened a path of improvement he had not known existed, and the thought excited him.

  On one morning, at Ferghun’s prompting, he shifted from air to water drawn from the practice troughs during a sparring session, shaping whips and momentary shields of dense, controlled flow. The spells took a heartbeat longer to form than their airy counterparts, the mass resisting sudden change, but once set in motion they carried through the exchange rather than dispersing. He found them best used as a complement rather than a foundation, and when the bout ended, he returned to air without comment.

  He encouraged Ivar and Caspian to observe this same sense of timing during their practice sessions, but soon realized that they were not ready for this yet. They still struggled to stabilize the spellforms fast enough to counter when they managed to block an attack. Ivar tried to master smaller bursts of flame but they fizzled out more often than not, while Caspian proved a little more skilled, though he struggled greatly with the blocking shield of Essence that unraveled after each block.

  The evening dinners were pleasant affairs, and he noticed how the rest of his family warmed to Caspian’s easy charm while Ivar often managed to draw bouts of laughter from them with his funny anecdotes. This was a side of life he hadn’t imagined sharing with his companions from Varakar, a bridge between the world he had left behind and the world he aspired to create for himself. Akgun presided over the table with a genial authority, his keen questions and observations drawing out stories and laughter from everyone. Ivar shared tales of his family’s ventures in Varakar. Caspian, meanwhile, told exaggerated but endearing stories of his misadventures at the Academy, always slipping in details that painted Kharg in a favorable light.

  Kharg’s siblings contributed their share to the merriment as well. His younger brother spoke animatedly about a horse he had been training, while his sisters alternated between teasing him about his new friends and discussing news from the social circles of Sitch Nar. Through it all, Fafne was a constant source of both amusement and exasperation. The cute little dragon had developed a habit of fluttering about the servants, stealing small treats from the trays they carried. Despite their feigned annoyance, the servants could hardly resist his charm. More often than not, they gave in, slipping him bits of meat or fruit when they thought no one was looking.

  The three of them often retired to the garden or the tower after dinner, where they discussed their plans for the future over fine wine. Fafne did his best to steal their attention with his antics, darting among the marble statues and startling them by appearing out of nowhere to land on their heads or shoulders and slap their glasses with his tail. For Kharg, these moments were a reminder of the joy in the journey itself, not just the destination. Whatever lay ahead, he knew they were building memories to carry with them, and that was a treasure worth cherishing.

  One evening during those days stood out above the rest, the same day Caspian had watched Kharg wield water in the practice yard. They sat in the garden as they often did, a bottle of wine between them, the stone beneath their feet still holding the warmth of the day. Fafne drifted lazily between the branches overhead, occasionally dropping low enough to startle them before darting away again.

  Caspian swirled his wine once, then glanced toward Kharg. “You don’t usually fight like that,” he said.

  Kharg looked over, one brow slightly raised. “Like what?”

  “With water,” Caspian said. “You’ve shown us air shields, illusions, even solidified air… but that was the first time I saw you actually spar with water.”

  Kharg took a slow sip of wine, letting the silence stretch a little before he answered. “Air came naturally to me. I trained with it more than the others, refined it further. It’s faster, and I can shape it anywhere.”

  Ivar leaned forward slightly. “Water needs water,” he added, nodding to himself. “It’s not always there.”

  “Exactly,” Kharg said. “I need water nearby, and in the field, you can’t always count on that.” He rested his glass on the edge of the bench. “But it hits harder. The spells are heavier. There’s more follow-through. I used to practice it with Ferghun, just not as much as air. I keep it in reserve.”

  Caspian smiled faintly. “Still. It looked effective.”

  Kharg’s lips curled in a smile. “It is,” he replied. “Just not something I reach for unless the situation favors it.”

  No one said much after that. Fafne settled on the back of the bench, curling his tail neatly around himself, his wings rising and falling in time with his breath. Somewhere deeper in the garden, a cicada started up its steady hum. The night deepened, quiet and full of unspoken things.

  * * *

  After the first morning session, he had a quick lunch with his friends before he set off toward the Old Town district. The bustling Market Street was alive with its usual energy, vendors calling out their wares, children darting through the crowds, and the occasional clatter of a passing cart. The familiar clamor of the city filled the air, but Kharg put it out of his mind, focused on finding the fastest route to the alchemist.

  He adjusted the brim of his wide hat and tightened the cloak around his shoulders. The blue fabric trimmed in silver marked him as a Silverwolf scion to those who cared to notice. Fafne had once again taken flight to avoid the throng of people, though Kharg suspected it was just as much so he could amuse himself by chasing and harassing the seagulls he had taken a dislike to.

  The alchemist’s shop was tucked away on a narrow lane, its exterior unassuming save for the small wooden sign hanging above the door. The sign bore an intricate engraving of a mortar and pestle surrounded by mystical symbols. The mingled scent of herbs and spices wafted through the cracks in the door along with other, less savory, scents he failed to recognize.

  Kharg pushed the door open and the bell above it chimed softly. As he stepped inside, he almost gagged at the myriad of strong scents that threatened to overwhelm him. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with jars, vials, and bundles of ingredients, some familiar, like bundles of sage and rosemary, others more exotic, like jars containing preserved amphibians and coiled serpent skins. A long wooden counter ran the length of the room, and behind it stood the alchemist.

  The man was tall and wiry, with sharp eyes that seemed to appraise Kharg instantly. His hands, stained with years of handling herbs and chemicals, were busy grinding something in a mortar. He looked up as Kharg approached, his expression a blend of curiosity and guarded professionalism.

  “Ah, a visitor from the Silverwolf estate,” he said, his voice dry but not unfriendly. His eyes flicked briefly to Fafne, who had landed on his shoulder as he entered the shop. “And with an intriguing companion, I see. What brings you to my shop this fine afternoon?”

  Kharg offered a small nod, his tone polite but direct. “I’m in need of owl’s eyes. Ten of them, to be precise.”

  The alchemist’s brows lifted slightly, though he masked his surprise well. “A rare request. Not many seek such things without good reason. May I ask what you intend to use them for?”

  “Alchemy,” Kharg replied simply. “I have preparations to make, and these are an essential component.”

  The alchemist studied him for a moment longer before nodding. “Very well. Let me see what I have in stock.”

  The alchemist disappeared into the back room and soon after Kharg could hear the muted sound of rustling and clinking filtering through the shop. Fafne, curious as ever, flitted down to the counter, sniffing at a bundle of dried herbs before letting out a satisfied warble. Kharg glanced around the shop, his eyes lingering on some of the more exotic wares, a jar containing what looked like dragonfly wings and another filled with powder that glowed faintly in the dim light.

  The alchemist returned after a little while with a glass jar filled with a somewhat murky liquid in which ten small globes floated.

  “These are what you need,” the alchemist said. “Freshly harvested and perfectly preserved. Ten owl’s eyes will cost you… two silver crowns.”

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  Kharg reached into his coin pouch and fished out two heavy silver coins, the widely accepted currency from the trade cities, and handed them over. He was pleasantly surprised at both the ease of obtaining these and the price. He had expected worse. The price was steep, but not unexpected for something so rarely preserved intact.

  The alchemist wrapped the bottle in a waxed cloth and handed it over. “Perhaps you would prefer it this way, to avoid some awkward questions from those you pass by,” the alchemist grinned with a knowing smile.

  “Thank you,” Kharg said gratefully and accepted the bundle.

  The alchemist smiled, his sharp glare softening slightly. “May your work bear fruit. And should you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

  * * *

  After the morning session with his friends, Kharg hurried back to the estate for his first alchemy session. Ehram had informed him that the alembic and the ingredients for the impregnating liquid were in place, causing Kharg to wonder how the man knew what these ingredients were even meant for. But he shrugged it off as the man’s own brand of magic and went down to the cool quiet of the basement. Instead of relying on the chandeliers, he conjured a couple of globes of pale blue light and got ready for work.

  He began by kindling a steady flame beneath the large brazier that supported his cauldron. The whale fat, thick and opaque, melted first in the cauldron. He measured out half the weight in beeswax, slicing it into chunks with a sharp knife and adding it to the fat. The mixture turned into a brownish, viscous mass that gave off a sweet aroma that mingled with the earthy scent of the room.

  When the two substances had merged fully, Kharg carefully measured the arsenic powder on the scales before adding it. The arsenic acted as a stabilizing agent, binding the ingredients into a cohesive whole. Finally, he sprinkled in some crystal salts, their edges catching the light as they dissolved into the bubbling mixture. Stirring steadily with a bone rod, he monitored the consistency, ensuring that the mixture simmered at just the right rate. Satisfied that the cauldron’s contents were progressing smoothly, Kharg turned to the more intricate task of crafting the night vision potions. Then a sudden rustling sound made him glance up.

  Fafne had wedged himself onto a shelf between a row of glass jars, his tail flicking lazily as he sniffed at the contents. The little dragon’s nose twitched, and with an impulsive flick of his tongue, he licked at the rim of a jar filled with powdered cinnamon. Immediately, he recoiled, his wings flaring in offense, and let out a shrill, startled chirp. He flapped backward so abruptly that his wings sent a small puff of cinnamon dust swirling into the air, making him sneeze in rapid succession.

  Kharg smothered a laugh as Fafne wiped his tongue against his forearm, glaring at the offending jar as if it had personally betrayed him. He clicked his jaws in clear disapproval before retreating to his perch with an indignant flick of his tail.

  “Serves you right for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Kharg teased, his voice warm with amusement.

  Fafne huffed indignantly and curled his tail neatly around his feet while trying to look as if the entire incident had never happened.

  Laughing at his antics, Kharg shook his head slowly and tried to refocus on his work. The owl’s eyes were the first active ingredient. Taking one from the cloth-wrapped bundle, he placed it into a small glass bowl containing an oily solution prepared earlier. This solution, enhanced with powdered carbuncle, began to break down the outer tissue, allowing the essence to be extracted more efficiently.

  Kharg transferred the softened eye into the alembic on his main workbench, lit a smaller brazier and, once he had ensured it burned with a consistent yellow flame, slid it under the alembic. As the heat activated the compounds, Kharg channeled a subtle thread of mana into the alembic. The soft glow of his magic infused the mixture and sped up the process while ensuring the essence remained potent.

  The first drops of translucent liquid began to condense along the spiraling glass tube of the alembic, gathering into a glass jug meticulously cleaned with alcohol. Each drop represented the distilled essence of the owl’s eye, imbued with the magic that would grant the drinker enhanced vision in darkness.

  Kharg turned his attention to the moonstone next. It would serve as the second active ingredient. Using the scales to measure the exact amount he needed, he then crushed it into a fine powder using the mortar. The powder went into a small metal bowl where he added a mixture of alchemical reagents and silver powder that would draw out the moonstone’s latent properties, and stirred the mixture meticulously. Once it was fully blended, he set it on a tripod over a lit brazier and watched as the powder dissolved into an oily liquid and slowly turned into a pale, translucent green. He added the essence of the owl’s eye drop by drop until the whole mixture had turned opaque. To reduce the heat from the brazier, while not removing it fully, he covered parts of the brazier with plates of copper.

  Satisfied that the mixture remained stable for now, he turned back to the alembic and prepared the last ingredient, the nightshade nectar. He repeated the slow, methodical process he had used earlier, carefully heating the dark, syrupy nectar until its essence separated and dripped steadily into a pristine vial.

  Once the nectar was ready, Kharg poured it into the bowl with the other extracts and stirred carefully once again. He then added a few drops of a stabilizing agent, a blend of alchemical compounds designed to bind the ingredients together and preserve their potency.

  The bowl held the blended essence of owl’s eyes, moonstone, and nightshade, stabilized and ready for final processing. Kharg poured the mixture into a small glass vial where he had added a basal potion mixture that served to enhance the general power of the potion and then shook it until it had mixed properly and the potion had taken on a dark, almost black hue. Once he was satisfied, he sealed it with beeswax and labeled it “Nightvision Potion” in neat script on small parchment tags tied to the vial with a string.

  As the first potion was completed, Kharg stretched and did a brief exercise to ease the tension from his shoulders before taking stock of his progress. The bubbling cauldron still simmered steadily, the impregnating liquid nearing completion. He allowed himself a brief smile before returning to the cauldron, ready to complete the next stage of his work. The day was long, but the satisfaction of creating something both practical and magical made every moment worthwhile.

  * * *

  Over the course of the following week, Kharg spent every afternoon in the basement laboratory. The concentrated focus required for his alchemical work was exhilarating but exacting. The slow bubbling of the alembic mixed with the occasional hiss of heated solutions formed a constant background sound that was occasionally disrupted by coals snapping in the braziers or by Fafne when he grew bored enough to try a prank.

  The process of extracting essences and carefully blending compounds demanded his full attention, and Kharg’s body began to feel the strain. A dull headache formed behind his temples, and it grew more insistent as the days wore on. When he saw white flashes crossing his eyes several times in a row, he suddenly recalled that Hrafun had taught him a healing spell that should help. He fetched the elkhorn plaque totem for healing from a nearby shelf and invoked an Animalism spell meant to cure headaches. With a deep sigh of relief, he felt the pain recede and he regained his mental acuity.

  He felt a deep sense of satisfaction as the collection of potions grew on the shelf. He had never crafted anything before beyond his totems, and he didn’t really count those. Kharg poured himself into every step, from the meticulous extraction of ingredients to the precise measurement of stabilizers.

  By the time the final vial was sealed, Kharg was exhausted but deeply satisfied. He had three small barrels of impregnating liquid prepared for his father’s fleet, along with ten potions each of night vision, minor healing, and some that sped up the natural healing a lot. He had also brewed seven vials of courage for himself and his friends, suspecting they might face dark folk on the trip north, as they would not travel with a large caravan and guards. Since the barrels were far too heavy for him to carry, Kharg summoned a pair of servants to carry them. He picked a sample of each potion and led the way up to the study where he correctly assumed his father would be.

  Akgun sat behind the desk, reviewing lists of prices and goods in the Thirteen Cities to find possible opportunities as the prices changed over the seasons and gave rise to new openings. He looked up when Kharg entered and then glanced at the servants who came after and placed the barrel carefully on the floor before they went down to fetch another one.

  “Father,” he began, his voice carrying a quiet pride, “the barrels hold the impregnating liquid you requested. I prepared three full batches. That should be enough for the fleet.”

  Akgun rose from his seat, inspecting the casks with interest. “Good work, Kharg. This will serve our ships well. And these?” He nodded toward the vials.

  Kharg placed them on the desk, arranging them neatly. “Ten of each. Night vision, faster healing, and remedies for minor wounds. I wanted to show you their uses. The healing will be invaluable on long voyages or in emergencies, but the night vision could mean the difference in outmaneuvering pirates after dark.”

  He handed over the night vision potion first. Akgun held it to the light, watching the dark liquid swirl before setting it aside. Then Kharg passed him the others in turn.

  “Excellent,” Akgun said, placing them down. His gaze shifted to a vial with a silvery sheen. “And that one?”

  Kharg lifted it for him to see. “A potion of courage. I brewed a few for myself and my friends, in case we face foes on the road.”

  Akgun’s smile widened. “You’ve thought this through. I’m impressed, Kharg. Your alchemy goes beyond what I expected. It already goes a long way toward repaying the investment I made in you, and you’ve done your family proud.”

  The praise lifted the fatigue that had weighed on him, and Kharg left the study with a renewed sense of accomplishment and anticipation. As he stepped into the corridor, Kharg paused, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering stiffness from his work. It wasn’t the praise itself that mattered, it was what it represented. Akgun was not a man who gave empty compliments. His approval was earned, measured, and only given when truly deserved. For years, he had watched his older siblings navigate their roles in the House, fulfilling expectations with seamless efficiency. Kharg had never followed that path, and he had never been certain whether his father’s support for his studies was true belief or reluctant acceptance.

  But now he saw Akgun’s genuine respect for his craft, for the work itself and not merely the birthright behind it. That was something different. A small smile tugged at his lips. Perhaps, in his own way, Akgun had always understood him better than he thought. With a renewed sense of confidence, he turned toward the stairs, ready to share his latest creation with his friends.

  * * *

  That evening, with the potions distributed and the casks secured for their intended purpose, Kharg joined his friends on the patio. The servants brought out crystal glasses filled with a fine amber wine, and the trio watched the sun dip below the horizon.

  Kharg placed the seven vials of courage on the table with a grin. “For you,” he said, sliding two apiece toward Caspian and Ivar, while keeping three for himself. “Potions of courage, to keep us steady when the tundra tests our mettle.”

  Caspian held up a vial, turning it in the fading light. “They look almost too beautiful to drink.”

  Ivar chuckled, setting his own vial beside his glass. “Silver, of course. Now you just need to brew one in blue to match your wardrobe.”

  Kharg gave a mock sigh. “Fine. Next batch, I’ll add a touch of vanity.”

  They raised their glasses in a toast, the amber wine catching the last rays of sunlight. “To courage,” Kharg said, his voice steady. “To friendship. And to the road ahead.”

  As laughter and camaraderie filled the patio, the horizon darkened, and the stars began to emerge one by one. It was a moment of celebration and reflection, a quiet lull before the journey ahead.