Chapter 9: Rolling the Dice

  Time was ticking down.

  In the woods, they found the fever thorne.

  Cole would have missed it if the journal had not been so specific. When he had turned the page to the section on herbs, it described the plant as crimson and thorny, with a slight green edge near the thorns.

  It was almost pretty in a mean way.

  The woods themselves felt different than the field near the cottage. The air was cooler and damp, thick with the smell of wet leaves and old bark. Somewhere deeper in the trees, something dripped in a steady rhythm. The light that made it through the canopy had a green tint, like the whole place was breathing through moss.

  Cole and Faelen walked slower than they had earlier.

  The mend potion had done its work. Cole could roll his shoulder without seeing stars. His ankle still felt tender, but it did not scream when he stepped. Faelen had color back in his face and his hands were steady again.

  They walked slower because they were waiting for the dungeon to do what it had been doing all along.

  Try to kill them.

  They stopped in a small clearing where the trees opened up just enough for a pale stripe of light to fall across the ground. The fever thorne grew there in a cluster, crimson stems rising from dark soil, thorns catching the light.

  Cole stared at it for a long moment, then looked at Faelen.

  “Do you think it’s a monster?”

  Faelen eyed the plant. “It’s certainly possible.”

  Cole let out a slow breath. “Of course it is.”

  The silence after that felt too quiet.

  Taking a breath, Cole and Faelen approached.

  Cole kept his hands open and ready. Faelen kept his shovel in both hands, grip loose but prepared.

  Nothing happened.

  No hiss. No movement. No sudden snap of vines. No hidden frog-things bursting from the brush.

  Cole stayed wary anyway. The quiet did not soothe him. It made his nerves itch.

  Faelen crouched first, careful, and tested one thorn with the tip of his shovel. When it did not move, he nodded once.

  They pulled and broke off several of the thorns, careful not to tear the whole plant up by the roots. The thorns came free with a soft crack, sap wetting Cole’s fingertips. It smelled sharp and herbal.

  Faelen wrapped the thorns in cloth.

  When nothing tried to kill them, they moved on, gathering the other ingredients they needed.

  They found thistle in a patch near a fallen log. Pale purple heads and spiky leaves that scratched at Cole’s wrists when he reached in. The spring water came from a narrow trickle that ran over stones so smooth they looked polished. Cole filled a small container and tasted it out of habit.

  Cold. Clean. Real.

  That, more than anything, made him feel insane for a second. The water tasted like it did in Indiana. Normal.

  And yet.

  He had a black halo behind his head. He had killed monsters. He had fallen through a green mouth in reality and landed in a dungeon that did not care about the rules of the world he knew.

  They returned to the cottage with their bundles, and Cole could not keep it in anymore.

  “Why didn’t anything try to kill us?” he asked.

  He just needed to know. He needed the logic. The cause and effect. He needed to believe there was a reason, because if there was no reason, then nothing would ever make sense again.

  Faelen shrugged as they came inside. “Perhaps the Ethereal believes it is too predictable. I don’t know. We could spend all day guessing at its motivations.”

  Cole nodded, but the answer sat wrong in his gut.

  The Ethereal did not feel like the kind of thing that avoided predictability for artistic reasons. It felt like war. Like the world being pushed into shape by something that did not care if you liked it.

  He forced the thoughts aside and got to work.

  He followed the directions to a T.

  He ground the fever thorne. He ground the thistle. He measured as best he could with the tools available, which meant he guessed, then guessed again and made his guesses smaller.

  He set the cauldron over the hearth and poured in the spring water. He brought it to a slow boil like the journal said.

  He stirred slowly for two minutes while watching the mixture.

  Then he tried the distillation method Faelen had shown him, using the little contraption on the bench.

  Nothing happened.

  Not nothing, technically. He got something.

  A thick black sludge.

  It was the exact opposite of what he wanted. It looked like tar. It smelled like burnt herbs.

  Cole stared at the sludge, spoon hanging from his fingers.

  “I don’t understand,” Cole said.

  Faelen leaned in, eyebrows drawn tight, lips frowning.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Nor do I,” Faelen admitted. “I knew very little about alchemy to begin with.”

  Faelen straightened and ran a hand back through his hair. Even cleaned up and healed, he still showed the wear and tear of a man who had been chained for days. There was a tired hollowness behind his eyes that did not go away just because his skin looked better.

  “I’ll go and collect more ingredients,” Faelen continued. “More to spare this time. I should have done it that way anyway. You go wash out the cauldron and read the journal too. Perhaps there are answers there.”

  Cole wanted to argue. He wanted to say they did not have time for this. He wanted to say that the Ethereal could take its trial and shove it.

  Instead, he nodded and grabbed the cauldron with both hands.

  The sludge clung to the metal.

  Cole carried it down to the stream, the cold air hitting his face hard enough to clear his head a little. The water burbled over stones, steady and indifferent. He dumped the sludge out and watched it smear along the current.

  Then he cleaned.

  He cleaned until his hands were numb.

  He scrubbed every seam. Every dent. Every spot where the old metal was pitted. He turned it in his hands, searching for residue.

  When he went back inside, he did what Faelen had said.

  He read the journal.

  He had thought if he followed the recipe, everything would work.

  It had not.

  The journal had little to say, which was almost worse. There were notes about potion tiers depending on profession level. There was a section about properly using mana, about controlling the flow, about not letting it spike too fast or too uneven.

  Cole did not need to worry about that. He did not have mana. He still could not wrap his mind around that, but it was true.

  His finger trailed over the text, lips moving as he read.

  Finally, on a half-ripped page, he found a brief note written in cramped ink.

  Clean cauldron thoroughly every use.

  Cole stared at it.

  He looked at the cauldron.

  He had cleaned it. He had cleaned it like his life depended on it.

  He cleaned it again anyway.

  Then he found another note, lower down on the page.

  Some potions just fail if profession isn’t high enough.

  Cole blinked.

  “Oh, great,” he muttered.

  So he was essentially rolling the dice every batch.

  And he did not have a profession yet.

  A catch twenty-two if he ever saw one. In order to get the profession, he’d need to pass the trial. He couldn’t pass the trial without making the potion, and to have better chances, he needed the profession.

  Letting out a noise of frustration, Cole grabbed the pot again, trudged it down to the stream again, and cleaned it thoroughly.

  He came back to the cottage with wet sleeves and a worse attitude.

  Faelen was waiting.

  Cole explained what he had found.

  Faelen listened without interrupting, then nodded slowly.

  “I think I see now why the Ethereal didn’t hit us with another monster,” Faelen said.

  “Oh?” Cole was already reading the recipe again.

  The elf bobbed his head once. “This is challenge enough, especially after facing down an elite. After all, if we fail, we die anyway.”

  Cole’s stomach churned, heat coiling there.

  Right.

  He was still poisoned.

  The mend potions had helped him so much that the reality of it had slipped his mind.

  He could not waste time.

  He got to work.

  He continued to fail.

  He stirred. He boiled. He distilled. He watched the mixture. He waited for it to turn the right color.

  Black sludge.

  He cleaned the pot.

  He tried again.

  Black sludge.

  He cleaned the pot again.

  Sometimes ingredients ran out, then Cole or Faelen would need to go fetch more. Sometimes the fire burned too hot and he had to start over. Sometimes he did everything the same way and still got tar.

  He stopped counting attempts because counting made him want to quit.

  He did not quit.

  Eventually, after what felt like hours, Cole threw up his hands, the motion sharp and angry.

  “I guess we are dying, then!” he snapped. “This is fucking impossible!”

  The words echoed in the cottage, harsh and loud, and in the silence afterward Cole could hear his own breathing, ragged and ugly.

  Faelen did not flinch. He just shook his head.

  “Not impossible,” Faelen said. “Just hard. I suspect everything needs to be exactly perfect. Even then, chances are low.”

  Cole growled, eyes closing, jaw tight.

  Nathan came to mind.

  Not a full memory. Just a flash. A small hand. A laugh. The way his son had looked at him believing that he could fix anything.

  Cole took a breath.

  Then he cleaned the stupid pot again.

  He scrubbed until his knuckles ached.

  “I can’t be sure if it is clean enough,” Cole said, voice lower now. “It looks like it, but there could be specks I can’t see.”

  “It’s a beat up cauldron,” Faelen said. “Old too. Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if that is also affecting it. This is why better quality cauldrons are needed.”

  Cole eyed the pot.

  Then cleaned it again.

  Then again.

  He decided he needed to go beyond what he reasonably thought was clean. He scrubbed the inside until the metal looked raw. He rinsed it until the water ran clear and then for a while longer to be sure.

  Even so, his next attempt failed.

  He stared at the black sludge, fighting down his desire to laugh.

  He sat down hard on the cottage floor.

  “Okay,” Cole said, breathing through his nose. “I need a break. I know we don’t have much time, but my head is starting to hurt.”

  “I understand,” Faelen said. “Mental rest is just as important.”

  Cole leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  The hearth crackled softly. The air smelled of herbs and smoke.

  Cole broke the silence because sitting in it made the pressure in his chest worse.

  “Well,” Cole said, “I guess you can tell me something then. How do I get an analyze skill? Or ability. Whatever.”

  Faelen exhaled slowly. “Like nearly everything else, it is rewarded or earned. Some get it right away. It comes with some classes and some professions. You might get it upon completing this trial if it comes with the alchemy profession. I’ve also heard that people sometimes get it through practice. Studying others. Watching them. Paying attention to the little details.”

  Cole grunted. The answer was unsatisfying, but at least it was an answer.

  After a moment, he tried squinting at the elf.

  Faelen laughed. “You look ridiculous.”

  Cole opened one eye. “I’m trying.”

  “You look like you swallowed something sour,” Faelen said, still amused. “I promise you, squinting doesn’t help gain the skill.”

  Cole laughed too, and it surprised him. It came out rough and tired, but it was real.

  “Alright,” Cole said. “So tell me, what is Alastaria like?”

  Faelen’s eyes gazed far away.

  “Beautiful,” Faelen said quietly. “I know people often say that about their homes, but it is true. Elves care about nature. We make our homes out of the forest, and we do it without killing anything.”

  His lips twitched downward after that, and the beauty in his voice hardened.

  “It is also savage,” Faelen continued. “Much like nature. We have slaves. We do not treat outcasts well. Or outsiders. We are a prideful people with elitist attitudes.”

  He shook his head once, slow.

  “I was no different.”

  Cole watched him, and for the first time he saw something under Faelen’s calm. Regret. Not performative. Not dramatic. Just there.

  “What changed?” Cole asked.

  Faelen smiled faintly. “Ah. What else changes a man, Cole, even an elvish one? A woman. She was a warrior. Human, like you, though I suspect not from your world. She was not an initiate. She showed me a different way. Saved my life.”

  Cole’s throat tightened. He did not know why. Maybe because saving someone had weight to it now that he had done it and nearly died for it.

  “What happened to her?” Cole asked.

  Faelen shrugged. “She has a wandering soul. An adventurer’s heart. She was merely passing through Alastaria. I could have gone with her, but I felt I had obligations to stay.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t,” Faelen said. “I just didn’t want to leave my comfort. The comfort of what I knew.”

  Faelen waved a hand. “No matter. Tell me of your world.”

  Cole laughed softly. It was absurd to summarize Earth to an elf in a murder dungeon while poison sat in his blood.

  “Oh man,” Cole said. “I guess it isn’t so different from yours. Some places are beautiful. Some people care about nature as you do. Others are more concrete jungles, but beautiful in their own ways.”

  He rubbed his face, thinking.

  “We’re savage too,” Cole said. “No, we don’t have slaves like you mean it, but we hurt each other. We hate. We hate powerfully. Give us the slightest reason, the slightest disagreement, and we will tear each other to shreds.”

  Cole paused, then forced himself to keep going.

  “But for all of that,” he said, “we love powerfully as well. People do stupid things for each other. Good things. Sometimes we surprise ourselves.”

  He shrugged helplessly.

  “I’m not sure what to tell you, honestly.”

  Faelen nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

  The silence returned, but it felt different now. Less sharp. They had both admitted something true and that had taken a little of the edge off.

  Finally, Cole pushed himself up, tired bones protesting.

  “Time to try again,” Cole said. “I’ve talked enough.”

  Faelen nodded and stepped aside, watching, trying to will the outcome.

  Cole grabbed the cauldron, stared, and started over.

  Time was ticking down.