The Scholar slept, as did all in the valley after nightfall. All save one. Tonight, the Alchemist could not permit himself the refreshment of sleep before all others under his dominion were laid to rest. In claiming the lives of the five Empire soldiers, the Alchemist had also claimed guardianship over their deaths. He could not in good conscience let their bodies rot while exposed to the elements.

The forest remained as damp as it had been a few hours ago, and it had grown considerably darker besides, but the Alchemist’s torch banished the shadows from his path. The wheelbarrow had left deep furrows in the ground, and the Alchemist followed these back to their source. Soft winds crooned a melody of woe, echoing the ill fate of those who stirred the wrath of one by far more ancient and powerful than themselves. Though the soldiers served an unworthy Empire, and thus were misled by its agendas, the Alchemist could not contest the honor of deaths incurred in the line of duty.

The wheel-tracks led into a small clearing, and here the torchlight found the first soldier: the runner. He was facedown in the dirt two dozen paces off the main path. Half of a broken sword protruded from the runner’s back where the Alchemist’s throw had impaled him. The body felt cold and stiff to the touch. The Alchemist removed the metal shard and hauled the body over his shoulder, continuing down the path. He soon found the leader’s body just as he remembered leaving it, plus or minus a few fingers and toes. The local scavengers had nibbled on the carcass here and there, but enough remained to follow the proper death rites.

The Alchemist stuck his torch into the ground as a makeshift lamp, and warm orange illumination rippled over the surrounding trees. He counted a total of four and a half soldiers—and there was the other half, which he carefully placed so that the bisection was barely visible on the fifth. He straightened their stiff limbs and arranged them head-to-head, forming a macabre five-pointed star.

The Alchemist then gathered branches for a funeral pyre. This process was greatly hastened by the partial load of firewood that the Alchemist had dropped on the trail earlier. Nevertheless, it still took the better part of two hours to gather enough fuel to cover the bodies. He stacked the wood into uniform mounds, shaping five pyramids that tapered off from the center. The heads were left uncovered, and he dusted these with powdered salt.

As a last step, the Alchemist poured naphtha over each of the bodies. The Alchemist then took a fist-sized cloth bundle from an inner pocket and lit it using the torch. It caught easily, flaring a soft blue-green color in his grasp.

“With this pyre, I banish the taint of mortality.” The Alchemist flung the bundle with an expert hand, and it landed in the center of the star. Bright flames branched outward along the lines of each body, green fading into orange as the salt-fire ceded to ordinary burning oil. “Rest, for your duty is over. Let fire cleanse you of dishonor in life; let your deeds alone stand as proof of your virtues, while all else is borne away as ashes upon the wind.”

The Alchemist watched the flames purify the soldiers’ remains.

When the first rays of dawn began to stain the sky a deep crimson, the Alchemist uncurled stiff limbs and tore his gaze from the embers of the pyre. He scattered the ashes with a foot, blurring the white five-pointed star of ash into a grey circle. Other, similar circles could be found throughout the woods surrounding the Alchemist’s village.

Great shame struck the Alchemist. After all the years that had passed, his feats of cleansing were trivial before the enormity of rot still remaining in the land. He fell to his knees before the spreading dawn, face upturned to the vastness above.

“I banish their taint, but what of yours?” the Alchemist demanded of a waking world. “With half a lifetime of skill, what use am I?”

Somewhere in the treetops, a bird chirped.

“From youth, I apprenticed to an alchemist from the northern mountains, studying blackpowder and napalm—Fell Magicks of the Sages,” the Alchemist echoed the awed whispers of former comrades. “In the Imperial Army, I earned honors for swordsmanship and archery. My knowledge is comparable with the Sages; my martial skills are not less than those of the war heroes of ages past. Yet here I am, a mere exile and undertaker to trespassers, as ineffectual as any hermit hiding in the mountains...”

The Alchemist drew in a deep breath of cool morning air and released it, dispelling the old times. In his mind’s eye, the golden cities of the Empire rose in splendid array, stained only by an infestation of people lesser than him in both honor and ability. The Alchemist imagined it worse than his memories by tenfold, a hundred-fold, accounting for the Scholar’s report—a nation beyond repair, but not beyond the reach of complete renewal.

Like bright iron in hematite stones, those pure of heart and intent would still exist among the petty masses, waiting for someone to propose a better future. Waiting for a worthy leader. Yet the only one who dared to envision such a future was the Scholar: a lowly scribe with no martial prowess and no exceptional education. Despite these severe deficits in ability, the Scholar had nevertheless risked life and limb for his dream of a better tomorrow.

The sun came over the horizon then, and white rays blinded the Alchemist. He closed his eyes, smiling with the tranquil joy of revelation. The Scholar’s vision was like the Sun: it could kindle new fires—provided, of course, that one had a polished mirror on hand. Those fires, once ignited, would purify the tainted world. With the Scholar’s vision and the Alchemist’s ability combined, they would reforge the Empire.

By mid-morning, the Alchemist returned to the Scholar’s side with a tray of food. The offerings consisted of cooked roots, various bitter herbs, and a roasted bird. It was a meal far humbler than the Scholar’s standard city fare, but after countless days on the run, the Scholar gratefully dug in to these rare delicacies.

The Alchemist carefully etched neat lines of glyphs into his bow while the Scholar ate. When several minutes and half of the food passed without a word, the Scholar regained enough self-awareness to pause. He cleared his throat pointedly.

The Alchemist jolted, apparently startled out of his thoughts. “More food?”

“No, thank you. This is quite enough.” The Scholar tried to smile disarmingly.

“Good,” the Alchemist said. His hands resumed their work, and his face faded back into deep concentration.

The Scholar waited, but no further conversation seemed forthcoming. The Scholar searched his memory for a possible cause of the Alchemist’s sudden distance. The conversation last night came to mind. Back then, the Scholar had explained the events leading to his capture. He had mentioned the report and the merchant... and then he’d rather gone off on a tangent about corruption and revolution. The Alchemist had seemed to agree that the Empire was fundamentally flawed, but then again, the Alchemist had also chopped down five soldiers like vegetables for questioning his loyalty to that very Empire.

Offending the Alchemist was the very last thing that the Scholar wanted.

“About last night. What I said.” The Scholar tried to smile, but it felt forced. “Those plans about overthrow... tearing down the guild system and such—”

“I remember.” The Alchemist set aside his tools.

The Scholar’s words died in his throat as the Alchemist approached, and he set aside his meal tray. The Alchemist stopped at a distance of five paces from the Scholar’s table. His face was grim, and the shadows of sleep deprivation hung under his unnatural eyes.

“As the Sage General of old once said, ‘The bow wants for an arrow, and the arrow for a target.’ For the honor of serving a worthy leader, no price would be too great.” The Alchemist knelt. “O Scholar whose vision shines bright as the Sun: I vow to fight for you in life and death, never to stray from your cause.”