The Alchemist living beneath the hot sands of the Burnt Desert was nowhere near as insignificant as his name implied. The master of this obsidian castle was not merely a practitioner of alchemy. He embodied it. Literally.

His body was alchemy manifest.

The principle of alchemy—fantasy alchemy, at least—was that of exchange. The most famous example would be turning lead to gold. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ alchemy was dually a process by which potions were created, and a magic of conversion.

The Alchemist had displayed these qualities when Argrave had entered. His eyes and teeth had receded back into his head, whereupon they were alchemized within his body to form a single giant eye that better scrutinized Argrave. His body was a constant boiling ocean of alchemy, able to reform what he had into whatever body parts he needed.

Now, Argrave followed this hulking monstrosity through his abode of sterile obsidian. He was alone. The Brumesingers, Argrave’s companions—all were outside, idle.

The Alchemist’s silken black robe of hair sunk into his back as they walked, leaving a blank slate of ivory flesh behind. Slowly, lips formed, eyes just after them.

“You are a servant of Erlebnis?” he asked from the newly formed lips, voice harsh and loud.

The sight of the shifting flesh might have terrified Argrave had he not gone through the Low Way in the past, yet more disquieting was the fact he was being asked any questions at all. He was not surprised the Alchemist had seen through the Blessing of Supersession so easily, though.

“No,” Argrave answered, suppressing the urge to add extraneous details. Answer only the question you are asked, he reminded himself, repeating it mentally like a mantra.

The lips and eyes on the Alchemist’s back merged into one giant eyeball that shone with green light for but a moment. Argrave could see spell matrixes within the eye’s pupil. Argrave knew not what the monstrous figure was doing, and he didn’t dare ask.

Soon enough, the eye was replaced by the black robe once again, and Argrave heaved a sigh of relief.

There was much mystery surrounding the Alchemist. Argrave had dedicated weeks of research to writing the wiki’s article for this character. He had combed through countless in-game books, looking for references, even symbolic references, to link the Alchemist to anything—a faction, a religion, a god.

Argrave’s experience with ‘Heroes of Berendar’ narrowed things down… but gave nothing concrete.

Firstly, Argrave knew the Alchemist had associated with an ancient god. He didn’t know the details of this association, nor did he know which ancient god, nor any details beyond the fact that the two were linked.

Secondly, Argrave knew the Alchemist had once been mortal, and that his change was brought about by magic. Details were hazy on this end, too—some records claimed it was a hostile spell, others claimed it was a ritual taken willingly for the purpose of embodying alchemy.

Thirdly, the Alchemist was old. Millennia old, at least. Argrave knew he was aware of Gerechtigkeit. He could be enlisted for the final battle, something Argrave was sure as hell going to do.

Beyond that, the giant man before him remained a mystery. The Alchemist was not receptive to questions. He was more apathetic than cruel, but he was also entirely intolerant of the most insignificant annoyances, questions being foremost among them. Argrave’s personal conjecture was that the Alchemist lived in such a secluded place to avoid people, and to avoid harming people—some of his dialogue expressed dissatisfaction with his rage, and guilt for wanton slaughter.

But that was just that: conjecture.

The Alchemist came to a giant set of polished obsidian doors. He did not need to raise a hand—the doors started shifting aside as he neared. Argrave knew what was beyond. He had come here time and time again. Even still, it had been months since he had seen it, and viewing it in-person was an infinitely more captivating thing.

Shelves of polished obsidian rose up one hundred feet into the air. The walls themselves seemed to emit a steady purple light, making the place seem infinitely gloomier than it already was. The shelves held books, and every single book, without fail, had a white cover. A great many of them had lettering on the cover—even more were blank. Spread out across the room were obsidian tables. They looked like altars, in truth, but there was no discernible religious significance to them.

Argrave had seen many libraries and studies of vast scale in his time on Berendar. He’d seen the libraries within the Order of the Gray Owl’s buildings, the ancient library in the Low Way of the Rose, and the cold stone library in Veiden, managed by Rowe. None could compare to this place, at least not in scope.

The Alchemist stepped into the room. His arms stretched out as he retrieved many of the books with blank covers. The mini-hands at the end of his fingers served to bring precision—with it, he effectively had ten normal-sized human hands, with which he adroitly maneuvered books and writing implements.

Before long, the gargantuan robed figure turned to Argrave, five books held in his right hand with five writing implements in the other. Seeing the small hands on the tips of his finger clutch books and pens tightly was vastly disconcerting—so disconcerting, in fact, that he did not understand the Alchemist’s meaning immediately.

“Explain your trade,” the Alchemist instructed coldly once Argrave did nothing. He had already begun writing with two of his hands, perhaps noting his personal observations.

Argrave straightened his back at once and ran through his planned lecture. He stepped to the closest obsidian table and laid out his things, then inhaled, readying himself.

“This,” Argrave pointed down to the gray, vaguely opaque heart. “This is the Wraith’s Heart. It’s a perfect mirror of a real human heart. Moreover, it has the capacity to take aspects of magical artifacts and embody them, if they are alchemized inside your body,” Argrave pointed to the Alchemist. “The Wraith’s Heart can be considered empty, at present.”

The fell figure wrote down what Argrave said, each of his five small hands writing and moving diligently to inscribe on the blank books.

“To that end, these two items stand to fill the Wraith’s Heart's emptiness.” Argrave touched the purple rock on the table. Sensing the enchantments near it, veins rose and linked to Argrave’s gloves. “This is the Amaranthine Heart. It extracts vitality… or lifeforce, from anything that it links to. It can additionally sap magic. What it absorbs can be extracted as liquid magic.” Argrave pulled his finger away, and the veins of the Heart snapped, fading into nothingness. A single dot of black liquid appeared atop it, like a drop of perspiration.

Argrave stepped to the side and reached out for the Crimson Wellspring. “This item is called the Crimson Wellspring. It is capable of converting most organic matter into blood. Unlike most other artificial bloods invented in the past, this one is capable of sustaining vampires, meaning it possesses genuine vitality.”

Argrave took a step back and gathered his thoughts. “These two items, working in tandem inside the Wraith’s Heart, will serve to subvert some of my normal biological processes. Together, they can produce magic-imbued blood. You have achieved something similar with chimeras,” Argrave said, pointing to the Alchemist. “But the magic-imbued blood proved corrosive.”

“Yes. The body rejects false blood,” the Alchemist said—his first interjection.

“As such, we look to other creatures for a model,” Argrave continued, undaunted. “Creatures that have naturally occurring magic within their blood—dragons, wyverns, my pets the Singers of the Brume, certain species of elves… they all share one thing in common; their blood is not corrosive because their body creates it for them. It isn’t the magic that is being rejected—the blood is being rejected.”

The Alchemist ceased writing. He set some books down, then reached away, retrieving books that were not blank. Argrave barely saw diagrams of creatures—anatomies of the creatures he’d mentioned. The Alchemist studied them.

Argrave put his hand to his chest. “To ensure my body does not reject the magic blood… the third thing to be alchemized within the Wraith’s Heart is to be my own heart,” he explained, voice shaking somewhat. “And further, it establishes the necessity for the Unsullied Knife,” Argrave pointed to the scalpel on the obsidian table. “Crude tools could not extract my heart and replace it with the alchemized Wraith’s Heart without death. And that is the crux of the surgery—heart replacement. I know you are capable of that already.”

With those final words, Argrave exhaled. He reviewed what he had said, ensuring that nothing had been left out. The Alchemist said nothing, moving with purpose throughout the library as he examined countless texts and wrote in his blank books. The wait was insufferable, but Argrave could only suffer it.

The Alchemist finally stopped moving about and stared down at Argrave. “Will you tell me where you found these items?”

Argrave met the Alchemist’s gray-eyed gaze with his own. “No,” he shook his head.

It was pointless to answer. Gratitude and offense were both equally impossible from the Alchemist. Argrave gained nothing by answering, something that the player in ‘Heroes of Berendar’ learned quickly. The Alchemist very rarely rewarded the player for doing anything. One would fetch him an incredibly rare item… and receive nothing in return.

“What do you believe will happen when this alchemized heart is placed within you?” the Alchemist questioned.

“It…” Argrave swallowed. The man sounded like a doctor, asking a leading question. “My body will have to reform itself to accommodate the magic within my blood. Everything within… will change, and morph. It will be very painful,” Argrave finished.

“Yes,” the Alchemist nodded. “It will. As such, I am establishing another condition to our trade. If your screams annoy me, I will take your larynx.”

Argrave blinked. “Will I… get it back after?”

“No.”

Can’t you just make a ward around me? You’re an incomprehensibly powerful mage! Argrave wished to ask, but he’d already pushed his luck by asking one question.

He nodded. “Okay.”

The Alchemist raised a hand up, pointing to the door. The mini hand on the tip of his finger pointed, too. "Go. You will be led to a room on the outer wings of my castle. You will stay there during your period of change, so that I might observe these changes. I expect your companions to tend to your needs while you are here. They will be given access and informed of things.” He lowered his hand. “Once you arrive, strip. I will come when I am prepared.”

Argrave nodded once again, then turned. Beyond, the once-dark hallway had been illuminated with purple lights, leading him down its path. He had been expecting such a sight.

That conversation had been extremely disorienting and illogical, but Argrave felt that things had gone well. Though, perhaps it was because it was only logical that it felt illogical—it didn’t match a conversation between two normal humans.

Though Argrave was carrying four fewer things in hand, his steps felt heavy. Heart surgery, he noted. And my surgeon is a whack job.

#####

Anneliese kept a close watch on Durran and Garm, sitting amidst the giant bushes some distance away. She held her knees with her arms, and as she sat there, she tapped one foot against the ground rapidly.

She hated this feeling more than anything she’d ever experienced, she was certain. Her gut writhed, her throat was clenched, and it felt like an ocean of nervousness raged through her chest. Beneath it all was a thin sheet of anger and betrayal.

All along the way, Argrave had expressed how dangerous this Alchemist would be, and how they would need to be careful. Then, at the end, he tosses ‘they’ to the wind, and goes to meet the man alone. Anneliese knew he was right about this. It was for the best. Even still, she felt the need to rush in, join him.

But… she wouldn’t.

So much had been put into this. Argrave had toiled for months, grinding away at his own sanity, to achieve his goal. It was selfish, fundamentally—curing his sickly body—but there was a selfless purpose beyond it.

Anneliese would be certain that absolutely nothing went wrong. Maybe it was because it was the only thing she could do. Regardless, she kept focused on Durran and Garm, the jungle around her dulling her focus none.

Galamon touched her elbow. He held something out—meat, she noticed.

“Wildlife is abundant here. Argrave was right,” he said.

“I am not hungry,” she shook her head.

“You can only wait,” Galamon said coldly. “At least do it with a full stomach.”

She acknowledged his words with a frown and blinked a few times. Eventually, though, her gaze once more settled on the two ahead.

Anneliese did not pray often. She valued Veidimen culture over its religion. Now, though…

Veid, please protect Argrave, she prayed.