The silence in the hall stretched on, heavy and thick like fog. Garven stood away from me, stiff and pale.
I could practically feel him praying to every divine name he knew.
Pope Marlin returned to her throne, not in haste, but with the grace of someone used to ruling from above.
A few minutes passed before the guard returned, accompanied by two servants who wheeled in a modest alchemical set—nothing extravagant:
A reinforced cauldron, a silver-rimmed flame cradle, and a set of basic ingredients in crystal containers—herbs, minerals, some alchemical salts, and a few neutralizing powders. The servants bowed deeply, then quickly retreated.
I stepped toward the set and inspected the ingredients. It wasn't the perfect combination I usually worked with, but I'd long taught myself to make do with less. In truth, much of my self-learning had been through scavenged, second-rate ingredients, trial and error in my room, and countless failures. I'd learned not from luxury—but from necessity.
I glanced up. Her Holiness was watching intently, her sapphire eyes sharp and unreadable behind the veil.
No pressure.
I took a breath and began.
First, I prepared the flame—a soft, bluish burn using alchemical salts instead of oil. A steadier heat, easier to control. I poured a measured amount of purified water into the cauldron and let it come to temperature.
The hall was dead silent. Even the usual background murmurs of priests and footsteps had vanished, as though the entire sanctum were holding its breath.
I selected a root—varra leaf, known for its mild healing properties—and crushed it between my palms. As I did, I began channeling a faint flow of my internal energy—not magic, but my own spiritual pressure, tuned through hours of meditation and spiritual alignment.
Most pill masters used precise, textbook techniques. I didn't have those. I had instinct, touch, and a strange sensitivity to balance—something I'd never fully explained.
The crushed leaf hissed as it touched the liquid. I stirred it three times clockwise, then once in reverse.
Garven muttered something behind me. I ignored it.
Next, powdered ash moss, rare but present among the provided ingredients. I pinched a small amount, carefully measuring by feel rather than tools, and dropped it into the cauldron.
The mixture reacted immediately—bubbling with a faint violet hue.
This was the critical moment. Too much heat, and the core essence would burn. Too little, and it wouldn't bind into pill form.
I adjusted the flame, lowering it by the smallest margin, and reached into my robes for a tiny silver spoon I always carried. The balance spoon—it was dented, a bit worn, but perfectly calibrated to my hand.
As I stirred, I felt it.
The pull.
It was hard to explain. As though the mixture itself had a rhythm, a pulse, and if I moved in harmony with it—timing my stirs, my breath, my energy—it began to change.
Not just chemically. Fundamentally.
The color shifted, softening into a pale blue. The bubbles calmed. The scent of the mixture changed from sharp to earthy.
I added the final stabilizer—a crushed puris crystal, meant to bind and purify the essence into its final form. As the last of the powder dissolved, I stopped stirring and waited.
Ten seconds. Then fifteen.
Finally, a faint swirl formed at the center of the liquid. I reached in carefully with the spoon and scooped it out.
The liquid had condensed—not fully into a hard pill, but into a soft-gel sphere, perfectly formed. Still glowing faintly with inner light. Unburnt. Balanced.
A success.
This method works as long as the minimum ingredients are present.
I placed it into a cooling dish and stepped back.
Garven blinked. "That's... that's not possible. That wasn't even the standard—"
"Enough," Pope Marlin said, her voice like glass over steel.
She stood and descended again, this time walking with deliberate grace. The way the room responded—how the guards subtly stiffened, how the air seemed to thrum—reminded me this was a woman used to commanding kings and generals.
She reached the dish and studied the pill. Then, to my surprise, she picked it up with her bare hand.
The moment her fingers touched it, a soft hum filled the room. Faint light rippled from the pill, reacting to her divine aura. She studied it closely.
Garven stared like he'd just seen a ghost. "It... reacted to her holiness..."
Marlin didn't look away from the pill. "This is no standard healing pill. It's... gentler. Its purity is unusual. No bitter energy. No fragmentation." She turned it in her fingers. "It's stable."
She looked at me.
"I've seen high-ranking pill masters fail at this very process, even with superior ingredients. And yet, you—an unregistered healer, untrained—did it in one attempt."
"I told you," I said quietly. "It's not about being a master. It's about understanding what the ingredients want to become."
Her eyes narrowed, but she wasn't angry—she was intrigued. "You speak as though the ingredients are alive."
"In a way, they are," I said. "Every material has its essence. You can't force them together—you listen. You guide."
Marlin was quiet for a long moment.
Then, she turned to Garven. "Leave us."
He looked stunned. "Your Holiness?"
"You heard me. Leave us."
He hesitated, then bowed low and backed away.
Now it was just me and her in the great hall.
She studied me again, longer this time, her veil shifting slightly as she lowered her voice.
"You're either a divine mistake... or a hidden gift."
"Maybe both," I said.
A small laugh escaped her lips—gentle, but layered with calculation.
"You'll get your sponsorship, Cassian," she said. "But under strict terms. You will report only to me. Your methods are not to be shared, not even with senior clergy. You will work within the Sanctum's alchemical wing, and your pills will be cataloged and tested before any public distribution."
I nodded. "Fair terms."
"In return," she continued, "you'll be given resources, protection... and anonymity. The fewer who know what you're capable of, the safer you'll be."
That last line told me everything: she didn't just see a healer or a potential asset—she saw a weapon the Church could control.
I didn't mind. So long as it helped people—and kept me alive.
"One more thing," she said, turning away.
"Yes, Your Holiness?"
She paused, then glanced over her shoulder.
"Your success rate," she said with a smirk beneath her veil, "isn't fifty percent, is it?"
I smiled.
"No," I said. "It's fifty for High-level pills."