The moment I stepped out of the grand hall, the air seemed different. Heavy. Like every stone corridor and passing gaze now carried weight.
Garven was waiting just outside. His expression unreadable.
"You're still breathing," he said at last.
"Disappointed?" I asked, though without venom.
He snorted. "No. Just surprised. That you pulled it off. She actually believes you."
"She doesn't believe. Not fully," I replied. "She's just willing to see what I can do next."
Garven nodded slowly, but his eyes didn't meet mine. "You've stirred still water, boy. That kind of attention—it's a fire and a shadow."
I didn't argue. He was right.
The next day, I was escorted to a secluded chamber on the third floor of the western wing—deep within the Alchemical Sanctum. Not many ventured here. It was a place of discipline and silence.
The room they gave me was small but well-equipped. Fresh ingredients, a refined cauldron, and most importantly—privacy. Two guards stood at the door, expressionless.
I'd barely unpacked the tools I brought when someone knocked.
Before I could answer, the door opened, and a man in long crimson robes walked in. Middle-aged, clean-cut, his badge marked him as a senior ecclesiastical alchemist.
"Cassian, is it?" His voice was calm, but sharp. "I'm Inquisitor Belrath. I oversee all alchemical operations within the Church's capital branches. I wasn't informed we were inducting new alchemists."
I stood, trying to read him. "It was a special arrangement. By Her Holiness herself."
"I'm aware." He smiled thinly. "Which is why I'm here."
He walked around the room, inspecting the shelves, running fingers along glass vials as though searching for a flaw.
"I've seen the report," he continued. "A healer boy who refines advanced pills without training. An unprecedented success rate. Impressive. Miraculous, even." He turned, his eyes narrowing. "But you see, Cassian, in the Church, miracles are dangerous."
"I didn't ask to be a miracle," I replied. "Just given a chance."
He gave a short laugh. "A chance, yes. You have it now. But understand—every step you take from here on will be watched. Documented. Scrutinized."
I nodded. "I expected nothing less."
Belrath took a vial from a nearby shelf and examined it. "There are many within the clergy who will not take kindly to your sudden rise. Some believe you were planted. A tool sent to gain influence. A heretic cloaked in good intentions."
"I'm none of those things," I said firmly.
"Let's hope not." He placed the vial back, then turned to leave. "We'll begin testing your products tomorrow. Don't keep us waiting."
He left without another word.
Later that evening, as the sun bled into the cathedral windows, I sat alone in the chamber, working on a lower-grade recovery pill—nothing complex, but precise in its formulation. Each motion, each measure, felt oddly comforting.
Not because I was confident.
But because alchemy had always been my refuge. The quiet focus. The honesty in the process. You could lie to people—but not to ingredients. They revealed your failure without mercy.
As the pill solidified, I held it in my palm. Smooth, warm, complete.
A quiet knock came at the door.
I frowned. "Yes?"
It creaked open slightly, and a familiar voice slipped in.
"Still alive?" Garven said, stepping in.
I raised an eyebrow. "Word travels fast."
"It always does," he said, folding his arms. "I heard Inquisitor Belrath paid you a visit."
"He did."
"He's not fond of outsiders, Cassian. Or people who rise without permission." He paused. "You made quite the enemy today."
"I'm not trying to play politics."
"That doesn't matter," Garven said, shaking his head. "You're in the game now—whether you like it or not."
I looked down at the pill in my hand. "Then I'll just have to win by making what they can't."
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled slightly. "You remind me of someone."
"Someone good?"
He chuckled. "Someone dead."
Not comforting.
He stepped closer and handed me a sealed envelope. It bore the wax insignia of the Pope—her personal seal.
"She said you're to read this alone. No copying, no sharing."
I took it, and he left with no further words.
Once I was sure I was alone, I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
The letter read:
Cassian,
You are now under my direct authority.
Your creations will not be reported to the general council unless I allow it.
Keep your work quiet. Focus on utility, not prestige.
In time, I may assign you tasks beyond pill creation.
Trust no one except those I name.
If you are truly what you claim to be, then we are only at the beginning.
—Pope Marlin
I folded the letter slowly, the weight of it sinking in.
This wasn't just about pills. It wasn't even about healing anymore.
This was power.
And power, in the Church, always came at a price.
—To be continued..