It trembles in the air.
Then snaps.
Rubi’s breath leaves her slowly through her nose.
Water does not break it.
Water cannot disperse it.
Hydrophobic.
Rubi’s pulse spikes with the terrifying thrill of finally seeing the shape of the thing haunting her.
Her eyes flick to the flame.
Heat changes everything.
She pours the warm suspension into a narrow metal vessel and lowers it over fire. Not enough to boil. Just enough to coax reaction. Slowly, the liquid thickens.
A faint sheen spreads across the surface—lacquered, almost glasslike.
She dips a rod into the mixture and lifts.
A filament stretches upward with it. Thicker now. Amber-tinged in the light.
Resin.
The word settles in her mind with cold certainty.
Not oil. Not wax. Not fat.Plant resin.
She’d know the shape of resin anywhere—nature is the language Rubi speaks.
She adds a measure of distilled spirit next.
Alcohol darkens the solution immediately, drawing something hidden into itself. A scent rises—subtle at first, then sharper as warmth releases it fully.
Rubi leans closer.
Inhales.
Not sweet.
Not bitter.
Not green.
Dry. No—sun-baked.
A faint metallic tang lingers beneath it, like iron left too long beneath open sky. Like wind scraping across exposed stone. Like dust heated until it almost smokes.
Her brow furrows.
Rubi knows these lands—knows the climate and the topography.
Not grown here.
Not anywhere in Aevryn’s damp soils, full of jungle and plant life, mountain ranges and valleys. Not Nymeris. Full of cliffs and ranges, waterfalls and lakes.
