And threaded through it all: steam.
Great cauldrons line the central chamber, their contents roiling, bubbling, releasing thick plumes of vapor that curl through the air and into waiting lungs. The scent is sharp, medicinal, laced with something older that does not belong to this age.
Saana stands at the center of it, sleeves rolled, hands steady as she stirs one of the vats with practiced precision. Rubi moves beside her, directing the flow, adjusting mixtures, her voice cutting cleanly through the chaos.
“Slow your breathing,” she’s saying. “In through your nose. Hold it. Let it settle before you release.”
Rubi’s focus falters as she sees Lara, flicking her gaze between the cauldrons and the witch.
But it’s not just Rubi that falters—everything does.
The movement. The voices. The rhythm of the space itself stutters, like The Underbelly doesn’t quite know what to do with her presence.
Rubi’s gaze sharpens, her hand reaches for her sickle blade. And Lara doesn’t miss the way she softens her knees, crouching just enough to be ready but not too much to be noticed. Lara notices.
“What are you doing here?” Rubi hisses.
Lara shrugs. “There came a point where I had to choose a side,” she says coldly, as if the words haven’t lodged in her throat since Seren spat them at her.
She would never call it allegiance. Just the uncomfortable realization that neutrality had finally begun serving the wrong people. Seren had been right about one thing: eventually, the world demands a choice.
Annoying girl.
Reckless girl.
Somehow still lodged beneath Lara’s ribs like a blade she had stopped trying to remove.
Lara doesn’t waste time. “The Orbs are shattered,” she says, her voice carrying easily despite the noise. The room stills like the realms themselves are listening.
“Memory is not lost. They need the antidote now.”
The words land harder than anything else in the room.
Shock ripples outward across the Melders. Disbelief.
Which is a reasonable emotion.
They know what she is. What she’s always chosen. Coin. Coven. Survival.Not this.
Rubi studies her for a beat longer, searching for deception, for calculation, for the angle. She finds none.
“We’re working on it,” Saana says quietly, not looking up from her work, brushing her curls from her face, sweat glistening on her mahogany skin. “But it’s been in their cells for years—they need more than an inhale. They need to stay over the steam for some time.”
“Then make it stronger,” Lara replies.
Saana’s hands still for the first time.
Rubi exhales, strain pulling at the edges of her composure. “We’re trying.”
Lara’s gaze shifts past them. To the Melders. They are leaning and crouching along the edges of the chamber, massive bodies pressed into the confines of a space never meant to hold them. Blood flows from intentional wounds in controlled streams into steel bowls. Their eyes are open, aware, tracking movement with a sharp intelligence that hums beneath their restrained forms.
Rubi rushes over, replacing full bowls with empty ones before blood spills over the edges.
She pours the dragonblood into the cauldron, feeding the mixture that rises into the air. Ancient. Powerful.
“Is it enough?” Lara snaps.
Rubi hesitates. Just for a moment. And Lara hears the one thousand words that pass over her face but never make it out of her mouth.
