Page 190 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

A piece clicked into place in my mind. “He’s been poisoning the Hero’s Guild with that power.”

The Alchemist’s eyes glittered with what looked like pride, as though I were a particularly apt student who’d finally grasped a complex theorem. “Auremar has been feeding his most loyal followers diluted essence from the prison. It grants them power, creates addiction, and—most importantly for his purposes—marks them as servants of the Shadow King.”

They continued. “Every improper harvest weakens the anchor points. Every ritual Auremar performs to extract their essence frays the web holding the prison together. He believes he’s siphoning power safely, but he’s actually—”

“Letting the Shadow King bleed through,” I cut in. “Yes, we remember.”

The Alchemist nodded gravely. “Before I was so graciously invited to stay at Skyspire, I was monitoring the situation through my various channels. The magical collapses are accelerating exponentially. What took decades to degrade is now happening in months, even weeks.”

They moved to the window, gazing out at the mists. “The Golden Rose Fields themselves are showing signs of rapid deterioration. Entire sections that bloomed just last month have withered to ash. The farmers are panicking, though Auremar keeps it quiet. He’s been sending mages to cast illusions over the dead patches for any visiting dignitaries.”

“How long do we have?” I asked.

“At the current rate of acceleration?” The Alchemist turned back to us, their mask catching the light. “Perhaps three months before the degradation becomes irreversible. Maybe less if Auremar continues his extraction rituals.”

Arabella and I exchanged a look.

“So what do we do?” Arabella leaned forward. “We have over seventy heroic bloodlines here. How do we use them to stop this?”

“That,” the Alchemist said slowly, “is where things become complicated.”

They moved to the narrow window, staring out at the mists. “The prison must be resealed. The ley lines must be cleansed. These are facts. The question is method.”

“A ritual circle,” I said slowly. “Using the bloodlines as anchor points.”

“Precisely. Though it will be far more complex than that.” They settled back onto the floor. “Soriven was many things, but compassionate wasn’t one of them. He loved—yes, loved—his people, his legacy, his vision of order. But that love was cold, strategic. He bound the Shadow King through blood and suffering. The roses were planted in soil enriched with the blood of hundreds. That’s why they maintain their power and connection with the ley lines.”

Arabella went very still. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

“You’re lying.”

“I never lie,” the Alchemist said simply. “I merely present truth in its most useful form. And the truth is this: Your beloved ancestor built his prison on a foundation of corpses.” They stood again, as if unable to remain still for more than a minute. “Which brings us back to our current dilemma. We need those bloodlines to repair what Auremar has broken. The question is whether we follow Soriven’s example…”

“Or find another way,” I finished, glancing at Arabella, who was glaring at the Alchemist, and no doubt remembering the discussion in the war room about sacrifices. “Which is what we aim to do.”

“There is another way.” The Alchemist moved closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “But it requires something far more difficult than death.”

“Which is?”

“Cooperation.” The mask turned between us. “Willing participation from every bloodline. A ritual circle, yes, but one powered by choice rather than force. It’s never been done before on that scale.”

“Because it’s harder to convince people to bleed for you than to simply take what you need,” I said.

“Precisely!” They clapped their hands. “As you perhaps know better than anyone here, Lord Blackrose: Why negotiate when you can simply conquer?”

I thought of the hundreds of people currently crowding my citadel. Heroes and their families, children playing in halls meant for darker purposes. The chaos of it all.

“We’ll find a way,” Arabella said firmly. “We’ll explain the situation, make them understand—”

“Will you tell them their sacred bloodline exists solely to maintain a prison built on murder?” the Alchemist interrupted. “That their choice is to bleed willingly or watch the world burn?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

They studied her for a long moment. “You might actually do it. How fascinating.”

“Is that everything?” I asked, suddenly exhausted. The weight of secrets—mine and history’s—were making my runes burn.

“For now.” The Alchemist waved a hand dismissively. “Though I’ll need access to your library to refine the ritual specifics.”