Page 30 of Unveiled

The Apothecarist’s expression changed to something like respect, something like wariness. “Irial,” she murmured.

Irial turned, and her gaze landed on Connor with startling directness. Then she grinned. “Oh,” she said, her voice warm as summer. “You’ve come back.” She waved at the Apothecarist. “Good morning, Rowan.”

The Apothecarist acknowledged her greeting and stepped back into the shop.

Connor inclined his head in hello. “We’re checking in with the village.”

Irial’s eyes flicked over Fraser, then Laird, then back to Connor. “Good. We like being checked on. It makes us feel…claimed.”

Connor’s shoulders went rigid. “We’re not claiming anyone.”

Irial’s grin widened, unfazed. “That’s what everyone says right before they do it.”

Fraser’s voice was calm. “You’re an alchemist.”

Irial’s eyes lit up. “Yes. And no. Depends on who’s asking.”

Connor gestured at the vial. “What’s that?”

Irial held it up. Inside, something glowed, soft, golden, like bottled sunrise. “Happiness,” she said simply.

Laird blinked. “You…what?”

Irial stepped closer, and Connor caught the scent of her, the citrus and smoke, and something electric. “I can transmute emotions into matter,” she said, as if discussing baking. “Anger into fire. Joy into light. Grief into salt. Fear into smoke.”

Connor’s skin prickled. “That’s impossible.”

Irial tilted her head. “So is our village arriving in yours. Yet here we are.”

Fraser’s gaze was sharp. “You can create objects.”

Irial nodded, delighted. “Yes. But nothing living. I can’t make a bird from longing, no matter how poetic it would be. But I can make a cloak from comfort.” She tapped the vial. “Or a lantern from joy.”

Connor’s mouth went dry. “And anger?”

Irial’s smile didn’t fade, but it cooled. “Anger is easy. Anger is abundant. Anger makes weapons.”

She held out her empty hand, palm up, and Connor felt the air shift like pressure changing before a storm. Irial’s eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat Connor saw something flicker behind them: heat, memory, old rage.

A thin line of flame curled above her palm, twisting like a ribbon. Startled, Laird took a step back. Fraser didn’t move, but his body went subtly ready. Irial closed her fist and the flame vanished.

“See?” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t conjured fire from nothing. “It’s not all pretty.”

Connor’s voice was rough. “Why would whoever brought you here allow you all to leave?” He waved a hand around the village. “Why would they allow this at all?”

Irial’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t know. They took what I made. They rationed what I was allowed to feel.” Her smile returned, but it was brittle now. “Do you know what it’s like to be punished for being angry? For being joyful? For being human?”

Connor didn’t answer. Because he did know, in a way, in his own life every time he’d swallowed emotion because it was safer to be stone.

Irial exhaled, and the brittleness eased. She looked around the street, at the people moving freely, at the children laughing. “Here,” she said softly, “I can feel what I feel. And no one drags me into a chamber to drain it out of me like blood.”

Laird’s voice was quiet. “So you’re…happier.”

Irial smiled at him, genuine this time. “Yes. And terrified. Because happiness is a thing you can lose.”

Connor’s gaze went to the workshop behind her. Shelves lined with jars and vials, bundles of herbs and metal tools. A life being rebuilt. It filled his chest with a dull ache.

Fraser’s voice cut through, practical. “Anything new? Any changes in the air?”