The Alchemist's Last Wish

The chime of the workshop doorbell broke the silence.

I flinched, nearly knocking over the spirit lamp.

Footsteps—quick and familiar—crossed the floor behind me.

"Corwin. You look like hell."

I glanced over my shoulder, relief easing the tightness in my chest.

Liran Voss.

He stood in the doorway, rain-slick coat dripping onto the floorboards, eyes sharp and gray under his tangled dark hair. A messenger's satchel hung at his side, worn and patched, bulging with papers and gears. His usual half-grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"How did you get past the patrols?" I asked.

"Same way I always do. Back alleys, old drains." He shrugged, stepping inside. "The Order's bloodhounds don't sniff low enough for rats like me."

He reached up, pulling the scrap of parchment from my lintel—the one marked with the Ouroboros—and frowned.

"Someone's playing games with you," he said softly. "Or they've got a death wish."

I said nothing. My fingers tightened on the workbench edge.

Liran's gaze flicked to the scattered notes, the map, the broken seal of the letter. His grin faded.

"Tell me you're not dragging that ghost back into the light."

I let out a slow breath. "I didn't drag it. It found me."

For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the iron clock.

Liran sighed, ran a hand through his damp hair. "Corwin… you promised. After the Purge, after your father... you swore to leave this behind. We both did."

"I lied."

He gave a bitter laugh. "No surprise there. You were never any good at letting go."

Neither was he.

We'd met in the ashes of the Guild War's end—two half-orphans scouring the ruin markets for scrap and salvage. He was fast with locks, I was clever with gears. Together we picked clean the old alchemist vaults before the Order's censors arrived.

He saved my life in the Gutter Bazaar when a black-cloaked archivist caught us prying open a sealed cabinet. I repaid him weeks later when he fell into a pit lined with rusted barbs, dragging him free with a borrowed rope and bloody hands.

Since then, we'd watched each other's backs. Smuggled contraband. Shared secrets.

But not this one.

Not the Circuit. Not the letter.

Until now.

Liran circled the workbench, eyeing the map.

"This is bad, Cor. Even for you. The Philosopher's Circuit? The old myths? That's Guild heresy of the highest order. You chase this trail, and you won't make it to winter."

He leaned close, voice low.

"Whatever's waking in the ruins... leave it sleeping. Sell the letter to the archivists. Bury it. Forget."

I shook my head.

"It won't let me."

His eyes darkened. "You sound like your father."

I winced. The old wound, clean and sharp.

"You don't know what he found," I muttered. "None of us do. The Circuit... it's real. Someone wants me to finish what he started. Maybe her, too."

Liran's expression froze.

"Your mother's gone, Corwin. Dead or worse. You're chasing ghosts."

"Maybe. But the marks in the ruins were fresh. Someone was there. Watching."

Silence stretched between us.

Then Liran sighed, low and ragged.

"I should walk away. Let you hang yourself alone." He ran a thumb over the Ouroboros scrap. "But I won't. Someone has to keep you alive."

I managed a thin smile.

"You always were the loyal fool."

"And you're the reckless bastard who'll get us both killed." He grinned faintly. "We make a fine pair."

For the first time that morning, the weight in my chest eased.

"I need your eyes on the map," I said quietly. "The cipher's familiar—but wrong. Maybe the old vault codes. You remember them?"

He smirked.

"I remember everything. Especially the things that should stay forgotten."

Liran pulled a stool to the bench, digging into his satchel for tools and cipher keys. His presence filled the workshop with something rare and precious.

A sense of not being alone.

But in the back of my mind, a shadow stirred.

If the Circuit demanded a price...

Would friendship be the first sacrifice?

Liran spread the map across the workbench, smoothing the brittle parchment with careful fingers. His gray eyes narrowed, scanning the strange ring of marks and numbers.

"Some of this is old Guild code," he muttered. "Verdant Sigil, maybe... but twisted. Like someone broke the cipher and rewove it."

He pulled a slender brass lens from his satchel—an alchemist's reader, forbidden since the Purge—and held it over the map. Faint symbols bloomed beneath the lens, drawn in faded oil ink invisible to the naked eye.

I leaned close.

"What do you see?"

"A pattern. Coordinates, I think. But not like any I know. Look here—this line curves inward. It's not a path. It's a spiral."

He traced the shape with the tip of his knife.

"Not a journey outward. One that leads in."

"To what?"

His mouth tightened.

"The center."

The same center marked with the Ouroboros.

A warning, perhaps. Or a lure.

"Does it match anything from the vault charts?" I asked.

"Maybe... Wait."

He flipped the map, holding it to the lamplight. The marks shimmered faintly—shifting, aligning with old familiar lines burned into memory.

"A vault sigil," Liran whispered. "I know this. The Guild's Fifth Axis Lock. They used it to seal their deepest vaults. My uncle—before the Purge—he smuggled diagrams. I remember the pattern."

His finger tapped the page.

"This isn't a map to the Philosopher's Circuit. Not yet. It's a key. A guide to open something hidden in the ruins."

A vault.

The word hung unspoken between us.

"Could the Circuit be inside?" I said.

"Or something worse." His eyes darkened. "If the Order never found this vault... gods only know what's still locked in the dark."

I felt the old hunger stir. Knowledge. Power. The lost flame of alchemy waiting in silence.

But Liran's hand closed over mine, hard and cold.

"We open this vault," he said softly, "and we finish this. No chasing ghosts. No following dead men's dreams. We see what's hidden. We destroy it if we must."

I met his gaze.

A silent agreement. Fragile as glass.

The clock on the wall ticked softly.

Then—

A faint sound.

Outside.

Both of us froze.

A soft scrape. Like leather against stone. Movement beyond the workshop door.

Liran's knife slid free in a whisper of steel. I doused the lamp with a flick, plunging the room into shadow. My heart thudded sharp and hard.

Another sound.

A slow, measured knock.

Three times.

No voice. No breath.

I glanced at Liran. His expression was stone.

"Not the Order," he mouthed. "They'd smash the door."

I moved to the side wall, fingers finding the hidden seam in the old brickwork—the escape hatch my father built long ago. Liran stepped toward the door, blade raised, listening.

The knock came again.

Soft. Patient.

Then silence.

I held my breath.

A shadow moved past the warped glass pane—a shape too thin, too tall to be human. Its outline blurred, as if the air itself bent around it.

Then—

A whisper. Barely sound. Like wind through broken gears.

"Alchemist..."

Liran flinched.

The shadow slipped away into the mist.

We stood frozen, hearts hammering, the cold creeping into our bones.

When at last I dared move to the door and cracked it open, the street outside was empty. No footprints. No mark. Only a faint scent of burning copper in the air.

But nailed to the doorframe beside the old Ouroboros scrap was a fresh token.

A single black feather.

Slick with oil.

Dripping dark alchemical resin.

Liran stared, pale.

"Corwin..." His voice was tight, low. "That's a Ravenmark. Carrion Order."

The name burned cold in my gut.

The Carrion Order.

The alchemist-hunters who served no law but death. Silent, faceless. Thought long vanished after the Guild War.

I touched the feather's edge.

Still warm.

"They know," I whispered.

Liran's hand tightened on his blade.

"We're not alone anymore."

The clock ticked.

And the ruins waited.