When his eyes land on Fabien, they light up with a glint of curiosity, the kind that says he recognizes an old friend or a favorite type of disaster. And there’s something else—a spark teetering dangerously close to madness, as if he’s just one mishap away from gleefully dancing off the deep end.
I saw him standing by the counter stand,
A wizard or madman, in command—
Could he brew a potion, dark and rare,
To grant a wish or ease a care?
But what price would he demand, I fear,
My voice? My sight? An ounce of cheer?
“It’s dark enough, alright,” I mutter, suddenly feeling a primal urge to clutch everything that’s mine. My freshly swiped white shirt (Fabien’s, of course), my songbook, even my little blade at my hip. This alchemist fellow has the look of a man who’d consider all of it as fair payment.
If I could, I’d probably clutch my own eyeballs, too. Just in case.
“And here I thought I wouldn’t see this face again,” the stranger says, dropping whatever odds and ends he’d been fiddling with and leaning over the counter to meet us. “You actually made it?”
“Only took a couple of years, but…” Fabien shrugs, rolling his shoulders. “As you can see.”
The alchemist, whose name I still don’t know, steps closer, peering at Fabien like he’s a wonder.
“So, I’ve lost the debt, then?” A slow, almost mischievous smile spreads across his face.
I have no clue what they’re talking about, but I keep my mouth shut, raising my brows just a tad and watching this curious exchange unfold. Mr. Rancour here isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘warm and fuzzy.’ In fact, I’d say he’s as prickly as a cactus. But he has these… well, tiny tells, little twitches of something friendlier when Ridley’s around. Right now, though? Nothing of the sort. He’s polite, yes, conversational even, but in that gruff, brooding way that he’s practically trademarked.
“You lost it,” he confirms, arms folded as he sizes up the alchemist. “Forget the rulebook. I’ve come to collect on my own terms.”
The alchemist bursts out laughing, and ‘burst’ might be putting it lightly—he erupts with wild, echoing laughter that practically shakes the shelves. It’s a kind of manic sound that sends a shiver up my spine, and before I know it, I’ve taken a step back, instinctively giving him room for… whatever this is.
“And you’ve got proof, right?” the alchemist finally gasps, wiping away a tear with a dramatic flourish. “You can’t expect me to buy into that tale on good faith alone. Your life’s one thing, kid—evidence is another.”
Fabien just stands there, as quiet and serious as a gravestone, waiting for the alchemist’s fit of laughter to die down. Then, like it’s nothing, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a rock. Not just any rock, mind you. This thing is sharp enough to make a blade look dull. Black as night and wet-looking, it catches the dim light in a way that makes me realize what it is.
“You really swiped a piece of that shipwreck stone?” The words escape before I can help it, my voice probably a bit too high-pitched. I mean, I know Fabien’s got his quirks, but really—a stone from a cursed shipwreck? Even I have limits.
And I don’t know why it surprises me, really. But it does. Something about that rock feels wrong—like it’s a piece of some other place, something that was never meant to see the light here, in this room, among jars of herbs and vials of dubious liquids.
As Fabien tosses the stone lightly into the air, watching it catch and glint before letting it settle back into his palm, he says, “Does this count as proof enough for you?”
Our alchemist friend goes rigid, eyes narrowing. Gone is the casual amusement; now he’s got that wide-eyed look, as though Fabien’s holding a priceless relic rather than a hunk of ominous rock. He inches closer, hand half-extended, but then recoils just shy of touching it, as though it might sear him.
“That… that’s more than sufficient,” he breathes, practically reverent. “What do you want?”
“Magnus broke,” Fabien says bluntly. “I want a new ecosystem. Bigger one this time.”
Another wave of maniacal laughter.
I’ll admit, I enjoy a good theatrical laugh when it’s called for, but this? This is unsettling. It’s missing that wink or ironic eyebrow raise, something to show us he’s in on the joke. I half expect him to pull a villainous monologue out of his pocket next.
Eventually, he collects himself.
“A bigger ecosystem, you say? That’s quite the request, Rancour. You know these things take time… It’s not just sticking a sprout in a jar. I need to measure everything—the ratios, the right mixtures, the entire balance it takes to replicate what you had before, maybe even make it grander.”
“We don’t have time,” Fabien cuts in. “But your debt still needs paying.”
For the first time, the alchemist’s grin falters, just a flicker, before it snaps back into place. His eyes slide from Fabien to the rock he brought in, measuring… something. “You’re right, ofcourse,” he says, sounding as if each word costs him. “A debt is a debt. And I pay what I owe.”
