The tendril of flame appeared to undulate instead of flicker—an indication that everything was ready. Her vial of blood was empty, so she took a knife to the fleshy part of her thumb, wincing as the sharp tip coaxed beads of crimson to the surface. She let them drip into the flame in a slow trickle. Then she closed her eyes and retreated deep, deep into herself. Into her mind.
Real magic lived inside of you. You only needed to know how to access it. That was the reason alchemology was outlawed—people believed primateria was created using bits of one’s soul and that was why the process weakened them over time.
The first person to discover primateria had done so accidentally. A man named Philippus Hohenheim uncovered the magical properties of soulsteel more than three hundred years ago while attempting to use it for medicinal purposes. He’d hoped combining it with his blood would cause a sort of transmutation to happen, resulting in a universal solvent. Instead—according to his writings—he feltsomething wrenched from his very soul. He devoted several years to experimenting with his findings, but once the papacy was informed, the practice rapidly became forbidden across Europe.
That was Zaria’s favorite thing about alchemology—there was always more to learn. You couldn’t simply insert primateria into something and hope a change took place. No, you had to knowexactlyhow you wanted the magic to interact with the mechanism surrounding it. Technical knowledge was a crucial prerequisite, since you needed to understand the inner workings of… well, everything. More difficult—at least for Zaria—was focusing on these planned interactions while you attempted to dredge the magic up from your own depths. It was a meditative sort of thing, and she’d never been very good at narrowing her thoughts.
It wasn’t Itzal who had eventually guided her to success. He hadn’t the patience to repeat instructions as often as she required. Instead, it was his temporary assistant, Cecile Meurdrac, who had explained the process in a way that eight-year-old Zaria could wrap her mind around. Cecile had been a woman of few words, but she was gentle where Itzal was abrupt. Tolerant where he grew increasingly exasperated.
You will know when you find it.Cecile’s soft voice echoed in Zaria’s thoughts.It is not an image, not something you can deliberately conjure up, but a feeling. Something your unconscious mind will come across if only you keep searching.
She found it more easily these days. It had taken years, and far too many impatient tantrums, but eventually she recognized the path to magic. It was there if only you knew where to look.
Breath slowing, Zaria imagined the complex chemical interactions that would take place in the aleuite explosive. There was a jolt like a skipped heartbeat, and her focus narrowed to a single point.
What followed was strange, blissful relief. It was a stomach-plummeting, heart-clenching, throat-tightening sensation. For a fleeting moment, there was only the feeling she had come to know asmagic. Nothing else was important. Zaria wondered, not for the first time, if this was what the men who frequented the opium dens were chasing. If they yearned to be lost the way she did. But their endeavor was a pointless one—there was nothing to be achieved from it. She, on the other hand, was creating.
Suddenly, there was lightness, both of sensation and color.
She extended her mind, reaching for that light, continuing to push. It was like trying to topple a wall of stone with a single finger, but she needed only to find the weak point. When she did, it seemed an infinite rush.
Zaria gasped, lurching forward. Her vision cleared, and each breath was a shudder. The candle flame was a wisp of dead smoke. But there, within a cooling divot of wax, was a glittering, crystal-like red object.
Light is found in the depths of the human psyche, Cecile had told her.Descend into your own mind. Only when you go deep enough can the vital force of the universe—the one that makes up your soul, your energy—be projected into matter. Into magic.
All at once, the euphoria was replaced by nausea. Zaria’s head spun with a horrid ferocity, and she bucked sideways in her chair as she upended the meager contents of her stomach onto the floor.
She supposed this was what she got for creating magic two days in a row. Was this what her father had wanted for her? The same bitter thought unfurled in Zaria’s mind as she rested her sweaty cheek against the table, heartbeat throbbing dully in her ears. How could Itzalleaveher like this? He’d known he was dying and had set her up to follow the same sorry path all the same. He’d gambled his savingsaway, leaving her alone and destitute, and saddled her with the work he’d left behind.
When making primateria finally killed her, she’d track him down in hell.
“Ah. I see you’ve reached the stage of vomit and self-loathing.”
A voice sounded from the door, and Zaria didn’t have to look to know it was Jules. Without lifting her head from the cool tabletop, she said, “I am begging you to shut up.”
His footsteps drew closer. A heartbeat later, his face entered her field of vision, sideways and flush with concern. He set a glass of water down with aclunk. Zaria considered it as she breathed in, then out. The idea of picking it up seemed like far too much effort just now. She could feel what the magic had cost, as if some tiny, crucial piece of herself was missing, another fragment sliced away.
“Is that an explosive?”
Jules’s voice was at her ear, tense and bordering on irate. Zaria removed her magnispecs and shot him a withering look.
“Well, yes, but it’s not explosiveyet. Relax, would you?”
“I will not,” Jules said, eyeing the mess before her. He picked up a particularly ugly clock, examining it in disdain. “Did you nick this from the shop?”
Zaria plucked the clock from his hands. It didn’t appear to be working, but the parts were in decent shape. “Maybe. Do you think your father will notice?”
“Yes. He keeps a log, and you know that, so get that scheming look off your face.”
“I am notscheming. The thing doesn’t even work.”
“Put it back.”
She grunted, conceding. “Fine.”
“What type of bomb is this, anyway?”
“The type that only destroys live tissue.”
