Good news. Bad news.
The good: the skill could be unlocked.
The bad: he couldn't afford it.
Aelin stared at the numbers again.
Four zeroes. Still four.
Ten thousand minor experience pearls.
Roughly a thousand drowners—maybe more—based on quest yields. And that was being generous.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw twitching.
Why not just say I'll never learn it? Rip the hope out clean.
"What's wrong?" came a voice beside him, quiet, smooth. Almost too gentle.
Vera had noticed.
He blinked once. Masked the irritation before it leaked through.
"Nothing," he said, forcing his eyes back to the page.
"Alright," she said softly. "Let's continue."
She resumed her lecture, calm and measured.
"Rare magical reagents. High-order ritual processes. Precision in aether flow…"
"…Chaotic energy permeates every stage of the brewing cycle…"
Aelin tried to follow—but the words passed like wind.
Books in this world weren't made to teach. They were made to withhold. Crude parchment. Jealously guarded knowledge. A culture where scarcity was sacred.
Even that morning's bestiary—Drowners and Marsh-Hags—for all its weight, had covered just two monsters. This one—Alchemy and Elixirs—was the same.
The leather-bound tome felt heavier than its pages. Half the weight was in the binding. The rest? Gilded borders, arcane symbols, overdecorated diagrams. A scholar's flex. A noble's shelf ornament.
Not a book made to be read. A book made to be seen.
Aelin hadn't dared touch it.
Not that it mattered. Vera finished the entire lesson—text, margins, and her own footnotes—in under two hours.
Then—
Snap.
With a flick of her fingers, the book closed itself and drifted back to its place on the shelf.
Vera turned toward him, her expression unreadable.
"Alchemy," she said, "is not a quick art."
She let that sit a second.
"Even just the basics of potion crafting require at least six months of disciplined work."
Aelin didn't respond at first. He just stared.
Of course he knew that.
He'd just seen the cost—an ocean of drowned corpses. A thousand monsters' worth of blood for a single skill.
He nodded slowly, unsure what she was building toward.
Vera studied him, then chose her next words carefully—too carefully.
"What I mean is... if you plan to brew anything for the Highland Trial, you're already out of time."
She paused. Not for effect—but out of courtesy. A hesitation edged with something unspoken.
Then she added:
"If you're willing, I can brew them for you."
"If it's a formula I don't know, I'll waive the fee. Depending on its rarity, I may even offer Orens. Or magical tools. Whatever its value warrants."
Aelin remained silent.
The entire lesson, the skill price had been ticking down.
Now? Frozen.
He shifted his eyes toward the corner of his vision.
[Unlock Skill: 9,950 Minor Experience Pearls?]
She was right. Even if he ground monsters without sleep, there wasn't enough time.
Two hours had dropped the cost by fifty pearls. At that rate, he'd need four hundred hours. Weeks. Months.
But he couldn't take her offer either.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he couldn't.
The Killer Whale recipe sat in his inventory, inert. Locked behind Alchemy Lv.2. He couldn't even view the full blueprint—let alone hand it over.
Vera was waiting.
He searched for a gentler refusal. Something softer than no.
Nothing came.
So he told the truth.
"…Sorry. I want to craft it myself."
"…Very well," she said after a moment. "Then you're dismissed."
Aelin stood. Paused. Then bowed his head—slightly, but sincerely.
"Thank you," he said.
The offer had been fair. Too fair. She had every right to cut him off.
Guess I'll have to find another way.
He turned to leave.
His hand had barely brushed the doorframe when a voice cut through the room—sharp and unexpectedly sweet:
"Tomorrow afternoon. Same time."
He stopped.
Turned.
Mary stood by the bookshelf, arms folded, cheeks puffed in frustration. She looked ready to hurl a flask at him.
At her desk, Vera remained seated, composed. Watching him. Saying nothing. Just... waiting.
Aelin blinked, then nodded slowly.
"Understood. I'll be here."
She nodded back—almost imperceptibly.
And then he left.
—
The hallway was quiet—dust and torchlight.
He hadn't gone far when—
"Chief."
Aelin looked up.
The First of the Wolf School stood in the corridor ahead, halfway through a turn.
The man raised an eyebrow, surprised to see him.
But he said nothing. Just returned Aelin's nod and continued walking—toward the alchemy chamber Aelin had just exited.
—
Inside, the air was still thick with charged aether.
"Master," Mary huffed, "that apprentice is completely ungrateful. Why are you still helping him?"
Vera didn't look at her.
"That's not your concern. Grind the reagents. Stay focused."
Mary flinched. The words weren't loud, but they landed like stone.
She bit her tongue and said nothing more. Even her thoughts dared not protest.
Vera of Toussaint wasn't feared for nothing.
She was known across the Continent. Her knowledge of alchemy was legend—but it wasn't just the knowledge that made people whisper her name.
Knock knock knock.
A measured knock at the door.
Mary started toward it—then froze.
Snap.
A flick of fingers. A pulse of unseen force.
The door swung open on its own.
The Wolf School's First stepped inside, pausing as if mid-thought.
Snap.
Another flick.
Thunk. Thunk.
Mary's forehead hit the table—twice. The second thud came from recoil.
She lay slumped over the desk, dazed and stunned into silence.
The First stared.
"What was that for?"
Vera didn't answer.
She walked toward him, step by step.
Then, without a word, wrapped her arms around his waist.
Pressed her face into his chest.
Buried herself in the cotton and leather of his gambeson like someone coming in from a long winter.
The witcher froze—startled, uncertain.
Then, slowly, awkwardly… he put one arm around her.
Didn't speak.
But he felt it.
The faint warmth. The salt.
Real tears. Not spellborn. Not masked by charm or ritual.
They stood like that for a long time.
"You saw him."
It wasn't a question.
After a beat, he nodded. "I did."
"Just outside."
"…He's grown," he added quietly. "I almost didn't recognize him."
Vera said nothing.
But her fingers tightened slightly.
Her voice, when it came, was so soft it barely stirred the air.
"…Ten years."
And at that number, she shivered against him. Just once.
The silence that followed was long. Dense. Full of things neither of them wanted to say.
The light from the window had shifted. Afternoon bleeding slowly into dusk.
Then—
A whisper. Steady now. Not calm, but resolved.
"Of course I came back."
"Because…"
"I need to see him walk free."
A breath.
"…Or be the one to carry him home."