A thin broth simmered over a small fire, its weak flames flickering against damp stone walls. The pot was old and dented, the liquid inside more water than substance. It smelled faintly of onions, but I doubted there were any left.
Lessa handed me a bowl—a weak helping of stew and a torn piece of bread that felt lighter than air. I didn't complain. Food was food.
Lancelot sat beside me, his armor removed to ease his injury. Even in just a tunic and trousers, he stood out. He wasn't just another survivor.
He was a knight.
And the others noticed.
The way they passed food around him instead of to him. The whispers behind his back. The careful distance they kept.
The anger was still there. The resentment.
Across the fire, a thin, sharp-featured man with a gap-toothed sneer watched Lance with open disdain.
"We were told the knights were dead," he muttered—not to Lancelot, but loud enough to be heard.
Lance didn't react. He focused on his bowl, quietly eating.
The man ran his tongue over his broken teeth. "I was taken from my hometown and forced into this rotten kingdom," he continued, more to himself than anyone else. "And now, it's nothing but ashes."
He finally turned his full attention to Lance. Not just with anger. There was something else buried beneath it. A sliver of something more dangerous.
Hope.
"If you're the last knight left," the man asked, voice steady, "then what the hell are you going to do to fix this?"
The air in the room shifted. A quiet ripple through the crowd.
Lancelot set his bowl down and straightened his back. Even without his armor, even without his sword in hand—he looked like a knight.
Lancelot exhaled, his voice steady.
"Three objectives."
Replicate the Phlogiston. The substance that helped us kill entire armies of slime outside the kingdom's gates.
2. Patrol the city once the search for us dies down. Find survivors, gather food, and locate weak spots in the rogue knights' movements.
3. Learn more about the slime. What it is, why it happened, and how to stop it.
The fire crackled. The others shifted uncomfortably.
Murmurs spread through the group, but the mood had started to shift—from despair to something else. Not hope, not yet. But purpose.
I forced down the last of my sour soup, wiping my sleeve across my mouth. I couldn't wait to get back to my lab, back to my calculations, with a cup of coarse, cold tea and my arcane conversion notes spread before me.
And then it hit me.
A spark of inspiration. The kind that comes like lightning, that makes the gears in your head grind faster. Mage noticed. She always did.
"Lancelot," I said, sitting up. "You said you tried using a cannon to fight the slime, right?"
He hesitated, but nodded. He didn't mention that it had been destroyed—probably to avoid snuffing out what little morale the civilians had left.
"Well," I said, setting my bowl down. "Since we're going to reproduce the Phlogiston, how about we make a fire-powered cannon? One that blows the slime—and the rogues—to hell?"
There was a beat of silence.
The civilians' eyes widened—some in awe, some in horror. Half the response I wanted.
Lancelot stroked his beard. "That's… an interesting idea. But where do we get the materials? The manpower?"
I turned to the red-haired lumberjack. "You look strong. I can figure out how to build it, but I'll need you to help my old bones put it together."
His face went red. "S-Sure. I've been cutting wood my whole life. I think I can handle that."
I grinned. "Add that to your bucket list."
"Don't jinx it," Fee muttered.
The tension in the air loosened. Something lighter crept in—something dangerously close to hope.
Then, a small voice spoke up.
"There's just one thing I don't get."
I turned. Meili. Ugh. Little kids. "And what is it you don't understand?"
She hesitated, looking between me and Mage.
"Why do you know so much about magic and the slime?"
Obvious question. "Because I'm a chief mage."
"Second to none other than myself," Mage added smugly.
That should have ended the conversation. It didn't.
Meili tilted her head, her violet eyes sharp in a way I hadn't expected.
"You kept saying stuff like 'it shouldn't have spread this far' and 'it shouldn't be growing this fast.'" She frowned. "That sounds like… you understand how it behaves. Why?"
The air changed.
The flickering warmth of the fire suddenly felt like a spotlight, pressing against my skin.
I should have lied.
I should have said, "I've been studying the slime since the invasion."
But I didn't.
Because even if I had gotten away with it now, the truth would come out eventually. And when it did, I needed these people to trust me.
I took a slow breath, rolling the vial between my fingers.
"The reason I know so much about the slime…" My voice felt heavier than it should have. I glanced at Mage—her jaw was tight, but she didn't interrupt.
Lancelot's expression was unreadable. Kevin's hands tensed. The archers were too still.
Even Fee, who had been lounging just moments ago, was watching me now, her easygoing demeanor nowhere to be seen.
They were waiting.
I exhaled sharply.
"…is because I created it."