The acrid tang of gunpowder smoke hung heavy in the frigid air of the market square, mingling with the coppery stench of Voidspawn corruption and spilled blood. Silence, thick and stunned, pressed down after the echoes of the crude explosion faded. All eyes – guards with rune-blades still humming, terrified merchants, Chancellor Silas's calculating gaze, and Elara's glacial, burning intensity – were locked on Tristian Thorne.
He stood amidst the carnage, a stark figure against the black stone and dirty snow. His bright brown curls, catching the weak grey light with an almost golden sheen, seemed incongruously vibrant above the impassive mask of his face. But it was his eyes that held them: deep, unsettling crimson, like cooled embers or pooled blood, reflecting the smoldering remnants of the paper tube in his hand. They held no triumph, no fear, only a chilling, detached assessment as he surveyed the twitching ruin of the Voidspawn and the mangled guard Rodrik had been too late to save.
"Look what you did! Look at the mess! That guard's guts are on your conscience now, murderer! Just like the others!" The Thorn shrieked, its voice shrill with gleeful malice. Tristian felt the familiar icy weight in his chest, the despair threatening to swallow the spark of action. He crushed it down, focusing on the cold geometry of survival.
Rodrik wrenched his greatsword free from the Voidspawn's chest cavity with a sickening wet slur. He didn't look at the corpse. His gaze, hard and unreadable beneath his helm, fixed on Tristian. There was no accusation, only a profound, wary assessment. He stepped closer, a wall of scarred plate and grim purpose, placing himself subtly between Tristian and the bulk of the staring guards.
Elara descended the steps, her ice-blue gown untouched by the grime, her expression a masterpiece of controlled curiosity. Chancellor Silas hovered like a vulture behind her. Her glacial eyes swept from the dead Voidspawn to the scorch mark on the wall, then finally to Tristian's face, lingering on his unsettling red eyes and the smoldering paper.
"Illumination, husband?" she echoed his earlier words to Borin, her voice a low purr that cut through the silence like a knife. "That… report… was certainly illuminating." She stopped before him, close enough for him to feel the unnatural chill radiating from her. Her gaze dropped to his hand. "What manner of sorcery is this? It bears no Essence signature."
"Tell her it's hellfire! Tell her you'll burn her next! Give her a reason!" The Thorn urged, desperate for destruction.
Tristian dropped the charred remnants of the firecracker. It hissed against the snow. "Not sorcery, Lady Frostweaver," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "Chemistry. Controlled combustion. Saltpeter. Charcoal. Sulfur." He gestured towards Master Borin, who flinched as if struck. "Purified. Concentrated. Contained. Then ignited." He met her gaze squarely, his red eyes reflecting her icy blue like dark pools. "A… stimulus."
A flicker of something dangerous – not anger, but intense, acquisitive interest – flared in Elara's eyes. She understood power. This was raw, visceral, reproducible power that didn't require risking Soul Takeover or braving Dead Zones. Power she could potentially control. "Stimulus indeed," she murmured. She turned to Silas. "See that the Cogsmith is compensated for his glass. Generously. And assign him quarters within the inner forge complex." Her gaze snapped back to Borin. "You will provide Lord Thorne with whatever materials he requires for his… illuminations. Discreetly."
Borin swallowed hard, his soot-stained face pale. "A-aye, milady."
Elara's attention returned to Tristian. "You will demonstrate this… chemistry… to me. In detail. Tonight. After dinner." It wasn't a request. It was a command, laced with the same predatory possessiveness she'd shown in the carriage and the dining hall. She then addressed the guards, her voice sharpening. "Burn the abomination. Clean this mess. And double the patrols near the Bleak Maw. This incursion will not be repeated." With a final, lingering look at Tristian that promised dissection, both intellectual and perhaps physical, she turned and glided back towards the keep, Silas scurrying in her wake.
The square erupted into controlled chaos. Guards moved to obey, faces grim. Rodrik remained a silent sentinel beside Tristian. Master Borin approached hesitantly, clutching the thick pane of glass Tristian had dropped. "Milord… yer… stimulus… saved lives. Mine included." He offered the glass.
Tristian took it, the cold surface grounding him against The Thorn's incessant screeching about guilt and weakness. "The materials, Master Cogsmith," he said, ignoring the gratitude. "Purified. Large quantities. And a sealed, ventilated workspace. Away from prying eyes and open flames."
Borin nodded vigorously. "Aye, milord. The old assay shed. Stone walls, iron door. Used for testin' volatile ores. I'll have it scrubbed and prepped." He hesitated, then added, voice low, "The saltpeter… best source 'round here ain't pretty. The midden heaps. Deep down where the frost don't bite. Rot concentrates it. Smells like death warmed over."
"Perfect! Digging in shit! How fitting for you, Tristian! Wallow in the filth you embody!"
Tristian didn't react. "Efficiency matters, not aesthetics. Procure it. Purify it. Sulfur from the thermal vents. Charcoal from the black pines. Finely ground." He turned, the glass pane held like a shield. "Come, Ser Rodrik."
The next days were a descent into a different kind of hell. The assay shed was a small, windowless stone box reeking of old chemicals and damp rock. Tristian, his bright curls tied back haphazardly, his red eyes narrowed in concentration, worked alongside a terrified but increasingly fascinated Borin. Barrels of reeking black sludge – the concentrated leavings of Frostweaver Hold's inhabitants and livestock, hauled from frozen midden heaps – were brought in. The process was vile. Boiling the sludge in vast iron kettles, skimming off the organic scum, then crystallizing the filtered liquid over slow-burning charcoal braziers. The air thickened with an eye-watering stench of ammonia and decay. Borin retched frequently, his face green. Tristian worked with methodical, emotionless precision, the foulness seeming to barely register, his focus absolute on the formation of pale, crusty saltpeter crystals.
"Breathing in the stink of your worth, Tristian? It suits you!" The Thorn mocked, but its voice held less glee, more frustration at his unwavering focus.
Sulfur, mined from the volcanic vents north of the Hold, arrived as raw yellow chunks. Crushing and refining it filled the shed with acrid fumes that made Borin's eyes water. Charcoal, ground to a fine, silky black powder, was the least offensive component. Tristian experimented with ratios, using small clay crucibles over shielded flames, meticulously recording results in a coded ledger he kept hidden. Small pops and bangs, muffled by the thick stone, echoed periodically.
Elara observed these sessions like a scientist studying a fascinating new specimen. She sat on a stool brought by Silas, wrapped in furs despite the shed's relative warmth, her expression unreadable. She asked precise, probing questions about the chemistry, the yields, the potential scale. She watched Tristian's hands, steady despite the corrosive materials, his red eyes focused like lasers on the task. She saw the utter lack of disgust, the chilling efficiency. It wasn't bravery; it was a terrifying detachment. It fascinated her more than any bluster or flattery ever could.
One evening, after a particularly volatile test sent a shower of sparks against the stone ceiling, Elara spoke, her voice cutting through the lingering smoke. "This 'gunpowder'… its force is impressive. But crude. Uncontrolled. How do you propose to direct this stimulus, husband? To make it a weapon, not merely a… loud distraction?" Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards the heavy iron door.
Tristian didn't look up from the mixture he was grinding in a stone mortar. He picked up the thick glass pane Borin had provided days earlier. He held it over the mortar, angling it. "Concentration. Containment. Direction." He gestured for Borin to bring over a section of thick-walled iron pipe, scavenged from a broken hydraulic pump. He carefully packed one end with his refined powder, inserted a crude fuse, then sealed it with packed clay, leaving only a narrow opening. He placed the pipe horizontally on a heavy anvil, aiming the open end at a stack of firewood blocks Borin had set up against the far wall. He positioned the glass pane in front of the pipe's muzzle, angling it precisely. He lit the fuse.
The explosion inside the pipe was a deep, contained THUMP. A fist-sized chunk of packed clay shot out of the muzzle with terrifying speed. It struck the glass pane squarely. For a split second, the pane held, the impact point spider-webbing with cracks under the force. Then, with a sharp CRACK, it shattered. The clay projectile, now fragmented but still carrying lethal momentum, slammed into the stacked wood blocks, splintering two thick logs into kindling.
Silence descended, thick with the smell of sulfur and shattered glass. Borin stared, open-mouthed. Elara slowly stood, her glacial eyes wide, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated avarice. She looked from the shattered wood, to the smoking pipe, to the shards of glass on the floor, then finally to Tristian. He was already examining the pipe's muzzle, his red eyes critical, noting the slight warp in the cheap iron.
"A toy! A noisy, messy toy! You think this frightens the monsters? You think this impresses the ice witch? You're playing with dirt while they wield lightning!" The Thorn spat, but its voice lacked conviction. The destructive potential was undeniable.
"Direction," Elara breathed, the word almost a sigh of satisfaction. She stepped closer, ignoring the debris. Her cold hand rested on Tristian's arm, above the rolled-up sleeve stained with saltpeter and soot. Her touch was possessive, claiming. "You continue to illuminate, husband. A crude tube… but the principle is sound. Refine it. Stronger metal. Consistent projectiles." Her gaze met his, burning with cold fire. "This… changes the board."
Tristian met her gaze, his face still impassive. He saw not affection, but the gleam of a weapon acquired. A new piece for her game. But it was his piece. His knowledge. His rebellion, forged in saltpeter leached from shit and sulfur ripped from the earth. The spark in the frozen dark was catching. The path forward was paved with alchemy, rot, and the chilling certainty that his value to the viper had just increased exponentially. And with value came danger, and the faintest glimmer of leverage in his gilded cage. He looked down at the shattered glass on the floor, reflecting the dim light like fallen stars. Direction indeed. The first, brutal step towards a weapon that could shatter more than just wood.