He awoke not from a dream, but from nothing at all.
Not darkness—nothingness. The kind that had no color, no shape, no sound.
He came to in a chair, stiff-backed and shivering, in a room that reeked of cold stone and sour chemicals. The first thing he noticed was the weight of his coat—a thick brown garment with too many pockets. Each one sagged with something metallic, or clinked faintly with glass. The second was the small bottle clutched in his fist: half-full of a green liquid that glowed like bottled moonlight.
His head pounded. The room spun a little, and his eyes swept across the clutter before him: a single gas burner, a tangle of glass tubes, and a notebook lying open like a frantic confession. The pages were covered in cramped, chaotic handwriting however, the language is unknown.
A workshop, he realized.
But—whose?
In the cracked mirror above the bench, a stranger stared back. A thin young man with unruly curls, sharp cheekbones, and an expression halfway between alarm and disbelief. He looked like someone who'd just realized his reflection might not be his own.
"Who…" He swallowed.
The mirror, unhelpfully, said nothing, as quite often the mirrors do.
Panic prodded him into action. He emptied his pockets one by one, scattering his belongings across the table. Out rolled strange coins, a crumpled letter, and a betting slip for a Mech-Boxing match. Then, his fingers brushed against something solid—a small, polished case. Inside, nestled in velvet, were a few cards.
He held one up to the light.
Tryn W. Frostblade
Consultant Alchemist
92/H4, Dragon String, Rockshire
"Tryn," he said aloud. The sound of his name was the key that unlocked the door.
Memory rushed back—not in an elegant stream, but in wild fragments. He was nineteen. Expelled from medical college for being inconveniently poor. His parents lived somewhere dusty and far away. He made a living as an alchemist for hire—barely.
The room felt his, but his mind refused to agree.
He fumbled inside his coat again and pulled out a small leather-bound diary. On the first page, under his name, was a line written in his own hand:
"Alchemy is not something to be taught, but to be learned if one wishes to."
He read it twice. It sounded like something he'd say when drunk on philosophy and desperation. Still—it rang true.
In the Kingdom of Westland, alchemy wasn't learned from lectures. It was coaxed out of the stubborn essence of things, through mistakes, burns, and the occasional explosion. Once there were universities for alchemy but that is not the case anymore. It is believed that alchemists should be toil taught.
He flipped to the final entry. It was dated 118th of Freya, Year 988.
Checked the gas-meter. Mrs. Whilligan will ask for money.
Total debt 1000 Daric.
Check with Crawler Tuesday.
He frowned. The 118th of Freya had been a Saturday, as mentioned in the top left corner of the notebook. Tuesday didn't belong anywhere near it.
A chill crept up his spine. "What day is it now?"
He staggered to the door and stepped outside. His eyes tried to shut them immediately to the bright sunlight. The morning was, well, like a rejuvenated day —the color of Celtic river water. On the doorstep sat three rolled-up newspapers, scattered on the stone staircase. That alone made his stomach drop.
He snatched them up.
The first headline read:
"Phase of Dali Begins – Flooding in Lower East Quarters."
The second read:
"Dali 1."
And the third—
"Dali 2."
He'd lost not one, but three days.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "That's even worse than being drunk! "
His body ached as if he'd spent those days fighting bricks. He checked his pocket watch—ten o'clock. Too late. He was supposed to meet Crawler Padfoot hours ago, and Crawler was not a man who took lateness lightly.
He threw on his hat, stuffed 112 Siglois in a pouch, his only money, and diary into his coat, locked the door, and hid the key under the fern pot on the step. The motion felt automatic—like muscle memory waking up before the brain.