Daphne

"Alchemy" in the Hyperborean Empire, the word is synonymous with "miracle."

The Empire's first alchemists were eccentric scholars, steeped in cryptic philosophies and convinced they could transmute common metals into gold. Gold they never found, but through ceaseless study, they drew from Phoxene a substance known as Phoxichor. This faintly luminous blue fluid fuelled the rise of cities wrought from gears, furnaces, and steel. As looms devoured cotton to spin endless cloth, as railways spread like veins of iron across the land, as steel-clad ships soared like migrating birds into the sky, as cannons roared in human hands like the thunder of fallen gods, who could deny that Solarian alchemy had wrought miracles greater than any Charon sorcery?

It was only natural that alchemists became the Empire's most coveted profession. As the saying goes: "Between a pauper and a noble lies but a single Emerald Medal." Countless youths, hungry for knowledge, glory, or the chance to rise above their station, poured years into study and experiment, spent fortunes, and bartered honeyed words, all for a place at one of the Empire's alchemical institutes. Yet above them all towered the Royal Alchemy Academy in the capital, Dismania: a citadel of learning, admired from afar yet all but unattainable.

Thus, when Daphne Theodore renounced her place at the Academy and chose instead the life of an ordinary field medic, all agreed: she had lost her mind.

To reach the wards from the treatment wing at Riverside Hospital, one had to walk a long, narrow corridor.

Unlike the other hospitals in Dismania, Riverside housed mostly patients with lingering chronic illnesses, the sort that brought no swift end, only slow suffering. These were not ailments that made corpses of people overnight, but over long years turned them into what the doctors came to call "madmen."

Since the age of seven, I'd been running back and forth along that corridor. My hands were quick, my feet quicker, faster even than most grown Solarian orderlies. And because all I ever asked for was a meal and a place to sleep, they graciously allowed me, a lowborn little Charon girl with horns on her head, to work in their domain. My tasks were almost always the lowest sort: hauling off soiled bedding, sweeping up shards of glass dropped by patients, dragging them to the washroom or the refuse yard. Now and then, a passing nurse would shove a crate of medicine or a bundle of vials into my arms to deliver. Most of the time, you'd find me staggering down that corridor with boxes taller than I was. They blocked my view, so I often bumped into people rushing past, and every time, I'd catch a torrent of curses for it.

I once heard a bard in the square say Hyperboreans were the most short-tempered folk in all of Atlasia. If that's true, then by my reckoning, the ones at Riverside Hospital were the angriest of the lot, patients, doctors, nurses, even the kin who came to visit. Later I came to understand it was those long, drawn-out illnesses that drove them to the edge. But still, whenever someone barked at me, I'd raise a defiant middle finger at their retreating back.

Only once did someone bump into me and not curse, but apologise. Her name, I would learn much later, was Daphne Theodore.

I remember it clearly. One afternoon, I was carrying a stack of underpads to the washroom when I collided at the far corner of the corridor with a young blonde woman. My underpads and her flowers both went flying, then scattered across the floor. Without missing a beat, I squatted down and wailed at the top of my lungs, louder than the most tormented patient. I wasn't hurt, not even upset about the mess. It was just a trick: if I howled like that, the adults who might scold or strike me would flinch and back off, like they'd brushed up against something filthy.

But the blonde woman didn't curse and scurry off like I expected. Instead, she knelt beside me, stroked my back with a gentle hand, and asked in a worried voice if I was hurt. She sounded more unsettled than I was. When I didn't reply, she tried again, even softer this time, though the tremble in her fingers gave her away.

I don't remember what I said in reply, perhaps only, "It doesn't hurt." Whatever it was, it eased the crease in her brow. She helped me to my feet, and together we picked up the scattered underpads and crushed flowers.

"I'm sorry," she said, giving my head a light pat. "Little one, what flavour of sweets do you like? I'll bring you some next time, shall I?"

"Strawberry," I told her. I shouldn't have accepted her apology, after all, it was me who hadn't been looking. But her question stirred something in me. I remembered the last thing my bedridden mother had murmured before she died: that there were strawberry boiled sweets in the cupboard drawer. When I looked, there was nothing. Only later did I find out my greedy brother had taken them all.

"Strawberry. I'll remember." The blonde woman gathered up her flowers and walked on toward the far end of the corridor. She was of middling height, slim and slight. The afternoon sun caught her matte hairpin, and for a moment it shimmered with a faint golden glow.

I never knew her name, so in my heart I gave her one: Miss Strawberry Sweets.

Other than my mother, no one had ever asked me so gently if I was in pain. From the diary of Tiori Stone

You once watched Daphne lay out the contents of her emergency kit. Its compartments held no secrets from your eyes.

In the upper tier, she kept disinfectant, gauze, and bandages; in the middle, needles and thread, anaesthetic, painkillers, and a set of simple surgical tools. She had reworked the case's structure with care, so it could hold as many supplies as possible, yet it was never enough. Against wounds and deaths that multiplied with every passing moment, what could a single medic, with a single box, truly fix?

The lowest tier carried more personal things: a handkerchief, a comb, and a sidearm. Once, she asked you in quiet dismay, if the worst came to pass, should the final bullet be spared for the enemy... or for herself?

Dismania's Rain beat against the windows of the pallid hospital ward, where a four-year-old girl lay dying.

The cloth on her brow had been changed countless times. Medicines dripped through rubber tubes into her veins, yet the fever would not break.

On the first day, her father clasped her frail, small hand in his own broad palm and pressed it to his tear-soaked stubble. She did not wake.

On the second, her mother brought the finest physician in Dismania, a man who had once served the Emperor himself. Yet for all the gold he was paid, he merely shook his head and murmured there was only one chance in ten. She did not wake.

On the third, the young nurse tending her lit a candle, folded her hands to her chest, and prayed in a low voice. She did not wake.

On the fourth, a funeral director barged in with a sycophant's smile, speaking to the parents of splendid hearses and grand processions. The girl's enraged father seized a chair and drove him out. She did not wake.

On the fifth day, the girl's ageing grandmother arrived from her country estate. She looked down at the child, still unconscious, and drew a worn book from her purse. Settling beside the bed, she began to read in a gentle murmur.

"Long, long ago, mankind dreamed of transmuting base metals into gold as if by magic. They mixed sulphur, salt, and mercury... and many years later, we gained Phoxene."

"Long, long ago, mankind dreamed of soaring through the skies like birds. They strove to lift balloons with fire... and many years later, we gained the airship."

"Why are you telling these stories now?" the girl's mother protested, eyes red with grief. "She's still unconscious, she can't hear you! I... I only asked you here to see her one last time, Mother."

"No, Claudia.' The old woman smiled faintly. "Daphne always loved to hear these tales. She will wake."

"Long, long ago, mankind dreamed of driving out sickness like the gods themselves. They ground every herb and root they could find... and many years later, we gained the draughts and tonics we call medicine. These are our alchemy, what is called gezhi in Huaxu, and science in Aethyrie."

She kissed the girl's pallid cheek. "Believe in the power of great alchemy, Daphne. You will wake. For alchemy is..."

"...an art that brings... happiness... to humankind."

In the ward, eyes first widened in shock, then filled with tears of joy, as the girl's pale lips stirred with the secret phrase she shared with her grandmother.

The needle of fate spun, and came to rest on its slender tenth. Four-year-old Daphne Theodore awoke.

Though she has long known it was no more than coincidence, Daphne often jokes that it was her grandmother's stories of alchemy that granted her a second life. It was also that brush with death that set her resolve: to take up the family calling, to become an alchemist worthy of her mother and the grandparents. Like the generations of alchemists who came before her, she would use this discipline to bring happiness to others, just as the frail, pale child she once was had been drawn back from death, drop by drop, by its medicines.

Once, she believed this with all her heart.

Daphne was known as one of the finest students ever to attend the Spathatoi. Every course she took, every project she completed, earned an A, for no higher grade existed.

But after enlisting with the Legion, she received the first truly dismal mark of her life: a mere C in physical training, only just enough to pass, even for a medic.

Perhaps that's why she's so often found stealing moments to exercise whenever she can.

The second time I met Daphne Theodore, I was being scolded by a young nurse named Madeleine. She grabbed me by the collar like I was some stray kitten, lifting me clean off the floor. I'd had no idea she was that strong. She shouted in my face, demanding to know why I'd brought her the wrong medicine.

I couldn't read, but I remembered every label by the shape of its letters, and beyond that, I recognised each medicine by its colour. Lots of medicines were blue, but only this one had that bright, glassy blue, the same shade as Phoxichor.

I denied the accusation, but Nurse Madeleine raised her hand to strike me. I shut my eyes, wondering whether silence or sobbing might spare me another slap. But the first one never came. When I opened my eyes, the hand clutching my collar had been pried loose, her wrist caught fast in a slender, elegant hand.

It was Miss Strawberry Sweets.

"Pardon me. I couldn't help but overhear your quarrel. Madam, before reproaching this Charon child, might I first see the medicine in question?"

Nurse Madeleine tried to jerk her arm free, but Miss Strawberry Sweets's slender fingers held fast with surprising strength. With a muttered curse, the nurse shoved the vial into her hand.

She held it up, gave it a slow swirl, then pulled the stopper and took a careful sniff.

"There's no mistake. The girl gave you the correct medicine. This is AP-1718, as the label clearly states. You shouldn't lie in front of a child who cannot read."

"That's not the right colour for AP-1718! This little twerp switched the labels!" Madeleine shrieked. "She's been sulking ever since her last punishment, trying to trip me up!"

"The Alchemy Academy recently revised the formula. The latest batch differs from what you remember." She lifted her gaze, meeting the nurse's furious stare. "Rather than accusing an innocent child, Madam... perhaps you should spend more time familiarising yourself with your own medicines."

"What new formula? You're just here visiting someone, how would you know? Who's to say you're not just covering for this little twerp?"

"Oh, I know very well," she replied calmly. "My name is Daphne Theodore. AP-1718 was developed under my supervision. Here, this is my insignia from the Alchemy Academy. I trust you recognise it." From the diary of Tiori Stone

Daphne had a quiet fondness for romance novels, especially the old-fashioned kind, filled with princesses and gallant knights. Among the youth of Dismania, and the iconoclastic young alchemists of the Spathatoi in particular, such tales were thought terribly passé. So she would slip a different cover over them: Selected Speeches of His Majesty Julius, or On the Origins Shared by Filthoids and the Charon.

The Royal Alchemy Academy stood atop the highest of Dismania's seven hills. From the tower at its summit, the Whisper River stretched out below like a drawn horizon, dividing the city in two, the old town of white brick on one side, the new town of black iron on the other. And the people looked so small, like ants scurrying with grains of rice. This was the daily view of the Academy's alchemists, and for many, it became their view of the world: that great alchemists were the architects of a prosperous nation, and thus its rightful overseers.

Meanwhile, in the grand hall of the Spathatoi, Sibylle Mason looked down on the assembled alchemists. It was the entrance ceremony of Azoth College, the Academy's subordinate school, and time for the customary speeches from the new intake. Sibylle stifled a yawn. To her, the hall was no different from a ballroom, and these speeches, whether stiff or flamboyant, were just another kind of social currency. She didn't need to listen to know what they'd say. The safest speech was a pledge of loyalty to Hyperborea: a vow to sacrifice all for the Emperor's glory. The fashionable choice was to pose as an eccentric researcher, rhapsodising about their love for the "mysteries of life" usually Filthoids, Charons, and other magical beings. The more outlandish the tone, the more peculiar the manner, the better. The more they resembled lunatics, the louder the applause.

The final student's florid speech came to an end, and the hall broke into applause. Sibylle caught only part of the next name, some Daphne Theo-something, before a thin girl stepped onto the stage. Among students dressed to make themselves look as bizarre as possible, the girl in a plain white blouse and black skirt was almost invisible.

She began to speak. Her voice sounded younger than the others'. And suddenly, Sibylle remembered where she'd heard the name before, from Madame Flamel, who was her mentor. She had once pointed to an essay and said to Sibylle: This girl, Daphne Theodore, is bright, as clever as you were once. Only fifteen, but certain to become a fine alchemist one day.

But what use was brilliance? Hyperborea's Alchemy Academy had never lacked for geniuses. Still bored, Sibylle turned another page of her book. The new student speeches were drawing to a close. The girl was already delivering her final words:

"So, let me end with my true ideal: Alchemy is the study that brings happiness to humankind. That is why I stand here today."

A smattering of applause followed, laced with soft laughter and scattered jeers. Sibylle closed her book. She understood the age they lived in, one growing steadily more vulgar, where people had learned to sneer at ideals and dreams. And here, in a hall where madness and cold-bloodedness were the fashion, Daphne's words were nothing short of a declaration: That she was a relic of the past. Or a naive child, blind to how the world truly worked.

The freshmen laughed, but their smiles soon froze. From the dais came the sharp sound of applause. It was Sibylle Mason, senior officer of the Legion and honorary dean of the Academy. The Laurelled Charon they scorned for her blood, yet still bowed to in fear. And so, begrudgingly, they followed her lead and clapped along.

On the stage, Daphne turned her face toward Sibylle. A shaft of light caught her, and for a moment, Sibylle could see only a silhouette, haloed in brightness. What expression lay behind it? A smile? Bewilderment? Gratitude? Or the same calm resolve she had shown in her words?

At the time, Sibylle paid it no mind. What stirred in her was only a trace of cruel amusement. It had been a long time since the Spathatoi had seen one who still carried such outdated, guileless ideals. And all Sibylle wished to know was this: Once the Academy's gilding was stripped away, when all that remained was bare flesh and bone, how long would the "ideal" of this girl, Daphne Theodore, endure?

Upon Daphne's desk rests an old photograph. In it, a young Daphne clings tightly to the arm of an elegant woman, the right half of the picture has been torn away.

The day Daphne Theodore saved me from the nasty nurse, I was so happy I thought I might burst. She gave me some boiled sweets, I tore off the wrappers, stuffed a few into my mouth, and pulled faces at Madeleine's back as she slunk away.

"What's your name?" Daphne asked, as we sat together on the bench outside the ward.

"Tiori."

"Do you know how it's spelled?"

I shook my head. She picked up a twig and traced a few letters in the sand.

"This is your name. It means 'Dewiolet.'"

For most of my life, my name had only ever come paired with words like "twerp" or "lowborn wretch." I never imagined it could mean something so beautiful.

"Miss Dewiolet, may I teach you to write?" she asked gently.

"Why should I learn to write?" I said, confused. Most of us Charons could only ever do hard labour, and I had no special gift that might make me a Laurelled Charon someday. I knew that much.

"If you could read, what happened today might never have happened," Daphne replied, smiling softly. "Knowledge is a kind of strength, a weapon to protect ourselves."

I shook my head, still confused... then nodded, hard. I didn't understand what she meant, not really. But it was her advice, and that meant I couldn't say no.

That afternoon, Daphne Theodore taught me the whole alphabet. I copied it down into the little notepad she gave me, my letters crooked and uneven, but all my own. Before she left, I hesitated... then called out after her.

"Miss Theodore, I remember you said you were an alchemist."

"I am."

"What is alchemy?"

"It's a study meant to make people's lives better."

As she spoke, her eyes lit up. It was as if some flame had kindled behind them, making them shine.

"So then... the Alchemy Academy is where people study alchemy?"

"...Yes."

"If I learn to write well," I asked, "could I go to the Academy too? Could I study alchemy with you, Miss Theodore?"

I'd always known my place. And I could read the way people looked at things. Even without asking, I could tell from the nurse's reaction that the Academy must be some grand, untouchable place. But just for a heartbeat, with the fire in Daphne's eyes, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I had the right to walk towards it too.

But it wasn't what I imagined. That fire in her eyes vanished at once. Her expression grew distant... conflicted. She turned away, no longer meeting my gaze.

"No, Tiori," she said quietly. "Don't go there."

"Hyperborea's Alchemy Academy has lost its way," she whispered. "It's no longer the great tower I once dreamed of." From the diary of Tiori Stone

On humanitarian grounds, Daphne Theodore refused to participate in the Spathatoi's Intensification Project, a programme designed to forcibly unlock the magical potential of the Charon. For this, she openly defied the Spathatoi's dean not once, but twice.

Yet as the final disciple of Madame Flamel, the Spathatoi's revered founder, and a fellow pupil of Chief Sibylle, Daphne was spared formal reprimand. By now, the matter has become an open secret within the Spathatoi's halls.

Daphne handed over her rucksack without a word, submitted to the soldier's search, and passed through two heavy doors. It was said the doors were forged with powerful magnets, designed to expose any concealed blade or firearm, a safeguard against assassination for the Legion's high command. Yet upon crossing the final threshold, Daphne found herself faintly taken aback: beyond all that elaborate security, Sibylle Mason's private residence was stark to the point of austerity. The walls were coarse and grey, stripped of paintings or adornment. A broad dining table and a scattering of hard-backed chairs were all that furnished the space, angular, unembellished, as bare and functional as barrack stock, crafted for nothing but to bear the weight of a body.

"You've come, Daphne." Sibylle's voice reached her, muffled through the corridor. "I'm in the kitchen. Come in."

Daphne responded softly and made her way towards the sound. Her steps were cautious, she had no idea why a senior Legion officer, who had once studied above her at the Alchemy Academy, had summoned her to a private home.

The kitchen, like the parlour, was framed in bare grey walls. The only trace of colour lay in the vivid red of a pomegranate resting in the violet-haired woman's palm. The tip of her knife traced the fruit's smooth, taut skin.

"You're fifteen minutes early. I wasn't yet prepared to receive you." Sibylle's blade slipped through the rind, revealing the glistening cluster of translucent seeds. "I dislike hiring servants. Everything here is done by my own hand."

"I'm sorry to trouble you." Daphne clasped her hands, uneasy. "Perhaps... perhaps you'd like me to hel..."

Ring, ring.

The telephone rang, abruptly cutting her short.

"Daphne." Sibylle began dropping the seeds into a white porcelain dish. "Pick it up. Hold the receiver for me." She showed no sign of concern over her guest's presence.

Daphne complied, gently raising the earpiece to Sibylle's ear. A young man's voice came through, clear enough for them both to hear.

"Chief Sibylle, it's about the two Forsakens spies. They've been under torture for four days now, but still refuse to name their accomplices. I believe they're reaching their limit."

"For many, the body's pain means little. You are still green. Do not strike what is hardest in them, strike what is softest."

The pomegranate seeds landed in the dish with soft, brittle clinks. Sibylle didn't lift her gaze. "As I recall, those two are brothers."

"We've already threatened them with each other's lives, but neither gave in. It appears they made a pact, resolved to die from the start."

"No. You still haven't grasped what I meant by 'the softest part.'"

She tipped the pale seeds into a fine copper sieve resting over a glass jug. With a steady, unrelenting grip, she began to press, knuckles whitening as juice seeped crimson through the mesh in a slow, thin stream.

"Do not threaten them with death. Tempt them with hope. Say this: the one who speaks will die, but his brother will live."

A crisp "Yes, ma'am" crackled down the line, and the call ended. In the sieve, the seeds had turned pale and shrivelled. Sibylle poured the half-jug of juice into two glasses. Daphne's hand, still holding the receiver, remained suspended mid-air. A fine film of sweat gathered on her brow. Without a glance back, Sibylle turned and walked ahead. Daphne followed in silence, a few steps behind.

"Daphne. You wish to know the brothers' fate, do you not?" Sibylle held out a glass of pomegranate juice. "Then stay, and witness their end."

Daphne faltered, then gave a small nod, biting her lower lip. She feigned calm as she swirled the glass, eyes fixed on the red within. Pomegranates had once been dear to her; as a child, she would walk the orchards hand in hand with her parents. But now, in that same familiar crimson, she felt only a creeping dread.

The minute hand had turned a full circuit and a half when the telephone rang again. It was the same young man's voice. "The elder brother has confessed his contact. We're already moving to make the arrest. As promised, we released the younger, even returned his sidearm."

Daphne exhaled in quiet relief, only for her smile to falter at the next words. "The younger couldn't bear the thought that his brother had traded such precious secrets for his life. Once free, he raised the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger."

"Ah, such a pity... a will of iron, in one so young." The words were spoken, but not a trace of pity coloured her voice. Her gaze lingered on Daphne, lips curved in a subtle, unreadable smile.

"You knew this would happen. That's why you're not surprised. You brought me here today so I'd hear it with my own ears." Daphne's lips were dry; her voice wavered despite her effort to steady it. "It was... Dean Silas who asked you to persuade me, to tell me how I should serve the Empire. Wasn't it?"

"Silas's grievances don't concern me," Sibylle said flatly. "Daphne, I brought you here for one reason: to show you what it takes to survive, whether in the Legion or the Academy. Empathy must be kept in measure. Sharp enough to sense weakness... never so unchecked that it renders you useless."

"Excess empathy won't just make you useless, Daphne, it will drag you into your own misfortune."

Daphne could scarcely recall how she had managed to feign thanks for Sibylle's lesson, nor how she had all but fled that stark house of grey and white. What lingered was the memory of two glasses of pomegranate juice: Sibylle's, drained in a single draught, and her own, left untouched. Sometimes, she dreamt of that glass, of the liquid within it: the colour of the pomegranate, the colour of life itself. In her dreams, it spilled over the rim, more and more, until it rose into a crimson river that closed over her... and swallowed her whole.

You've noticed that when Daphne grows tense, she straightens her back all the more.

After I filled up the notepad Daphne had given me, I finally saw her again at Riverside Hospital.

I'd known she'd come back.

The last time we met, I'd begged her to help me find someone, a man named Gary Stone. I told her, tears in my eyes, that Gary was my brother, my only family in the world. I said I hadn't heard from him in ages, and that the last I knew, he'd gone to the Alchemy Academy.

Just as I'd hoped, Daphne agreed without hesitation.

Most of what I told her was true. But in one thing, I lied:

I didn't miss Gary Stone at all. He was my brother, yes, but not all siblings are born to love each other. When I was still no taller than his thigh, Gary would grab me by the neck and squeeze until I couldn't breathe, all because I'd dared to steal a scrap of "his" food.

I couldn't care less where Gary had gone. What I wanted was simply to see Daphne again. I thought she must've grown up in a loving family, because the moment she heard Gary was my brother, she assumed he must be someone dear to me.

Daphne came back, bringing news about Gary Stone.

But this time, she looked exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes were plain to see, and it looked like she'd been crying, faint streaks still marked her cheeks.

I saw her pacing at the far end of the corridor for ages before she finally walked over. I figured she must've brought bad news. Was she hesitating? Unsure whether to tell me? Or just trying to find the right way to say it?

"Tiori," she said, kneeling and gripping my shoulders, "I found out what happened to your brother. Please... promise me you'll stay strong, no matter what. Will you?"

Ah, so she was going to tell me everything after all. Maybe she wasn't any good at lying. Or maybe she just believed that even a child had the right to know the truth.

"Gary Stone won't be coming back," Daphne said, her voice hoarse. "He was caught in an alchemical accident."

I didn't feel a thing. But I still had questions. I didn't care about Gary, what I wanted to know was: What kinds of endings waited for people like us, the ones they treated like rubbish?

"...An accident? Did someone die?"

"Yes."

"Did the alchemist kill them?"

"No."

"Did Gary kill them?"

"...No."

"Then who was the killer?"

"It was a ghost no one could see," she said. "Or perhaps... it was all of us."

I shook my head. I didn't understand.

"Then... Miss Theodore," I asked, "will I die like Gary someday too?"

"If I learn enough words, enough to understand all the books you gave me, enough to master alchemy, will that keep me from ending up like my brother?"

"I wish I could tell you yes. I used to believe it. I knew people like you, who rose from nothing, and climbed to the top through what they'd learned." Daphne said softly, brushing her hand over the horn on my head. "But now... I've seen far more fall before they ever reached the peak, shattered to pieces on the way up. There are more of them than the ones who made it."

"There's one thing you must remember, Tiori," she said, enunciating every word. "Stay away from the Academy. Even if you come to love alchemy, never go near that place."

I nodded, slowly and with all the seriousness I could muster.

Daphne rose and took out the notepad she always carried. She tore out a blank page.

I thought she was going to write something, but instead, she folded the paper into a tiny boat.

"I've heard that among the Charon people, every soul is bound to the water. Tell this boat what you want to say, then set it adrift on the Whisper River. It will carry your thoughts to your brother."

I held the little boat in both hands and watched her walk away. After that, a long time passed, and I never saw Daphne again.

One day, when an Academy staffer came to deliver medicine to Riverside Hospital, I gathered my courage and asked where she'd gone, why she never came anymore.

He told me she'd gone to the battlefield. A place where those who go may never return. Perhaps she would never come back.

The box of strawberry sweets slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. From the diary of Tiori Stone

Back in her Academy days, Daphne displayed an unusual sensitivity to the wars. Whenever a battle broke out, she would find a way to obtain the list of the fallen.

Each time, she scanned it in anxious silence for one particular name, and each time, let out the faintest sigh of relief when it was not there.

But now... she no longer needs to look.

It was still raining in Dismania.

Thudding knocks and angry shouts echoed through the rain-streaked glass. Someone was calling Daphne's name at the top of their lungs.

She sat curled in a velvet chair by the window. Four days had passed since her release from the Royal Military Prison, and for four days straight, the rain had not let up. A sudden creak from the door made her jolt like a startled kitten, the book slipping from her hands to the floor.

"Forgive me, did I startle you?" The maid stammered. "I only came to bring your supper. You... you haven't eaten all day again, Miss Daphne."

"I'm fine." Daphne's gaze remained fixed on the rain-smeared window. Beyond the glass, shadowy figures gathered at the estate gates, umbrellas tilted against the downpour. "More rabble. Is it the same lot as yesterday?"

"They look different, younger, maybe." The maid frowned, trying to recall. "Ah, the one leading them... I think he was one of your classmates from the Alchemic Academy."

Daphne rose, bracing herself against the armrest. "I'll go and see."

"No, Miss Daphne..." The maid seized her hand in fright. "You know they've come for you."

Daphne sighed. "Then what other choice do I have? Shall I let them wake my mother again, and watch her faint a second time?"

She remembered, two nights ago, standing at this very window as her mother stepped out to face the crowd. She had worn a corset, long out of fashion, but lending her frail frame a touch of dignity. The rain had drowned her words, yet Daphne had seen her curtsey again and again. Always proud, never had she bowed so low. At last, to the maid's cry of alarm, her mother collapsed, and only then did the crowd disperse. She had fallen hard on the courtyard stones, her face smeared with mud. Pride and grief had pulled her down, and not even the whalebone corset could keep her upright. Daphne had cradled her where she lay, her own tears vanishing soundlessly into the rain.

Now, the scene beyond the window remained unchanged. And Daphne knew she could not bear to lose another of her kin.

She pulled her arm free from the maid's grasp, went downstairs, and stepped outside without an umbrella. The uproar beyond the gate faltered, the crowd stunned that she had truly come out.

"What is it you want to say?" Daphne unlatched the gate and stepped into the street. The walls of the Theodore estate were smeared with graffiti..."traitor," "demon-spawn," scrawled in harsh, uneven strokes. She forced her eyes away. "Do not wake my mother. We'll talk elsewhere."

"You betrayed Hyperborea, just like you betrayed the Alchemy Academy!"

"Because of you, our brothers and sisters died young!"

"How can you still wear that calm face? Why haven't you knelt and repented?"

"Always the same pious mask. Now we see your true face!"

Her former classmates drove her back into a corner of the street. She tried to speak, but her voice was lost in the downpour, and in their fury. Someone gave a sharp whistle. Hands seized her shoulders. Overhead, thunder rumbled, low and heavy.

Why do people cling so stubbornly to the "truth" they choose to believe?

Her spine slammed against a metal bin with a hollow clang. A fist struck her in the gut. The world spun; she curled in on herself like a shrimp. A boot came down on the hand she had braced against the ground, pain shuddered through her knuckles, as if they might snap beneath the weight.

Why does it take only a single excuse for people to bare their fangs at their own kind?

She thought of the corpses at Lonza Fortress, some comrades, some foes. Some still faintly warm, others already cold. Yes... for a single reason, they had slaughtered one another.

Why do people shut their eyes to the suffering of others?

She thought of the white rabbits she once kept. Pinned to the pristine-white lab bench, they struggled helplessly. Until at last, the syringe in her hand delivered its contents, and the small bodies stilled. She thought of Emilia, her friend from years past. The girl lay sprawled on a snow-white floor, blood blooming from her chest, like a pomegranate burst across a clean white cloth.

"What's the point in talking to her? She's nothing but demon-spawn, like her traitor father, Avar!"

That familiar name wrenched her back to the rain-drenched streets of Dismania.

"Exactly. Even if you crown them in laurels and keep them on a tight leash, these mongrels still..."

The ringleader never finished. His smug grin froze. A moment later, he clutched his ear with a cry. The crowd reeled back as lightning split the sky, casting Daphne's face in stark, searing relief. She stood with pistol raised, fury blazing in her eyes, a fire no rain could quench.

"Insult my father again, and the next shot won't just graze your ear." She forced each word through clenched teeth. "Now get lost."

Students of the Academy weren't allowed to carry firearms in the capital. Though their mouths still spat curses, their feet carried them away at a full run. Daphne leaned against the wall, using the bin at her back to push herself upright. Behind her lay the street leading home, where the maids had likely prepared some fresh dessert to cheer her. But she would not return. Not like this. She couldn't bear for the maids to worry, nor let them see her in such disgrace.

But then... where else could she go?

She wandered aimlessly through the rain. Night had fully fallen, and she had no idea how long she'd walked before a bridge loomed ahead, vaguely familiar. She strained to recall. Yes, Sibylle lived near this bridge. They had once spoken in her house... a meeting that ended bitterly.

Now the woman in violet stood on the bridge, a long-handled umbrella in hand. She's here to see me at my lowest, Daphne thought. No doubt she'll sneer and ask what she asked before, Do you still stay true to your ideals? But she had no answer. The unrelenting rain had rusted her thoughts.

Yet Sibylle's face held no scorn, no anger. It was as calm as the Whisper River when no wind stirred its surface. She handed Daphne an umbrella, almost casually.

"Go home. Take a hot bath. Change your clothes."

On the day you departed for Flagson, Daphne came to see you off. No words were exchanged, only a silence laden with meaning, and the bittersweet curve of a smile.

"Stay safe." She held you in a soft embrace. "I will always be praying for you."

You're not one to make promises where certainty is scarce. Yet you took her hand, and with steady resolve, said: "I will find the truth... and bring it back to you."

By the time I'd learned to read the simpler newspapers, Daphne came back.

She still held a bouquet of flowers, but this time, she looked gaunt, hollowed out. As if the lightest breeze could blow her straight into the Whisper River.

As she walked down the corridor, all talk ceased. Every gaze turned to her, full of hatred, disgust, envy, and fear. Then someone sneered, spitting out the word "traitor." Others followed, repeating it.

So that was it. I'd overheard the nurses' gossip a few days ago, that Daphne Theodore was suspected of betraying her country in the war. But so what?

If a country could drive someone like Daphne Theodore to betrayal, then surely the fault lies with the country... not with her.

Daphne gave no reply to the slurs. She didn't even glance at them, only kept her thin back straight as she walked on towards the wards.

"How is Mr Gaston?" she asked the nurse on duty.

"If you mean Roger Gaston, he's already dead," the nurse replied. "Not long ago, after another bout of pain, he smashed a glass when no one was watching and slit his wrist."

"But I had the medicine sent, the one that could cure him!" It was the first time I'd ever seen Daphne lose control. Her voice cracked with despair. "Did AG-1899 not work?"

"You were a little too late, Miss. He killed himself the night before it arrived." The nurse's voice was cool, with a mocking curl at her lips. "And anyway... Mr Gaston was a decorated veteran. Even if he'd survived the night, once he heard of your 'heroics' at Lonza Fortress... he wouldn't have dared take your medicine."

Daphne's face went even paler. The nail of her thumb dug deep into the flesh of her index finger.

"No! I didn't..."

She looked ready to defend herself, but in the end, she said nothing.

I reached out and took her hand, gently prising her fingers apart. Her skin was ice-cold, like a corpse in the morgue.

"Miss Theodore... no, Daphne."

It was the first time I'd ever called her that. I almost dragged her down to the bench below, the one where she once taught me to write.

Copying her, I snapped off a twig and scratched two clumsy words into the dirt:

"Cheer up."

Then I took her hand and placed something in it, a paper boat I had folded.

"Tell this boat what you want to say, then set it adrift on the Whisper River. It'll carry your thoughts to your father, let him know how much you miss him."

At the mention of her father, Daphne looked astonished. But then the shock softened in her green eyes... and became a faint smile.

"Thank you, Tiori," she said. "I'll do that."

Suddenly, as if remembering something, she rummaged through her backpack and pulled out a few books. She pressed them into my arms, she hadn't forgotten that I once told her I wanted to read more. We sat on the bench together for a while. Then she rose, and walked away into the crimson sunset.

When I could read every section of the newspaper, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

When the design on the candy box she gave me had worn away, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

When I'd grown tall enough that the underpads I carried no longer hid my face, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

When I could read even the most complex alchemical texts, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

When I learned how to extract potion from Dewiolet blossoms, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

When I'd saved enough to leave Hyperborea and study in Aethyrie, Daphne Theodore still hadn't come back.

Well... the family she came to visit was gone. She had no reason to return.

At dusk, I stood in the corridor, bidding farewell to the hospital where I had lived and worked for nearly twenty years. The dusk that day was a vivid crimson, just like the last time I saw Daphne.

Then I saw a figure approaching from the far end of the corridor. She looked like a young, slender girl with blonde hair. My suitcase slipped from my hand. But when I bent to pick it up and looked again... there was no one there.

"Did you see a girl just now?" I asked Nurse Madeleine. "Tall, thin, blonde hair..."

"What blonde girl?" she muttered. "And here I thought it was us old ladies who needed glasses."

"Oh. I must've been mistaken."

I walked downstairs with my suitcase, and never looked back. From the diary of Tiori Stone

Daphne's world was once a simple one, everything she could observe obeyed logic and cause. Step by step, through analysis, deduction, and experiment, even the most intricate of problems would come undone, like a cat teasing apart a ball of yarn. For a time, she believed there was nothing beyond human reach.

But later, she came to understand: even a mind vast enough to chart the laws of stars could be ended in an instant, by a stray bullet, a common stone, or an ordinary brick.

Daphne Theodore stays true to her ideals. But the road that once led to that great tower... she can no longer find.

Daphne dreamed a long dream, one that seemed to have no end.

She wandered the streets of Dismania, where the air clung heavy with damp. Rain slid from the mouths of stone gargoyles, leaving dark brown trails along the walls.

Familiar figures lined both sides of the street, each standing beneath a long-handled umbrella.

"Alchemy is a science meant to bring happiness to the people," said an elderly woman.

"Daphne, you will be my pride," said a bright-eyed woman.

"All I ever wanted was for you to be happy," said a man with a gentle smile.

She tried to draw closer, to see if they truly bore the faces she remembered, but their features had blurred, as if the rain had soaked right through their skin.

"Those who suffer in pain, will we ever truly find relief for them?" asked a young researcher.

"If I learn enough words... if I master alchemy one day, will that keep me from ending up like my brother?" asked a little girl in a hospital orderly's uniform.

"Dismania's too far... The rain's pouring. The roads are all mud. Will we ever make it back...?" asked a dying soldier.

Daphne opened her lips to answer, to shape a single "yes." But her throat closed. It was as though her voice had been torn away. No sound came.

"Do you still stay true to your ideals?" The Legion Chief's gaze bore down from above.

The stare seared her eyes. She wanted to flee, but as she turned, a vast chasm yawned before her, bottomless and black.

"We need to focus on this battle, and on surviving." Her silver-haired, red-eyed comrade laid a steady hand on her shoulder. "Remember what you once said."

Yes... that we might all live on. That was all she'd wanted then.

"Daphne, do you still remember the dream you had as a child?" A little girl stepped from the corner of the street. Her voice was soft, her brows and eyes uncannily familiar, yes, it was herself, long ago.

"To bring happiness to people, through alchemy," she replied. "I've never forgotten."

"But every dream comes at a price," said another voice behind her. It was her own, but cold, in a way she had never heard before. "To gain something, you must give something up. Daphne, ideals are also a luxury for the strong."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Daphne asked.

"Abandon your hollow principles and your useless empathy. Go among them. Become one of them," said the cold voice.

"No! Befriend beasts, and how can you be sure you won't become one yourself?" the child's voice cried.

"Only from a great enough height can you wield the power to change anything," said the cold voice.

"But once you take that step, there's no turning back!" the child's voice protested.

Their voices tangled in endless argument. Daphne's head throbbed as though it might split, she felt herself about to be torn in two. She sank to her knees, clutching her head. Slowly, the voices faded, and the last light drained from Dismania's sky.

Daphne Theodore awoke in her bedchamber. The rain had stopped; sunlight gleamed on the ivy leaves outside her window.

"Miss Daphne, someone from the Legion has come to see you." A maid knocked gently at the door. "She... doesn't seem to mean any harm."

Daphne rose, put on her coat, and stepped into the courtyard. A young man in a Legion officer's uniform stood waiting. Daphne recognised him at once, Sibylle Mason's adjutant.

"Miss Theodore," the man said, "Chief Sibylle has asked me to invite you to join a project, if you're willing."

"It's called the Second Scion Program."