Crispin retreated to his room; the heavy oak door clicked shut against the distant, rhythmic song of his father's hammer. The sound still reached him, muted now, yet it carried the same steady certainty it always had. That rhythm did not care about councils, shadows, or rumors. It only cared about work.
The space was small but grounding. Old cedar clung to the walls and the underside of the bedframe; a faint, lingering of burnt incense still haunted the air from his recent prayers. His skin felt different, as if it remembered its recent remaking. Even sitting still, he could feel the aftershocks in his muscles—a slow ache that carried more depth than soreness.
He unbuckled the blackened plates of his dragon-bone armor with stiff, aching fingers. The chest piece bore a jagged, ugly furrow where the elf's obsidian spear had bypassed his guard. The bone was splintered; the necrotic residue that had almost claimed his life scorched the edges. He laid the battered pieces on the floor. The heavy thud of the remains echoed the weight in his own chest. This armor had served him well, but it was a wreck of shattered history. It would need a most delicate touch to knit the bone back together.
His gaze drifted to the corner.
The Shae'Vaelryn gear sat on its mannequin like a phantom. This set did not decorate the room; it seemed to drink the surrounding light. Exquisite metal cloth flowed with a liquid indigo shimmer, the weave so fine it resembled the surface of a dark lake under a full moon. It was a masterpiece of elven technology, a silhouette that promised anonymity and protection. Different colors would be needed. Perhaps a dark green, or dark gray… Yes, he needed to plan to blend into any environment.
A soft metallic thud drew his attention back to the table.
Regulus hopped from Crispin's shoulder to the desk, landing with a dull heaviness. The slime's surface remained smooth and reflective, but his presence felt denser now, like a minor planet that chose where it would settle. Crispin unbuckled his satchel and withdrew the elf's potion vials one by one. The glass was black, swallowing the room's light. Each vial pulsed with a low necrotic frequency.
Regulus did not hesitate. He flowed over the first vial, his quicksilver mass enveloping the glass until it vanished. His surface glowed; deep alchemical violet swirled with flecks of gold. Within seconds, the slime's jelly churned. Cohesion flexed in tight waves.
A crystal bottle emerged from his mass, faceted like a sun-crystal. Inside, a liquid pulsed with a soft, inviting light. Crispin picked it up. The bottle felt warm to the touch—a living frequency that resonated with his own heartbeat.
Regulus began forming a second bottle, then a third. When the cycle was complete, he shifted his mass and extruded a series of empty glass containers onto the table. Some were large carafes; others were small, delicate vials.
"What are these, buddy?" Crispin asked. His voice was low, with awe threaded through fatigue.
The slime's surface rippled. He forced a section of his mass to flatten into the approximation of a mouth. The formation wavered as if he were trying to translate an internal concept into a human requirement. His core vibrated with a thin, metallic sound.
"Healing… potion."
Crispin's breath caught. The sound was wrong in every technical sense, but the intent was unmistakable.
"What quality?" Crispin asked, leaning in.
The slime's surface rippled in a gesture that looked like a shrug. His eyes fixed on the three glowing bottles. "Elf… potion."
Crispin sat back. Foundational Knowledge: Alchemy. Regulus had transformed stolen death into a means of sustaining life. It was a staggering display of control. It was also a massive risk. If the Council saw Regulus as a production line rather than a partner, they would never let him remain free.
"This is more than luck," Crispin murmured.
Regulus shifted, settling his mass. He looked toward the blackwood spear leaning against the wall, then back to the shattered dragon-bone armor on the floor. "Elder," he repeated. The word came out more clearly this time. Still metallic. Still strained.
Crispin nodded once. "Tomorrow. We will ask the Elder to identify these, and we will see about getting this bone armor repaired."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the remaining chunks of sun-crystal and twilight ore. Regulus flowed over the pile like a silver tide, the internal grinding sound of assimilation filling the space. It was a steady, mechanical white noise that allowed Crispin's shoulders to loosen.
The hammer downstairs kept going. Each strike was a reminder of his father's principles.
Crispin crossed to his bed and sat. He looked at the ruined bone armor and then at the shimmering Shae'Vaelryn metal cloth. He felt torn between his current self and his emerging identity.
Regulus finished his meal and climbed onto the bed with deliberate care. As he settled against Crispin's side, the blankets dipped under his weight. The quicksilver was not cold; it held heat like the stone walls of the forge.
A low-frequency hum settled into the bond. They did not need words. Around them, the city was shifting. A traitor was still out there, hidden behind a familiar face. Crispin's chest tightened, but he did not let the thought spiral. He had a partner who could turn poison into healing and bone into a fortress.
Crispin closed his eyes. The forge fire below dimmed as Thorne banked the coals. The hammer slowed, then stopped. Quiet moved in like a blanket. Tomorrow would be a hornet's nest of questions. While Regulus intended to learn more about his potions, he would inquire about the Elder's slime and await the answers…