Page 43 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

“Again, that’s not possible. That only happens when our magick senses magick, and only in the mortal realm. Unless he’s…” Rocharde let it hang.

“Doesn’t that violate the Accords, being with a mortal?” Condorr asked flatly.

“Zarek doesn’t touch anyone,” Martar replied. “Everyone knows he can’t touch without his protective leathers on.”

“So what is going on then?” Condorr shrugged those beefy shoulders, asking the questions everyone was thinking.

From the Hidden Hall of Histories, pages rustled, then a book thudded to the floor.

Martar nodded toward the far end of the chamber. “Seems the ancestors have an opinion.”

“They always do…” Gellar leaned back in his chair, his eyes lifted to the endless height of the Oath’s Chamber, where the air felt heavier and older than its smooth stone walls, so white as if bleached from the sun. “I wish we could let you rest, brothers,” he whispered, a promise still unmet.

The silence that followed carried its own weight, and they all felt its burden. It was the reminder that their oath didn’t end with death, not when this war had stretched so long that its fallen still stood watch and could not rest until the battle was over.

The same battle they’d been fighting for centuries. All against one foul creature.

Katarra.

Bellus rushed forward, spectacles slipping down his nose as he scooped up the fallen tome. He pushed them back absently, looking like a boyish bookkeeper when he was as lethal a fighter as the rest of him—if you could pry whatever new book from his fingers long enough to fight.

“What does it say?” Gellar asked Bellus, who was busily scanning the pages.

“It has a name,” Bellus said, as his brow shifted from a frown to one of awe. “The Claiming.”

“The what?” Condorr muttered.

“The Claiming.” Bellus flicked through pages as if searching for confirmation. “It is… magick choosing survival over restraint,” he read.

Gellar paused mid-stroke of his beard. “Care to explain?”

Bellus looked down again, as though hoping the words might unscramble across the pages, which happened with some magical tomes.

Bellus’s fingers stopped on the page, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Gellar’s voice cut the silence. “Bellus.”

“There’s a marginal note here.” Bellus swallowed, readjusting his grip on the book. “It’s not written as law or doctrine, because it’s ancient. From what I can tell, it’s much older than the Accords.”

“What is it, then?” Martar demanded.

Bellus read aloud, “When awakened power does not burn itself out, but changes in contact with another’s will… the ancients did not call it magick.” His voice dropped as he lifted his gaze to meet theirs. “They called it alchemy.”

Condorr shifted, and his chair creaked in protest. “Alchemy, as in—”

“No,” Bellus cut him off. “Not gold. Not transmutation of matter.”

“Then what?” Gellar asked.

“Transmutation of power.” Bellus mumbled as he flicked more pages, “Awakened ash and alchemy…”

Martar frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Bellus looked up. “Nothing.” He snapped the book shut, only to re-open it as if restarting the conversation. “This isn’t attraction,” he said carefully. “And it isn’t mating or bonding.”

“Then what is it?” Gellar pressed.

“It’s where power recognizes where it can exist without destroying everything around it.”