Chapter 75 – A Spark Beneath the Rain

[ Rain Over Erosen ]

The rain fell softly, a steady rhythm that drummed on the worn cobblestones of the small village on the outskirts of Erosen. The sky was a blanket of heavy gray clouds, hanging low as if weighed down by the unspoken dread that had seeped into every corner of the realm. Thick droplets blurred the edges of weathered wooden signs and slickened the roofs of tightly clustered houses. Smoke lazily curled from chimneys, mingling with the mist.

In the midst of this muted world, a barefoot boy stood near the apothecary’s window, clutching the broken remains of an umbrella. His tunic, faded and too thin, clung to his small frame, damp and cold from the rain. His wide, curious eyes were fixed intently on the glowing light behind the glass.
He was nine years old — or so he thought. But the weight of things he did not yet understand pressed down on him like the thick rain. He didn’t know what pain truly was, only that some people screamed when it came, and others never woke again.
His small hands gripped the splintered wood of the broken umbrella, useless against the weather now, and he pressed closer to the window, breathing on the glass until it fogged.
Inside the warm apothecary, a local healer worked quietly. The man’s hands were steady, almost reverent, as he pinched a small amount of glowing powder from a wooden dish and dropped it into a vial filled with clear liquid. A faint blue flame flickered to life inside the vial, casting an ethereal glow.
The powder ignited, releasing a mist that rose and curled like smoke above the glass. Outside, the rain muted the world, but inside the apothecary, a child’s fever seemed to ebb away, the screaming replaced by silence. The child’s eyes fluttered open, wide and unafraid.
He watched, transfixed.
“What was that?” he whispered, his voice almost lost beneath the patter of rain.
The glow of the blue flame etched itself into his memory, soft and quiet but undeniably powerful, unlike the sharp crackle of fire magic he’d heard tales of.
He didn’t understand pain, but he understood wonder.
---
The apothecary door creaked open, its old hinges groaning against the quiet rain. A man stepped out, rain-slicked and steady-eyed, noticing the boy pressed to the window.
“You’ve been standing there for nearly an hour, lad,” the man said, voice rough but warm. “Curious about the magic, aren’t you?”
He nodded, cheeks flushed from cold and excitement.
“How did you make that blue fire?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The man smiled, brushing raindrops from his beard. “Magic is loud and flashy, but alchemy — that’s a quieter art. It listens more than it shouts.”
He opened the door wider. “Come inside. I’ll show you.”
He hesitated only a moment before stepping into the warmth. The scent of dried herbs and warm wood filled his senses. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of roots, powders, and shimmering crystals that caught the light like captured stars.
The man carefully laid out a handful of dried crimson roots, powdered copper, and a small vial that shimmered faintly with mana-infused liquid.
“This,” he said, holding the vial carefully, “is how we make the blue flame.”
His eyes sparkled brighter than the tiny flame flickering between the man’s fingers.
---
The boy’s hands trembled as he reached out, brushing his fingers against the warm glass of the vial. The rich, pungent aroma of crushed herbs and minerals filled his nostrils.
“Why does this root stop the burning?” He asked, his voice filled with innocent wonder.
“And why does copper glow blue when touched by mana?”
The man chuckled, a deep, warm sound.
“You’re either going to be a menace in five years, or a genius. Possibly both.”
His lips curved into a shy smile, but his hands fumbled with the delicate instruments. He spilled some powder on the wooden table, eliciting a patient smile from his teacher.
“Alchemy isn’t about force,” the man said, leaning close. “It’s about respect. About listening to what the world whispers beneath the noise.”
He drank in every word, every subtle movement.
He felt like he had found a secret language no one else spoke.
---
Night had fallen long before he returned to his modest home.
His feet were raw and chilled from the cold earth, but he barely noticed.
Inside, his sister lay coughing harshly in a small back room, her pale face drawn and tired.
His father stood nearby, voice low but sharp.
“Always with your head in bottles and books,” he muttered. “We need coin, not tricks.”
He lowered his eyes but hid a small scrap of formula paper beneath his sleeve, clutching it tightly.
He wished he could do more. He had to do more.
---
Later that night, by flickering candlelight, He spread herbs and powders carefully on the rough wooden table.
He measured and mixed with a whisper, murmuring soft incantations to the ingredients.
The concoction suddenly erupted in a small burst of flame and smoke, filling the room with acrid heat.
He yelped, burning his fingers.
But then laughter bubbled up from within him.
“So, it needs the blue ash root, not the black one,” he muttered, wiping soot from the wall as he scratched a correction in chalk.
---
He sat quietly, fingers bandaged, tracing the edge of the wooden table with his eyes.
From the next room, his sister’s cough softened.
He whispered to the empty air, voice steady.
“I don’t want power. Or riches.”
His gaze hardened.
“I want answers. So no one has to guess anymore.”
He looked again at the scrap of paper clutched in his hand.
“So no one has to say: ‘We don’t know why she’s dying.’”
“I’ll find the rules... all of them.”
---
[ Present Day ]
Children sat cross-legged beneath soft, glowing botanical lamps in the warm conservatory.
Lucian Valchette — knelt before them, wearing a white robe embroidered with alchemic threads.
In his hands bloomed a flamegrass flower, its delicate petals shimmering and shifting with the pulse of his mana.
“You know…” Lucian said softly, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, “the first time I saw someone cure pain, it wasn’t a mage. It was a man with a cracked pot and some dried leaves.”
The children giggled, their eyes bright with wonder.
“Did it hurt?” one asked shyly.
Lucian nodded, chuckling softly.
“Enough to cry. But not enough to stop.”
---
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed on the polished stone floor.
Marquis Elron Vastel entered, tall and sharp-eyed, flanked by a steward. His gaze was calm, but something in his stance spoke of urgency.
“Master Valchette,” he said, voice clipped and respectful, “apologies for disturbing your lesson.”
Lucian sighed softly, turning to the children.
“Go now — the garden’s still awake. We’ll continue the story another day.”
The children scrambled to their feet, waving goodbye as they ran off into the softly glowing night.
---
Elron stepped forward, lowering his voice.
“You’ve heard, no doubt — the rumors are no longer rumors.”
“It’s spreading fast. Four towns south of Ismere already locked down.”
“We call it the Hollow Sleep now.”
Lucian’s eyes sharpened, his calm exterior cracking.
“My daughter showed signs yesterday.”
“You will begin the cure. Immediately.”
“How long since symptoms?”
“Seven days. Mana disruption faint, but progressing.”
---
Elron shifted uneasily.
“The military is involved. Commander Marquis Devrin Lothaire himself.”
Lucian froze. His hand trembled for a brief moment.
A drop of rain slid down the glass pane nearby.
“You know him… don’t you?”
Lucian’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Everyone remembers storms. Some… never forget the lightning.”
Elron nodded slowly.
“You know what he’s capable of.”
“Act fast, Alchemist. Or you’ll be the only one left.”
Elron turned and stepped back into the rain, his cloak swallowing him.
---
Lucian watched the droplets as they slid down the glass panes, his breath fogging the window.
Silence hung heavy in the room.
His voice was barely audible.
“So, it rained.”
His eyes flickered — a storm of pain, regret, and calculation.
The weight of the past pressed down, but beneath it, a spark still burned.
To be continued