Fawkes led Hunter to her tent, Fyodor padding along between them. Wroth stared at her, flint-eyed, and opened his mouth to say something as they walked by. Then he seemed to think better of it. With a grunt, he turned his attention back to the Aspirants, who were still pushing through their endurance drills.

  “What’s the deal with Wroth?” Hunter asked.

  “To hell with Wroth.”

  They entered the tent. Fawkes pulled an extra bedroll and a heavy quilt blanket out of thin air – Hunter shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore at that point – and handed them to him.

  “Here. Make yourself comfortable. You’ll be meditating for the next day or so.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need this,” he said, eyeing the blanket. “It’s not that cold.”

  “You will. I need you sweating like a hog. It’ll help the process along.”

  Hunter picked a spot near the center of the tent, unrolled the bedroll, and settled himself cross-legged on top of it. He draped the blanket around his shoulders, its coarse fabric rough against his neck. Fawkes produced a few more items, laid them down in front of him: a waterskin, a flask, a small, weathered wooden chest no larger than a ring box.

  “Open the box.”

  He lifted the lid. Inside was a bone white, roughly spherical lump, its surface uneven and waxy like it had been shaped by hand. The smell hit him immediately; sharp and layered, an odd mix of medicine, crushed herbs, and something acrid that made his nose wrinkle.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s called Linfred’s Bolus. It’s an alchymical pill – a rare one, too. It can mend broken bones, or even help you regrow them.”

  “Pill?” Hunter raised an eyebrow, eyeing the lump skeptically. It was the size of a small jawbreaker. He couldn’t imagine getting it down without choking. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Pay attention. I only have the one, and we can’t afford to mess this up. If we don’t get it right on the first try, it’s wasted – and so is your chance to fix that hand.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Fawkes crouched in front of him and looked him in the eye, her gaze steady and sharp.

  “Here’s how it works, so listen carefully. First, you put the Bolus in your mouth – don’t chew it, just let it sit there. Then, take a swig from the flask, but don’t swallow it yet. Keep the liquid in your mouth.” She pointed to the flask for emphasis. “The liquid’s going to react with the Bolus. It’ll start foaming and smoking. That’s normal. When it does, exhale the smoke – every bit of it. Then, and only then, swallow what’s left.”

  “Smoking? You have to be kidding me.”

  “If you mess up – if you swallow the smoke or spit it out – the Bolus won’t work. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes, okay. Can I have some water first?”

  “No. Not for the first half an hour or so, either. After that, you can drink all you want. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

  Hunter picked up the Bolus carefully and held it up to eye level, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it might explode. He let out a slow breath, bracing himself.

  “Cheers, I guess.”

  With a grimace, he popped the Bolus into his mouth and let it rest on his tongue.

  It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

  It was worse.

  It wasn't just the taste, a mixture of bitter herbs, ear wax, and baking soda. It was the sheer size of it. The lump was so large he couldn’t even close his jaw properly, forcing him to hold his mouth awkwardly open as it rested on his tongue. Hunter fought the urge to gag and reached for the flask. Fawkes picked it up, uncorked it, and put it in his hand.

  Hunter lifted the flask to his lips and tipped it carefully, filling his mouth with a surprisingly sweet golden liquid. It was smooth and buttery, its faint aroma of cloves and unexpected warmth helping him ignore the bitterness of the Bolus for just a moment.

  Then the reaction began.

  It was as if he’d filled his mouth with a storm of pop rocks, only a hundred times worse. The Bolus hissed and fizzed violently, expanding into a foamy mass that surged against his cheeks and the roof of his mouth, threatening to choke him. The acrid smoke that followed burned his throat and filled his mouth with a stinging, chemical tang, sharp and overpowering.

  “Good, good!” said Fawkes. “Now blow the smoke out – and don’t spit a drop!”

  Hunter barely heard her over the chaos in his mouth. The foam churned and bubbled, threatening to spill out with every twitch of his jaw. He tilted his head back, forcing a steady exhale through his nose and mouth, the acrid smoke streaming out in wispy tendrils.

  His eyes watered, his chest burned, and his instincts screamed at him to cough. Still, he managed to grit his teeth and force out every last wisp without losing a single drop of the frothing liquid.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Well done! Now swallow!”

  Every part of him screamed not to, but Hunter tilted his head back and forced the frothing, fizzing mass down his throat anyway. The Bolus, still massive despite the reaction, caught halfway down, lodging in his throat like a stone. He gagged, his hands flying to his neck as his chest heaved, fighting the instinct to cough it back up.

  “No, no – don’t! Relax your throat! Keep it down!”

  With a monumental effort, he forced it the rest of the way down, breathing through his nose in shallow bursts.The Bolus shifted painfully, and for a terrifying moment, he thought it would come right back up. Then, with one final, desperate swallow, it slid the rest of the way down, leaving a burning trail in its wake. His whole body convulsed, his stomach knotting in protest. He let out a ragged breath, his face flushed, tears streaking down his cheeks.

  “That,” he croaked, voice raw, “was disgusting.”

  “You did well,” Fawkes gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now for the hard part.

  “Wait – that was the easy part?”

  Fawkes’s expression didn’t waver, her tone cold and matter-of-fact. This was no time for sympathy.

  “The Bolus will stay in your stomach, first expanding to the size of your fist, then breaking down as you meditate. But here’s the thing – you probably won’t be able to absorb all of it. Whatever’s left will turn poisonous by tomorrow.”

  Hunter stared at her incredulous, blinking away tears.

  “Poisonous? Now you tell me? That’s a pretty big detail to leave out, Fawkes!”

  “You’ll be fine. That’s why you need to focus. For the next full day, you’ll meditate, cycle your Essence, and try to absorb as much of the Bolus as you can – just like you did with the Aether Marble.”

  “And if I can’t absorb it all?”

  “You will. But if there’s anything left, you’ll have to vomit it out before it does any damage. That’s why I said the hard part starts now.”

  Hunter groaned, resting his head in his hands.

  “Great. Meditate or die. No pressure.”

  Fawkes reached into her sleeve and pulled out a brass-framed hourglass, its size rivaling that of a small urn, and set it on the ground in front of him.

  “One day. Don’t waste another moment – get to cycling.”

  Hunter stared at the hourglass, the sand trickling down like a countdown to doom, and he did just that. He closed his eyes, straightened his back, and reached inward, focusing on the flow of his Essence.

  It started as a faint pulse, like a distant drumbeat echoing through the spiritual equivalent of his body. Getting into a flow state felt harder than before; the Bolus felt like a ball of hot lead in his stomach. Its presence was a searing heat, radiating outward, filling him with a restless, volatile energy that refused to settle. Each time he cycled his Essence through it, he hit resistance, like forcing water through a clogged carbon filter.

  He gritted his teeth, his breathing slowing as he pushed himself to focus twice as hard. The acrid taste clung to his tongue stubbornly, a grim reminder of what was at stake. This wasn’t about his hand – not anymore. One way or another, that would be fixed come tomorrow. Worst case scenario, he’d die and respawn. It would probably make his whole nervous system go haywire, both in Elderpyre and in real life, but at least his hand would be whole again.

  No, this was about proving something to himself. That he could push through this, master the process, and come out stronger on the other side. And maybe – just maybe – it was about proving something to Fawkes, too. She’d stuck around for him, because he’d asked her to. He wasn’t about to give her a reason to regret it.

  Time began to blur as he lost himself in the cycle, sweat beading on his brow. At some point, Fawkes left the tent, her footsteps barely registering in his meditative haze. When she returned, it was with a small brazier filled with glowing hot embers. She placed it near the center of the tent, transforming the space into a makeshift sweat lodge.The heat clung to him, amplifying the already stifling intensity radiating from within.

  “Keep going,” Fawkes said firmly, handing him the waterskin. “The heat will help. You’ll thank me later.”

  Hunter grunted in response, drained its contents, and handed it back. It would be the first of many.

  Hours dragged by, each one blending into the next. Hunter’s clothes clung to his body, soaked through with sweat, and the blanket draped around his shoulders was just as drenched, its weight growing heavier with every passing minute. Fawkes came and went, filling the waterskin. Fyodor was stuck to his side, restless. He whined softly with every coughing fit, his ears pinned back as Hunter hacked and wheezed, his throat and lungs scorched by the fumes rising from the Bolus.

  It took him what felt like an eternity, but he finally managed to nail the process. It was slow and arduous, but his Essence finally flowed through the Bolus in a controlled rhythm, no longer faltering or recoiling against the searing resistance. He guided it through his channels, gently coaxing it towards the blockage at his mangled hand.

  He could actually feel it – the bone tissue breaking down and reknitting itself in real time. The sensation was unnerving, a prickling wave of pins and needles that deepened into something far worse. It felt as if massive splinters were burrowing into his hand, twisting and shifting with every cycle of his Essence.

  Every so often, his breath caught and his fingers twitched involuntarily, the pain sharp enough to blur his vision. His mangled hand felt alive with agony, every nerve screaming in protest. There were times he thought his nose had begun bleeding again. He clenched his jaw and pushed forward, forcing the Essence to flow, to reweave the damage no matter how unbearable it became. Stopping now wasn’t an option.

  He was dimly aware of Fawkes sitting by him at times, her concern almost palpable. Sometime late in the evening, she handed him a bowl of thin broth.

  “Drink it. For strength.”

  He did, clutching the bowl with trembling hands as he sipped. The broth soothed his stomach, if only for a moment, and he was grateful for even that brief reprieve. But the relief was fleeting. As soon as the liquid settled, the Bolus surged anew, flooding him with a wave of acidic anguish that twisted his gut and sent fresh fire coursing through him. Hunter groaned, setting the empty bowl aside, and forced himself back to cycling Essence.

  It was late at night, well past midnight, when Hunter finally felt the blockage in the channels of his left hand give way. The Essence surged through it, unimpeded at last. He opened his eyes and tried to flex his fingers.

  His hand was swollen and sore, the skin tight and tender, but the bones beneath felt solid. Stronger than ever, even. He clenched his fist, feeling the strength in it. Relief washed over him, and he allowed himself an exhausted smile.

  It had worked.

  Fawkes was still by him, asleep. Even in her sleep, she was frowning, the thin lines on her face deepening, making her look old, tired. Hunter knew better than to wake her up. Instead, he quietly adjusted the sweat-drenched blanket around his shoulders and let himself savor the fleeting quiet.

  The Bolus still roared in his belly like a furnace, the smoldering heat fainter than before, but far from spent. There was still a handful of sand left in the hourglass. Morning was more than a few hours away, but every second spent not wearing away at the Bolus was another drop of poison he’d have to deal with, come tomorrow. With a sigh and a muffled cough that burned his throat, he forced his focus back inward and began cycling again.

  Enjoyed this chapter?

  Elderpyre and get early access to chapters, consider joining my community.

  Your support means the world!