As the sun begins to set, burning on the western horizon, Kelo and Anarah find the dome humming with spectators. Under the low hanging door frame and into the dimly lit cavern, Kelo steps onto hard-packed sand with bare feet, a crushing weight on his shoulders at the sight of so many people. Those affected by the same disease that had taken his nose shuffle in between their chaperones, family members or friends having convinced their loved ones to receive the cure. They murmur amongst themselves, some doubtful, others scared. Fires crackle from several lanterns along the walls, sending flickering lights across their faces. The room is smaller than he had remembered.

  As Anarah steps over the threshold behind him, he looks through the crowd, peering past missing arms and peeling flesh. He does not see the man with the leviathan tattoo, but there are two younger alchemists, perhaps fresh acolytes, standing with their backs against the rear wall of the room, their clean-shaven faces expressionless.

  “At the front,” he breathes. “There should be a circle where the High Warlock stands.”

  Kelo moves through the crowd toward the front, whispering small apologies to disgruntled parents. Anarah follows behind, speaking softly to the residents. He tiptoes around an older man sitting on the floor. His bare legs are all but gone. The paper white flesh loosely draped over exposed shin bones sends a shudder through Kelo. He smiles, knowing the gruesome shape of his own face, and nods lightly. The older man, gaunt face stubbled with gray hairs, reaches up to grasp his peeling hand, shaking it like a friend he’d not seen for years. An open-mouthed grin grows on his chin. Kelo returns the shake, then pulls his hand free, looking away.

  “I don’t know that I can do this.” He shakes his head, wetting his dry lips. He feels a soft pressure on his shoulder.

  “Just keep moving, Kelo,” the swordswoman whispers. She is taller than him, her voice level with his ear.

  Near the front of the crowd and between their feet, a ring of brilliant white sand is drawn on the floor. He careens his head around the front row of people, noticing another smaller ring drawn at the head of the cavern.

  “There,” he points with a flaking finger. “The smaller circle is...” he pauses. “Where they s-stand, the Xelinites.”

  Anarah nods, moving gently around him to see. “Are there any runes drawn? Look around the room.” She kneels to touch the white sand, disturbing the young man beside her, who scoffs, moving away with a scowl. Kelo watches her, taking a deep breath. “Kelo,” she says, this time more forcefully. She is looking up with blue eyes, sand falling silently from her fingers. “Look around.”

  He swallows, nearly choking on his own saliva. The tawny walls are barren, save for the flickering light of the lanterns. The ceiling, hanging low over their heads, is constructed of smooth plaster, braced with oiled crossbeams of red acacia wood.

  “I don’t see any writing.”

  He hears Anarah stand up near him. “There has to be something.” Her voice is strained, forced through her throat with more air than usual. “Granted, I know I’m not the most educated on alchemy, but surely...” she trails off, her eyes scanning the room.

  From the front of the room comes the hush of a door opening, then a dull thud as it closes again. The crowd’s whispers fade into the shadows at their feet. Kelo looks around, spotting a bald head, then a dark eye surrounded by black ink. The High Warlock stands at the head of the crowd, the light reflecting softly on his high cheekbones, sharing small details of the leviathan tattoo on his forehead.

  “The leviathan tattoo.” Anarah is hushed next to him, pulling the hair from her face to squint at the older warlock.

  Kelo remains silent, pinning his gaze past the alchemist and onto the wall behind him. He knows what comes next. As the crowd quiets around them, the man begins to speak. His voice, deep and hollow, echoes around the walls.

  “For every reaction, there must be an equal and opposite reaction,” he begins. Feet shuffle around them, expectant and unsure.

  Anarah’s eyes are glued to the alchemist. “The first rule of alchemy,” she whispers.

  “Your unfortunate circumstances are the direct result of a miscalculated reaction, an unequal exchange of energy. Where magic is created, payment must come.”

  A soft gasp comes from the swordswoman at Kelo’s shoulder.

  “Know that we do not cure you. This transaction may ease your physical suffering, but we are not physicians. Your restored body will come at a price some may not wish to pay.”

  The High Warlock gestures to the acolytes behind him, not removing his eyes from the crowd. Kelo watches as the young men open the door near the back of the room and disappear through it. There is the clank of irons, scraping of feet, a grunt, and then a deep voice shouting “No!” before an older man with skin the color of coffee is dragged through the doorway, chained at the hands and feet. Above a scruffy, graying beard, his dark eyes are bright with fear. On his browbone is the unmistakable tattoo of the Lynac.

  “He’s emaciated,” Anarah mutters, her lips parted. Her green eyes begin to redden, pooling with salt water. The crowd around them watches in silence, most knowing what happens next.

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  “Are there two among you who can accept these terms?” the alchemist continues, raising his hand. The candlelight flickers off the side of his face, illuminating the leviathan tattoo that covers the expanse of his cheek and forehead.

  A young man in front shouts his affirmation, pleading. At the back of the crowd, among raised hands, some bony with decay, a part appears in the throng as a young mother gently guides her child, a red-faced boy of about two, through the horde. When she reaches the front, she is standing near Kelo and Anarah, still holding the shoulders of her son, her brown eyes wide. Kelo can see the decay that has opened the child’s chest, his ribs showing through the tatters in his tunic.

  “Please,” she begs, “take my son. He is too young to remember what will happen here.” She hesitates. “He deserves better than this.” She lifts the discolored cloth covering his torso, revealing a gaping hole in the center of his breast. The bright red muscles between his ribs gleam in the light. With each breath, his ribs—delicate and white as the moon—move upwards, collapsing back into the cavity as he exhales. The boy struggles against his mother, grabbing at her fingers. He begins to cry. The High Warlock nods, reaching a hand out to the boy.

  “Come,” he commands, grasping the child's hand and lifting him gently over the line of sand. The warlock waves at the two acolytes and they begin to drag the aging Xelinite into the smaller circle. The captive struggles, his limbs twisting. “Please step back so that we may begin the ceremony.” The tattooed alchemist releases the boy, raising his hands to the crowd.

  Kelo is shoved backwards. Shoulders jam into his chest and side as the others move away from the circle, gazing at their feet until the white sand below them is visible. There are smudges in the sand from their steps. The high warlock waves again, and the acolytes bring jars of sand, repairing the circle. The grains fall from their fingers to the battered earth below with a sound like soft rain.

  “They’re just simple arcane circles,” Anarah muses, shying away from the people around her.

  In the ruckus, the boy with the hole in his chest makes a run for it, stumbling over his feet. The mother, standing not far from Kelo, reaches down to grab him under the armpits, returning the screaming child to his place in the center of the circle. The captive Xelinite falls to his knees with a heavy thud, his eyes latching on to those of the child’s, shimmering in the torchlight. From the rear, the door opens again, producing six more alchemists in white robes. They file around the expanse of the larger arcane circle, looking toward the man with the Leviathan tattoo.

  Kelo swallows hard. His chest fills with fire. “I can’t watch this,” he says, looking down. “I can’t do this again.”

  But Anarah is focused on the ceremony, her eyes glued to the Xelinite in the small circle. The high warlock has his hands on the man’s shoulders, gripping them gently. The Lynac user is sobbing, tears sliding down his haggard cheeks to disappear into the sand below.

  “What keeps them from releasing their Lynac?” she says, staring.

  Kelo looks around the dome, his large black eyes flitting from the rafters to the torches, to his bare feet and back, waiting for the screaming to begin.

  At a signal from the high warlock, the six alchemists kneel to place their hands inside the circle. He begins to speak a language of hard, guttural consonants, the sounds foreign to Kelo’s ears.

  “It's the first language,” Anarah whispers. “Or at least the first language the Church has in literature.” She pauses, listening as the alchemists join in and the chanting rises. “I only know basic words, but…”

  Kelo looks at the woman briefly, long enough to notice the rapture in her eyes. “Anarah,” he chokes out. “They’re going to kill him.” His eyes begin to water. The smoke from the torches has risen into the peak of the dome, but despite their light, as the sun begins to fade, darkness creeps in. Kelo looks around frantically. Each onlooker is glued to the high warlock, some absently gripping their afflictions as if the ritual is for them. The chosen child, crawling on his hands and knees in the center of the circle, is drawing in the sand with his chubby fingers. Each time he approaches the white line, an acolyte smacks his hand away, and the boy begins to whimper.

  “They’re not using activation alchemy,” the swordswoman hums. “It’s...” She tilts her head closer, listening as the chanting continues.

  Suddenly the young boy perks up, bringing his tiny, sandy hands to his chest. He shudders. Kelo flicks his eyes to the Xelinite, his brow creasing. The elderly man is doing the same, running a bronzed hand over his chest, his sobbing intensifying. Kelo looks away to turn toward the exit. An audience member grunts impatiently, shoving him from their view. He stumbles, knocking into another onlooker.

  “Kelo.” Beside him, Anarah’s voice is charged. Her hand touches his shoulder lightly. “Go,” she presses. “Go.”

  As they shove through the crowd, Kelo can hear the Xelinite moaning between hitching sobs. The child begins to whimper again, barely perceptible over the din of chanting. The crowd finally parts, letting them through, Anarah with her hand on his shoulder. Outside, in the spreading dark of night, Kelo breaks into a run. The swordswoman calls behind him, over the growing screams of the Xelinite echoing off the buildings around them. Tears stream down Kelo’s face, his breath jolting into his shoulders. He stumbles along the beaten sand and into the alley. Anarah jogs up to meet him, calling his name. In a neighboring house, the sound of voices and laughter drowns out a blood-curdling scream. Kelo slams his back against the wall of the hovel, hidden in shadows, sliding heavily to the ground. He pulls his hood over his patchy hair, weeping uncontrollably.

  Anarah eases herself down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

  They sit in the sand of the alleyway until the sun’s residual light fades. The glowing lights from the houses start to flicker out and the air turns cold. Anarah remains quiet, looking into the distant dark. As Kelo’s breath evens out, joining the silence of the night, it rises as steam in the chill. He slumps into the wall, laying his head against the stucco. He swallows hard, pulling against a dry throat. Finally, he speaks, his voice small and hoarse.

  “What were they saying?”

  Next to him, Amarah’s teeth are chattering. A pang of embarrassment hits his chest as he remembers how the cold feels, and he looks down. She wraps her arms around her chest.

  “They’re not using their own magic. The alchemists. I thought maybe it was a spell I could learn,” she shudders. “But that’s not what they’re doing.”

  Kelo looks at her. Her head is tilted toward the black sky, gazing at the endless expanse of stars above. Her shoulders are trembling with the cold.

  “Let’s get you back,” he says, dragging his feet under him. Anarah doesn’t move.

  “It’s an absorption technique,” she continues. “They’re absorbing magic from the Xelinites, which is what… kills them.” She takes a deep breath, looking up at him. “They’re transferring it back into the victims' bodies, reversing their mistake. When the alchemists made the Lynac, they effectively created another race of diviners. Drair can perform alchemy beyond the castle’s Mark and the Lynac. She just doesn’t know it.”