[Five Years Before Black Spire War]

  Before Aether was a mentor, he was an alchemist of war. And he was arrogant.

  His squad, "The Blazing Vials," was cut off in the Old Quarter. Heretics were on all sides, their numbers overwhelming.

  "We're boxed in, Aether!" yelled Lyra, his squad leader, her shield splintered. "We need a retreat route! Now!"

  "Retreat?"

  Aether scoffed, his eyes wild, pupils dilated from the mild stimulant mist he kept running in his own mask. The edges of his vision began to fray, the gray stone of the Old Quarter shimmering with a faint, oily violet light that wasn't there. A low, static-filled whisper—the first seed of the paranoia—hissed in his ears, murmuring that Lyra was weak, that the world was beneath his genius.

  "I am the route."

  He ignored Lyra's command. He pulled two flasks from his bandolier. They swirled with unstable, bright energy.

  "Rennick!" Aether roared to their heavy infantryman. "With me! We're breaking through them!"

  "Aether, stop!" Lyra screamed, grabbing his shoulder. "He's at the breaking point! You gave him the Bull's Strength draught an hour ago! If you stack a Berserker brew on top of that... his heart will burst!"

  "Limits are for the uninspired, Lyra!" Aether snapped, shaking her off.

  "It's suicide!"

  "It's glory!" Rennick roared back.

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  He was sweating profusely, his veins already bulging from the first potion. He didn't care. He was addicted to the power Aether gave him. He uncorked the potion Aether held out—an "imperfect" draught of pure, adrenal strength. It was his third vial of the day.

  "Last one to the square is a coward!"

  Rennick drank. He bellowed as his muscles swelled, his skin flushing from red to a violent, bruised purple. He charged, his warhammer a blur.

  Aether was right behind him, hurling flasks of jellied fire. He was laughing, high on the chaos and the fumes of his own concoctions. The screaming of the heretics began to sound like a rhythmic, melodic hum. For a heartbeat, the beast inside him stirred, and the jelly-fire he threw took the form of golden birds that sought the heat, a hallucination of pure, destructive beauty.

  They were magnificent. They were unstoppable.

  For ten seconds.

  Then Rennick, his body supercharged beyond biological limits, suddenly froze. His eyes went wide. The purple flush deepened to black. His mouth opened, and he let out a sound Aether would never forget.

  It was not a warcry. It was a scream.

  It was a single, high-pitched, agonizing shriek as every muscle, every vein, every organ, pushed beyond its breaking point, tore itself apart from the inside.

  He died on his feet, a statue of agony, before collapsing in a broken, steaming heap.

  The heretics, stunned for a moment, surged forward. Lyra and the rest of the squad charged, not to attack, but to save Aether.

  They died for his arrogance. Lyra took a spear in the back, her eyes meeting Aether's with a look of cold, final disappointment.

  Aether survived. He ran.

  He ran through the smoke, clutching his chest, his own heart fluttering in a dangerous, jagged rhythm. His vision blurred, swimming with the nausea of his own near-overdose. The ground beneath his boots felt soft, like he was running over a field of teeth, and a low, static-filled whisper—a precursor to the psychosis—hissed in his ears, mocking the rhythm of his failing breath.

  He had pushed them too far. He had pushed himself too far.

  He threw his offensive reagents into the mud. He had learned, in the most brutal way possible, that alchemy wasn't magic. It was a debt.

  And he had just paid the price.

  He learned what failure truly sounds like.