"The materials... barely enough."
Sather muttered to himself.
He sat cross-legged on the carpet by the fireplace, where Viola had returned to resume her role as apprentice-observer. Jeanne, meanwhile, was on the other side of the bedroom, flipping through the witch's diary and occasionally shooting glances their way.
Sather didn't bother correcting her that the book was upside down—though Jeanne wasn't illiterate, the journal was written in a rural dialect from some obscure village on the continent of Bernachis, and it might as well have been runes.
The black sorcerer, now dressed in more comfortable loungewear found in the house, was propping his chin with one hand while focusing intently on a long-necked flask. It floated just above his palm, with a blue flame flickering underneath—drawn directly from his own magic.
Inside the flask was no simple water, but a mixture of pitch-black undead matter, streaked with veins of dark violet liquid. The submerged spirits wailed faintly as the heat rose. The liquid was Talles Oil—translucent like amethyst—brewed by combining soul-processed remnants from low-tier species into a magic reagent.
Beautiful to the eye, haunting to the ear, but a common alchemical base—just a catalyst.
The firelight glimmered through the flask, casting fractured purple shadows across Viola's face. Though the flask teemed with writhing skeletal figures—tiny humanoid shapes clawing madly at each other before dissolving—she showed no fear. She simply stared, head slightly tilted, sometimes twirling her damp hair around a fingertip. She didn't dare interrupt with questions.
"I still need a bit of source-less flame..."
Sather scanned the room, then let his gaze settle on the ever-burning hearth.
"That might work."
He gestured to Viola to take the flask from him.
Before handing it over, he cast a minor insulation spell—not enough to block violent heat, but sufficient for this kind of lab work.
Viola, in her simple white dress and braids damp from the bath, received the flask carefully with both hands. Her slim arms, pale and delicate, looked thinner than the flask itself. Under the fire's glow, she peered at the contents—glimmering lashes fluttering, her gaze tracing the slow drift of those howling, skeletal spirits.
Suddenly, a face—pale, grim, with blank white eyes—surfaced inside the glass and pressed itself against the inner wall, staring directly at her.
Viola blinked... and quietly stared back.
From the side, Jeanne narrowed her eyes. She wasn't sure how to react to this scene.
"Viola, pass me the—"
"Ahh!"
Startled, Viola almost dropped the flask. She fumbled, hugging it tightly to her chest, and toppled head-first—right into Sather's ribs.
"So I'm scarier than the spirits in the bottle, huh?" he said flatly, glancing at her.
"I... I guess... maybe... just a little." Viola's head lowered, her voice barely audible, like a guilty flower caught in the wind.
Lying wouldn't be her strong suit anytime soon.
Sather noticed Jeanne was struggling not to laugh.
—
Jeanne had taken Viola out for a quick wash and a bite to eat. She'd also helped herself to a bottle of Marivashian red wine from the cellar, and now radiated the mellow fragrance of freshly bathed skin, steam, and a hint of alcohol.
The undead dancers at the feast had stopped moving—her earlier declaration to burn them all was postponed, mostly because Viola's father was among them.
Now, two figures—one tall, one short—entered the room, trailing freshness and the faint, indulgent scent of red wine behind them. Jeanne's habit of drinking around kids was... less than refined.
Viola resumed her place at the fireplace, dutifully watching the black sorcerer.
Her hair was still damp—clearly, she'd bathed with Jeanne.
Jeanne herself was wearing a man's formal suit made of black velvet and white-trimmed satin. The tight sleeves were lined with soft gray ribbon and featured stylish slits that revealed crisp white underlayers. Though the outfit didn't quite fit her height, Jeanne's well-proportioned figure filled it out so naturally that it barely wrinkled.
Her hair hung damp and loose, her cheeks lightly flushed—clearly, she enjoyed her wine.
She walked up behind Sather and leaned over him, elbows resting obnoxiously on his head, half her weight pressing down. "You've taken long enough to stock a merchant ship bound for another continent. Is your cursed experiment still not done?"
If not for the wine-sweet breath on her lips and the catlike gleam in her eyes, the complaint might've sounded more convincing.
"Could you go outside and do your drunken rants elsewhere? I'm busy. If you ruin my experiment, I'll set that outfit of yours on fire."
Sather reached into the fire with one hand—like he was deliberately burning himself—while shaking the flask with the other.
"Listen here, black sorcerer," Jeanne ignored his threats. "You had me chopping down piles of disgusting creatures the moment that little girl woke up—and they were all summoned by you. Ghouls, bat-faced men with tentacles, horse-faced four-armed nightmare birds... all your usual gross menagerie. I am officially done. Your pay isn't increasing, and I'm deducting your vacation time."
"Oh, you people get vacations? I thought inquisitors were like ghouls—restless by nature."
Muttering back, he cast a spell on the fire. His pupils narrowed, vertical like a demon's. The contents of the flask had turned into a murky swirl of purple and black, and the source-less flame from the fireplace was now streaming into the flask like smoke drawn into a vortex.
"Black sorcerer, listen carefully—if we're going to be working together... Gods, I'm already regretting it. Just remember: I give the orders. Not the other way around."
"Please. You don't look the least bit unfortunate." Sather sighed. "You're here drinking, bathing, trying on new clothes. We're in a death trap of a maze and I'm over here mutating my body to open another portal—and you're the one taking a spa day. I was never this relaxed even during my fugitive years. Honestly, this looks like a vacation for you."
"A vacation? I'm standing here watching a black sorcerer do evil experiments. My conscience is suffering."
"Conscience? Where was that when you were purging souls with my sword back there? Out on a picnic in the Light Maze? I'm just recycling a few mentally unstable spirits as materials."
"I'm not talking about that kind of conscience, black sorcerer." Jeanne scoffed. "Your sins need to be soaked off in holy water deep enough to peel your skin."
"Did you peel any skin off when you were out bathing just now?" Sather mocked. "You took long enough to stock two ships to another continent. Feeling absolved yet? Like drinking wine with a kid, for instance? That probably takes two layers of skin to wash away."
"I've never heard of that being a sin."
"Oh, you're blameless in everything! Truly, you're my shining sun! I love you so much—it's all my fault! Believe me, every time I cast a vile spell, I weep and pray to your god, like Saint Thomas Aquinas chanting psalms at vespers. They say I'm a black sorcerer, a soul sold to the dark gods—but let the divine witness this: I do it all for you."
After theatrically delivering his over-the-top speech, Sather added in a completely flat tone:
"All right, are you satisfied now?"
Jeanne glanced down at him, expression unreadable.
"Barely," she replied.
"…Your skin is thicker than I thought." Or maybe she'd just had too much wine?
"It's only natural for a superior to accept the praise of their subordinates. What else did you expect?" Jeanne switched elbows on his head—perhaps the first one was getting sore—and then, licking her wine-sweetened lips, continued, "Anyway, tell me what you're actually doing. What's this potion for?"
"To drink," Sather said immediately.
Jeanne's expression darkened. "What did you say? Repeat that. I dare you."
Sather kept his eyes fixed on the potion, now tinged a fiery red, and realized that his casual lie might not cut it. He muttered again:
"Preliminary bodily mutation."
"So... it'll let you strut around this place like that demon Viola remembered—the one that walked sideways across the walls?"
"No."
"…Useless."
Sather's brow twitched.
"Are you asking too much, wine witch? Even that demon disappeared mysteriously in the streets, didn't it? If I could regain my full power just by drinking this potion right after reincarnating, don't you think I'd have used my rebirth spell long ago?"
"Oh? So you're not even sure this will work." Jeanne's voice dripped with mockery. "That explains why you collapsed after opening the last maze gate."
"And you've got the nerve to bring that up!? A normal person would've picked me up and run. You dragged me like a corpse!"
"Was I supposed to carry you gently in my arms? That's news to me," Jeanne shrugged. "First time I've heard of such a thing."
"You really should've said that when you were riding me like a free mount."
"You've got the gall to bring that up?!" Jeanne snapped, face darkening. "You pulled me down and dragged me into the sea!"
Sather just clicked his tongue and said nothing—because time was up.
He lifted the flask, now fully crimson, and downed it in one gulp.
Then he began chanting—low, hoarse, and grim. Flames curled from his pale lips. Threads of fire spread silently through the air in front of him, without heat. The fireplace crackled and shifted; voices—whispers—rose within the flames and twisted in harmony with his chanting. The sounds scraped the air like insects gnawing at wood and walls.
Jeanne fell silent, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the fire. She couldn't make out the words he was chanting—but one word stood out to her, repeated again and again.
—Volvardos.