In hindsight, using an unstable catalyst wasn’t Corda''s worst decision of the day. No, that honour belonged to not having an escape plan.
Corda sped around the room, flinging windows open as she tried to wipe the haze from her goggles. Thick ribbons of acrid smoke clogged her throat with each attempted inhale as if eager to squeeze the very life from her.
She ran a frantic hand over her chest, patting herself down for any hidden injuries.
A choked exhale escaped. Her shoulders sagged.
No cuts.
No bruises.
No immediate cause of death via stationery.
A win, if she was being honest. At least she wouldn’t have to write home and explain how she’d been impaled by a rogue pencil—another embarrassing story for the family records.
An even more embarrassing way to die.
She wanted to go down in smoke and glory, not have a tombstone that read:
''Here lies Corda, tragically murdered by her own bad decisions.''
She wasn''t an idiot. Really, she wasn''t. A menace? Maybe. But never an idiot.
And for anyone who doubted her, Corda had the certificates to prove it. She kept her intelligence test paper close by for these very moments—when someone dared question her brilliance. 98/100, passed with flying colours, the highest score in her class that year. That was her. The paper marked in bold red ink folded neatly in the front of her satchel, right next to the second test they made her take "just to be sure."
Sure, she''d just flung open both of the large windows and was frantically flapping the deep green smoke out with another student''s prized journal—because what else was she supposed to do? Die with dignity?
She had been sure the mixture wasn''t poisonous... or at least, she didn''t think it was. Her mind rusted to formulate a plan; her skin began to blister, her throat cave in or her eyesight start to fade within the next few moments, then there was a chance she would survive longer jumping from the window than staying in the room.
Chest heaving, Corda spluttered, dragging in frantic gulps of fresh air that cooled the fire in her lungs but did absolutely nothing for the acidic tang searing her tongue. She peered below, estimating the distance of the drop only to meet the scowling face of a passing scholar. She forced a smile—teeth clenched, eyes watering, the very picture of a woman completely in control of her circumstances.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The scholar recoiled, clutching a silk handkerchief like it was a holy relic. He staggered back, tripped over a flowerpot, and bolted like she’d personally threatened his entire bloodline.
''Snob,'' Corda muttered under her breath, wiping her nose with the back of her hand before inspecting the wetness for any blood.
As if he had never mixed an unstable catalyst with a new compound and got a little too big of a fizz.
As if the city wasn''t shoved full with inventors, alchemists, scholars and artisans all making a mess in their own little ways.
Eldranth wasn''t called ''the city of smoke and stars'' for nothing... even if a high percentage of that smoke was arguably caused by Corda.
Sure, this explosion was a little... bigger than she''d expected, but as far as she was concerned, perfection often came accompanied with a BANG.
And possibly a small fire.
And, in this case, just the tiniest bit of structural damage.
Corda glanced back, a tut slipping her lips as she took in her splattered notes and the shards of glass that had skid across the crime scene—some of which still shimmered with residual residue aka evidence of her tampering.
Study in the workshop, Master Threnwald had said. Be focused, he''d said. Don''t touch anything, he''d repeated multiple times like one of those jabbering birds from the forest back home. But what did he expect?
Corda was a ''do-er'', and as the great Master Threnwald also always said, ''theory without practice is just unfounded opinions and there are far too many of those in the world.'' Was a bit hypocritical if anyone asked her, but of course, no one did ask her.
Corda fanned harder, flapping the journal like a flag in a desperate attempt to shoo the evidence out the window. Any moment now, the door would open, Master Threnwald would be back and the Gods only knew how much trouble she would be in. Another strike against her record, and another step further away from graduating—being a proper alchemist like she’d always wanted.
But how could she resist if someone left the cabinet open? If the bottle of rare Azulite had glinted like ice in its jar and that pot of Sunsap had shone like honey in the sunlight, bubbles preserved in the resin-like texture.
She couldn''t resist. That was the problem.
That was why the air still reeked of burned herbs and chemical failure, a scent sharp enough to make her eyes sting. Why the smoke now curled through the open window, ghosting past the scholars outside, slithering into the streets like it had a mind of its own.
Corda huffed with exhaustion, her arms sending an ache through her shoulders as she made a mental note:
<ul>
<li>Azulite: deep blue crystalline substance reacts violently with heat = more volatile than expected.</li>
<li>Sunsap: golden resin-like substance = less volatile than expected</li>
</ul>
In theory, adding more Azulite to the concoction was meant to neutralise the effects of Sunsap. In practice... well, there’s a reason to never trust theories. She would have to make a physical note… maybe not put the two in the same cupboard together.
A sizzle came from the book in Corda’s hands, interrupting her contemplation. The pages fluttered like an offended bird, and then—puff. Flames.
Corda squealed.
The journal hit the ground. The pages alight. Bright red tendrils of fire licked out.
Corda''s boot hit the flames. Her hands braced on the window ledge as she tried to stamp the fire out.
Then came the sound of doom. Fast. Sharp heels. Furious clacking. A death march in miniature. The unmistakable sound of the universe coming to collect its debts.
It could only be one person.
The closest Corda assumed a person would get to a monster incarnate without actually being a monster.
The owner of the journal.
''Ohhh. Oh shittt...''