It couldn''t be?!


    Corda flung her hands up. Her eyes raking over the exposed skin, she searched every crease for the smallest of cuts.


    There it was.


    Left hand. Second finger. A thin slice, no wider than a thread, beading red.


    The pencil''s revenge.


    Corda''s eyes swept up from the catalyst to where the mist had coiled under the cabinet, confining itself to the spots where the sunlight kissed the room.


    All it needed was a drop of blood.


    No known alchemical formula should have reacted like this.


    No theory, no experiment, no logical conclusion.


    This wasn’t alchemy.


    This was something else.


    This was some kind of botched blood ritual.


    The mist curled up. Turned her way.


    Corda edge back. Her shoulder pressed into Seraphina''s, but the contact barely registered. Did nothing to slow the racing of her heart.


    As if, too, finding what it desired, it twitched towards the injured finger. Like it had had a taste and wanted more.


    "Oh... seriously?!" Corda whined. She rubbed aggressively over the slice in the crook of her finger, smearing the small beads of red into her skin as she tried to wipe it away. The Gods seemed really out to test her.


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    Oxidized Azulite + Sunsap + Vansulium/Theral + Iron = ???


    She had no idea. Whatever it was, it was hungry, and she had no intention of being its meal. If it was blood that got them into this mess, removing blood could get them out of it. The question was... how?


    The mist curled. Twitched. And then—


    For the barest moment, it shifted, coiling into something too structured, too deliberate.


    Almost like... Fingers?


    A hand. Reaching.


    Seraphina sucked in a breath, her jaw slack with horror.


    Corda’s stomach turned to ice.


    She clutched her hand to her chest, eyes darting frantically for something—anything—to cover the wound. Seraphina’s handkerchief? No time to fight for it.


    Unless…


    Corda didn’t hesitate.


    She sucked the blood off her thumb, then shoved her wounded finger into her mouth.


    Seraphina visibly flinched like Corda had just committed a crime against nature.


    The mist twitched—hesitated—as if confused, thrown off the scent.


    And then, slowly… turned away.


    Corda’s shoulders sagged.


    It had worked.


    Seraphina’s voice, thick with disgust: "We might die, and you’re still disgusting. Do you even know where your hands have been?!"


    Corda shot her a withering look. “Oh, forgive me, Seraphina. Next time I’ll make sure my survival methods align with your delicate sensibilities.”


    “I’m not delicate. I’m just not an absolute barbarian like you. You have the cleanliness of a swamp ra—"


    The workshop door inched open.


    Seraphina fell silent.


    Both sets of eyes locked on the door, and the weak creak that came with it.


    The opening was not rushed. Not forced by the wind.


    No. It was like something had been watching. Waiting.


    And now, it wanted in.


    Both bodies braced as if whatever was about to walk in could possibly be worse than the sharp twisting dark purple substance that had threatened to devour them only moments ago.


    Cool air swept into the room.


    The mist not only recoiled—it silently screamed. Writhing violently, it withdrew like a spider, darting back into the light.


    Only the dark hallway present to their view.


    Goosebumps dotted up Corda''s arms.


    Her pulse hammered against her ribs.


    Her breath trapped in her throat.


    Bells went off in her mind—every part of her called to its battle stations as she stared into the shadows.


    Why did she get the feeling that things were about to get immeasurably worse?