《Trial of the Alchemist》 Day One of the Trial I THE TRIAL The courtroom feels like a church as Aurora¡¯s good citizens file into the cavernous chamber, fixing their expressions, trying to look more sober than sober¡ªparticularly the ones who are not. If you had asked the man whose untimely death brings them here this morning, he would have said that people make a place more than the place itself, especially in Aurora. They fill the pews at the front first, legs together, backs stiffened, as if the courtroom itself were watching, appraising, as if moral purity were a matter of good posture. It is, of course, a matter of where you are sitting, or more precisely where you are not. For in the church of law, there is only one sinner: the man on trial. More than the clean clothes they wear or the smirks they subdue, that which separates every eager observer from sin today is a three-foot banister of stained oak. It circles a single empty chair. But he has not entered the room yet, the sinner. Not until its saintly spectators have settled in for the show. Most have taken their seats now, but many more are caught cross-armed in the autumn cold, peering in as heavy doors are closed before them by an apologetic man in a blue uniform. Justice is open, but a room is only so big. And then a different, smaller door opens from the opposite wall. The first to walk through is a woman. She is older if not yet old, today dressed in a black blazer and heels that echo through the room as she takes her place in it, a seat beside the oak banister. She is not used to this, a veritable crowd, the out-of-place faces she recognizes over the rim of her gold-framed glasses. This is a defining characteristic of Alchemist Freya according to her friends and colleagues: her tendency to look over, rather than through, her glasses. But the detail that draws the attention of today¡¯s audience is Alchemist Freya¡¯s black leather satchel. She unbuttons the well-worn bag and begins removing the delicate tools of her trade. The second person to walk through the small door at the back of the room is a squat man in a green waistcoat, the silver chain of his pocket watch flashing reflections of morning light as he saunters through a speckled sunbeam. His permanently flushed face is a familiar one for most Aurorans in attendance. The Honorable Henrick Hector, Indemere¡¯s one and only supreme judge, not only frequents the front pages of the Aurora Tribune but also the city¡¯s many social gatherings, from formal affairs to song nights at The Moonlight Inn. It is even said that Judge Hector never misses a birthday party. The judge does not take his usual elevated seat but instead paces between the audience and Alchemist Freya, his arms bouncing behind him in the manner of a philosopher. And then, at last, it is time for him to enter. The man they have all come to see. The accused. The sinner. Conversations fade to whispers, whispers to quiet anticipation. A woman coughs. A man clears his throat. But everyone is watching the small door at the back of the room. This is how Alchemist Ortez finally enters the scene: under an awkward shroud of silence. Accompanied only by the sound of his shoe¡¯s creaking sole, the disgraced alchemist is led to what an embezzling poet once coined the loneliest chair in Aurora, for it too is a prisoner within its circular oak cage. A boy-faced guard opens the gate for him, carefully refusing eye contact with a sea of identical stares, all of them somber or furious or a contortion of both. There is one exception. Alchemist Ortez appears considerably less worried than he ought to be, which many in the crowd chalk up to the man¡¯s unbridled arrogance. After all, the arrogance of a murderer knows no bounds. Not to mention an alchemist. It may also have something to do with his personality. Nor does it help that, despite having spent a week in prison, the handsome alchemist looks no worse for it. His silky black hair is tied in a neat ponytail, a single fallen lock framing the right side of his bearded face¡ªthe one indicator of his time behind bars. His gray suit fits him perfectly, too perfectly, for it seems that suits were made for Alchemist Ortez, only to be stretched and hemmed into the unsightly forms of mortal men. One is allowed to change before appearing in court. But more than any suit, it is the alchemist¡¯s olive skin that stands out among the pale faces of Aurora, now as it did the moment he arrived here, reminding them, if nothing else, that he is an outsider. The jeers begin like the pattering before a storm. Louder and louder they grow as people join in, fighting over one another to be heard, until their cries, their unintelligible insults, reach a deep, disorganized crescendo. The facade of proper etiquette has crumbled in mere minutes. Evil stands before them now, and there is no amount of noise they can make that is loud enough, no accusation untoward enough, for they know their anger is justified, it is pure, it is right. ¡°We¡¯re going to hang you, you fucking cockroach!¡± It is at this point that Judge Hector steps forward, showing them his sinking hands. But the expression on his face¡ªthe judge is a master of expressions¡ªtells them what they need to hear. He understands their frustration. ¡°Please, everyone,¡± he says, ¡°take your seats, take your seats.¡± He looks back toward Alchemist Ortez to communicate that this instruction also applies to him. The accused sits as the audience simmers. ¡°We are here today to determine the guilt, or innocence, of the individual sitting behind me, Alchemist Ortez.¡± Judge Hector takes a single step sideways so that they might have a good stare at the alchemist in question. ¡°He is accused of murdering by poison one Everett Day, a man well known to every person in this room and, indeed, beyond its doors.¡± The judge pauses just so. ¡°A man who was, and will always be, Aurora¡¯s finest entrepreneur, its greatest mind, its most generous philanthropist.¡± By now his face has turned full tomato, the result of speaking each syllable more passionately than the last, but then he stops again, waiting until they go quiet, waiting for words that must be whispered in the way of all painful truths. ¡°A man who was Aurora¡¯s heart.¡± The shared sadness that follows is worse than their rage, and it is clear that Judge Hector is conducting an orchestra. ¡°This,¡± he says, ¡°is what this man, this alchemist, is accused of.¡± Now they are louder and angrier than seemed possible before, so blinded by their indignation over such injustice that no one notices the rolling eyes of Alchemist Ortez. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. As for Judge Hector, he is also a master of mixed signals: a splayed hand that says stop, a bobbing nod preaching amen. ¡°Please. I understand, but please.¡± ¡°He bloody well did it!¡± a voice cries out. ¡°We all know he did!¡± ¡°Be that as it may,¡± the judge says, ¡°justice is not a verdict. It is a process. Which brings us to Alchemist Freya, the finest alchemist I have ever known.¡± Alchemist Ortez takes no offense. ¡°She will walk us through that process,¡± Judge Hector explains. ¡°For those in attendance who have not witnessed an alchemical trial before, I must warn you now that it is a time-consuming endeavor. But in cases such as these, in which we have no witness save for the man on trial, it is the only definitive way to prove one¡¯s guilt or innocence.¡± ¡°But he¡¯s an alchemist!¡± the voice protests. ¡°That he is.¡± Judge Hector turns to his colleague. ¡°Alchemist Freya, would you mind explaining to us how exactly an alchemical trial works and why even an alchemist such as the accused could not possibly influence its outcome?¡± Alchemist Freya shifts in her seat. ¡°Certainly.¡± She clears her throat and looks down at the items resting on the timeworn table beside her: three glass vials, each filled with a different colored liquid, a neatly coiled metallic wire, two head-sized copper rings. ¡°This first vial here is vetramin diotide, a mnemonic stimulant that enhances memory visualization in subjects,¡± she says. ¡°This is a level-three variation of vetramin diotide, stronger than the standard level-two elixir, given the subject¡¯s alchemical background and presumably higher tolerance. A level-four¡ª" ¡°Alchemist Freya.¡± Judge Hector puts on a smile as he swings back toward the crowd. ¡°In language we can all understand, please.¡± A few of them laugh, and she is reminded that this is her least favorite part of the job. But it is not usually this bad. There is not usually such an audience. She tries again, speaking slowly. ¡°Alchemist Ortez is going to recall the last month of his life for us, and it will be my job to ensure he does not hide or otherwise obscure important memories.¡± She points to the vetramin diotide first. ¡°The red elixir will help him remember more clearly, the blue elixir will open up his mind, and the clear one is for me.¡± ¡°Why not just give him a truth elixir?¡± someone asks. And while Alchemist Freya carefully considers her answer, Alchemist Ortez, who some might call occasionally careless, speaks his first words. ¡°Because a friend could have slipped me one of many counter-elixirs, I could omit information, or the honorable judge might simply ask the wrong questions,¡± he says. ¡°Then there is the fact that truth elixirs are inadmissible in court for the aforementioned reasons. One could also reasonably assume that a trained legal alchemist with Alchemist Freya¡¯s experience would have thought of that.¡± ¡°Alchemist Ortez.¡± Judge Hector spins on his heel and almost falls. ¡°You will speak when you are given the floor and not a second sooner.¡± ¡°Understood.¡± ¡°I said quiet.¡± The judge removes a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs the droplets beading his bald head. The trial has yet to begin, and already he has broken a sweat, which, as his friends and colleagues and many who have simply met the man can tell you, is a defining characteristic of the Honorable Henrick Hector. He will be soaked through by day¡¯s end. ¡°Alchemist Freya, please continue.¡± ¡°Mnemonic methods are standard in all alchemical trials,¡± she says. ¡°Put simply, memories are closer to the truth than words. Words are an interpretation of memory, itself an interpretation of reality. While Alchemist Ortez revisits the events of the last month, I will see what he sees and ensure he speaks truthfully. Rather, as truthfully as he is able.¡± The crowd stays silent in the wake of this explanation, half of them because they are satisfied with the alchemist¡¯s answer, the rest because they have grown even more confused. ¡°Thank you, Alchemist Freya.¡± Judge Hector drags a wooden chair from one side of the room and takes a seat. It will be a long day. He rotates his chair to face the accused. ¡°All right, Alchemist Ortez. If you have prepared a preamble you wish to share before Alchemist Freya administers her elixirs, speak now.¡± A moment of silence follows. As much as his audience loathes him, the man on trial knows he has their undivided attention. Alchemist Ortez reads the pews like lines in a book, scanning for familiar faces, though none are the ones he hopes to find. His friends. They have their reasons, he knows. ¡°What could I possibly say, your honor? Everyone in this room already believes me to be guilty. Only the truth might set me free.¡± The judge leans back and checks his pocket watch. ¡°Suit yourself.¡± He motions for Alchemist Freya to begin. The legal alchemist takes a deep breath, closing her eyes until she can picture herself alone in her study, alone with her elixirs and her subject. Making only methodical movements, she gets to work. The first step is creating a connection. Alchemist Freya uncoils her metallic wire, a mnemonic conductor used to transmit memories and dreams, as she walks over to the accused. She attaches the wire to a thin copper halo she places on his head, gently pushing the ring down until it rests at his ears. The second step is administering the elixirs. She gives him the red one first, the level-three vetramin diotide. Next, she hands him the blue elixir, a common cerebral conducting aid. Alchemist Ortez swallows both without hesitation. The third step is hers. Alchemist Freya drinks the clear elixir before connecting the free end of the mnemonic conductor to her own copper halo. She can immediately feel their connection forming. But the feeling for Alchemist Ortez is stronger, intense, painful. It is the feeling of remembering too much at once, which is not unlike the feeling of eating too much at once. Even a savored memory hurts when you have no space for it. But the brain adapts and makes room. The adjustment period¡ªa minute of throbbing agony that feels far longer¡ªis quicker for Alchemist Ortez than it is for most. A few audience members relish the glimpses of pain they catch in his eyes, but he gives them nothing more. The final step is confirmation. ¡°Alchemist Ortez,¡± she says, ¡°I would like you to think about what you did last night, in as much detail as you can, please.¡± ¡°It was a most eventful evening in my prison cell.¡± The accused closes his eyes, cherishing the memory. Alchemist Freya sees what he sees: the perspective of a man sitting on a small, discolored bed in a claustrophobic stone room. He stares at a tin cup on the floor, which she knows to be empty. She can feel his thirst. He inspects a pebble mined from the crack by his bed. He looks at the cup. He looks back at his pebble. Pinching the pebble between his thumb and index finger, he aims carefully, readying the perfect throw, practicing the back-and-forth motion with his entire arm, until finally¡ªthe pebble ticks the cup lip and bounces beyond the bars of his cell. Alchemist Freya matches eyes with Judge Hector. They are ready. ¡°Very well.¡± The judge dabs his forehead again. ¡°Alchemist Ortez, you have been accused of murdering Everett Day, a crime to which you have pleaded not guilty. Do you, this morning, maintain your innocence?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°It has also been determined, for the purposes of this trial, that you will begin your recollection approximately one month before your arrest. That is, the day you first received correspondence from the victim. You may begin your story there.¡± The room grows quieter than a prayer. ¡°Thank you, your honor. Thank you, Alchemist Freya.¡± Alchemist Ortez collects his courage like one wrangles marbles from a tilted table, for even the simple telling of this tale is no trifling task. He trades glances with those who would see him dead. ¡°First, I would like to say that I understand,¡± he begins. ¡°I understand your frustration. Your city is in chaos, and you wish to hear the truth you think you know admitted aloud. You have a question. You want an unambiguous answer. But there are many questions, as there are many answers, and as you will soon discover, I possess only some of them.¡± He lets the tension boil, and it is quickly evident that Judge Hector is not the only man who knows how to play a crowd. ¡°If you came here thinking the truth was a narrow path with a known destination, I must warn you now that you are quite mistaken.¡± Alchemist Ortez sits up a little straighter, his gaze a little sharper. ¡°For I am an alchemist, and the truth is my profession. If there is one thing I know, it is that the truth¡±¡ªmemories flash before him like pages thumbed in a book¡ª¡°the truth, my friends, is an unending maze.¡± Chapter One: Distances Unseen Chapter One DISTANCES UNSEEN Where shall I begin? Memories are a peculiar thing, after all, a lesson one quickly acquires as an alchemist. Ask yourself what you were doing five months ago, five days ago, or better yet five hours ago. Go on. Take a minute. Recall reality. Alas, memories are not the transcripts of our past we imagine them to be. Most life is lived in the in-between, in those long, forgotten stretches walking to work or tossing and turning in bed. So, you ask, what are memories? Many an alchemist has written many a thesis on the matter, but I believe the question can be answered with but a single, simple maxim. Memories are the moments that make us who we are. I cannot tell you everything that happened to me that afternoon the letter from Mr. Day arrived. That is where we begin our tale, yes? The day I first received correspondence from the victim? You have a very dignified nod, your honor. As I was saying, I cannot tell you everything that happened that afternoon, but I do remember my last appointment of the day, an appointment with a man who, for reasons of confidentiality, I will call Walton Dupree. Walton arrived at my office five minutes late, looking lost. This is how many of my clients first appear. Lost because they want an excuse to turn around and leave before we have begun. Lost because they are afraid of being found. Lost because my upstairs office is quite difficult to find and often confused with that of the attorney across the hall. In Walton¡¯s case, I suspected it was all of the above. I recall his nervous introduction: ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a psycho-alchemist before.¡± He stopped just inside my door, gripping the rim of his bowler hat with both hands. ¡°My wife thinks it¡¯s unnatural,¡± he said, ¡°the things you do here.¡± I stood up from behind my desk, made my way toward him, and agreed with his wife. ¡°It is unnatural,¡± I replied. ¡°So are the clothes on your body, the walls of this room, your glasses. Tell me, what¡¯s wrong with the unnatural?¡± He did not have an answer¡ªonly an uneasy smile. ¡°Come, take a seat.¡± I gestured toward my couch, a velvet chesterfield of deep burgundy, seating myself on a worn leather armchair. I should tell you my office in Dellmere is richer than I am, as are most of my clients. Even Walton was a man of means, though he did not wear his wealth. He sat down across from me, but I cannot say he made himself comfortable. Walton¡¯s continued discomfort was as plain as the heavy bags under his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m just not sure I should be here, Mr. Ortez¡ªsorry, Alchemist Ortez.¡± ¡°Just Ortez is fine,¡± I assured him. ¡°You made the appointment, Mr. Dupree. Why don¡¯t you tell me what¡¯s ailing you, and I¡¯ll tell you whether you should be here. Not that you should ever regret seeking help. All of us need a little assistance from time to time.¡± Walton held out for a few more seconds, but while his answers were stuttered with uncertainty, I could tell his body wished to stay. ¡°I¡¯ve been having this nightmare,¡± he said finally, ¡°over and over again, going on a month now, the same damn nightmare. I get them now and then, nightmares, but not like this.¡± ¡°Nightmares are a symptom,¡± I said. ¡°To end a nightmare, one must remedy the underlying cause. Do you know what that might be?¡± He looked me square in the eyes, letting me read him not as an alchemist but as a fellow human being. ¡°I haven¡¯t the faintest clue.¡± I rose with the certainty he lacked, walked over to the tall mahogany cupboard against the wall, and opened wide its opulent double doors. How shall I describe the inside of my cupboard? In a word, full. Every shelf is packed to the edge with glass bottles, row after row of them in every color, organized and labeled, by category, by function, by level. I fetched a red one from the top right shelf. ¡°I believe I can help you better understand this problem of yours, Mr. Dupree, if you would allow me to try.¡± I held up the elixir. ¡°This is an oneiric stimulant. It will put you in a lucid dream state, allowing you to revisit your nightmare, only this time you will be in control, and I will be there with you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re going to experience my nightmare with me?¡± he asked. ¡°That¡¯s exactly right.¡± I retrieved two more elixirs and a mnemonic conductor from the bottom shelf. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve committed a grave crime, whatever I see stays between us. Confidentiality is a promise to which I am bound, both professionally and ethically.¡± The reason we are calling him Walton Dupree. ¡°What do you say?¡± Walton considered my offer carefully, staring over my shoulder at the rainbow of potions, and yet it was not indecision I read on his face. Simply, some choices must be made slowly in the way a rare elixir must be carried delicately. The second hand on my brass clock had completed two full cycles by the time Walton mustered a quiet but assured ¡°Okay.¡± I poured two precisely portioned vials, handing them to him one at a time. ¡°Drink the red one first, then the blue. Your head might hurt a little, but the feeling shouldn¡¯t last more than a minute. Trust me, there are far more painful elixirs in that cupboard.¡± Walton did not feign resistance again. He swallowed his elixirs like everyday medication, like a man who was done with pretenses and ready for answers. I swallowed my own and uncoiled the mnemonic conductor. Once we were connected, I told him to lie down and close his eyes. ¡°I want you to listen closely to me, Mr. Dupree.¡± I spoke slowly, softly, letting him absorb every consonant, every vowel, each inflection. ¡°Listen to the texture of my voice, the cadence of it, the small details. Now, I want you to imagine yourself on an island.¡± It was my turn to close my eyes. I searched for Walton as if stumbling for a lamp in the dark, for no two rooms are ever quite identical. I found him more easily than most, waiting, open to me. Thoughts and places and people blurred Walton¡¯s vision like rushing water before bursting into sudden clarity. Now he was standing barefoot on a deserted island, toes curling in the sand, his loose-fitting black suit flapping in the breeze. ¡°I want you to imagine trees,¡± I said. A bundle of palm trees popped into his field of vision. ¡°Look at the water. Watch it lapping the shore.¡± Walton observed the soft, foamy waves that never quite reached his feet. ¡°You see other islands in the distance not unlike yours.¡± And where once there had been only the turquoise ocean stretching into the horizon, now there appeared a scattering of similar islands. Walton squinted, trying to determine if anyone else was out there, on one of those islands, or if he was all alone. ¡°Hello, Walton. May I call you Walton?¡± He whirled around, kicking up hot sand, and saw me. ¡°Ortez.¡± He looked surprised. ¡°Am I asleep?¡± ¡°You are in a lucid dream state.¡± ¡°Right. I didn¡¯t realize you would actually be here in person. I thought you meant more, I don¡¯t know, in spirit.¡± ¡°Both, my friend.¡± I patted his back. ¡°Come, let us find your nightmare.¡± ¡°I sailed to an island like this once,¡± he said, ¡°in the waters near Bel Mados. I work in the shipping business, don¡¯t know if I mentioned that. But this¡ªthis isn¡¯t my nightmare.¡± ¡°This is simply where we enter, a lobby to your mind, a foyer for your dreams.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t we head a little deeper into the island,¡± I said, ¡°and while we do that, I want you to think about your nightmare like you would a destination, like a place we might visit.¡± I took the lead as we walked into the oasis of palm trees, through the feather-soft ferns that brushed our legs and outstretched elbows. It was a particularly pleasant island that Walton had created. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful here,¡± he said with some relief. ¡°Nightmare thoughts, Walton.¡± He dropped his head, exhaling as if it had been deflated. And before I could compile a more reassuring response, I kicked something solid. I knew immediately it was neither the trunk of a palm tree nor merely an inconvenient rock. The hard object was bigger, unmovable, and buried underground. We brushed off handfuls of sand like frost from a window until we could feel the rough texture of wood scraping our palms. Walton looked at me knowingly, but I knew not what he did, not yet. And then we found the rusted, hand-sized metal ring. It was a hatch. The hatch rumbled, sand bouncing off its surface, revealing more of the hidden door. The look Walton gave me said enough, but still he added, ¡°If it¡¯s all the same to you, I would prefer not to go down there.¡± ¡°Which is precisely why we shall,¡± I said. ¡°Come. And remember, you¡¯re in control this time. You are the king of this domain, Walton, the god of everything you see here.¡± Walton, who already possessed the posture of an eggplant, slumped further still and sighed his lips like an opened drawer. I bent down and gripped the handle. ¡°Help me with this hatch, will you.¡± In truth, the hatch door was impossibly heavy, literally so, for until Walton was ready to move onward, I was powerless, an observer, an advisor. This was his dream, not mine. But we heaved the thick door open together, Walton and I, or at least I acted the part. We looked at each other and then down the dark hole we had revealed, but not all was dark. Soft light beckoned us from beyond our view, past the rickety ladder I tested with a half-weighted step. I went first into the underground passage. The ground below was rocky and uneven, the walls an endless archway of roughly laid brick. Sitting abandoned on the stony surface ahead of us was our answer to the question of light. A single oil lantern pierced the tunnel like an oncoming train. I picked it up as we made our way forward. ¡°Rather cold in here, isn¡¯t it?¡± I held the lantern outward. Walton said nothing as he dutifully kept pace. It grew colder still as we continued down the tunnel with no end in sight. What I thought was white sand blew in through a crack in the wall, until it melted in my hand. Snow. I would tell you it was snowing outside, but outside does not exist in dreams¡ªonly the space of the dreamer. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Walton walked past me as I scooped up a white handful, his breath a quick cloud in the luminous glow of our lantern. The cold unfazed him. He expected it. We were nearing his nightmare, or perhaps we were already in it. With Walton now taking the lead, we reached our destination in no time: another ladder leading up to another hatch. ¡°This is it,¡± he said. I followed him through the hatch door, which he pushed open on his own. We arrived inside an unassuming storage room with an unassuming inventory. Shelves packed with pickled goods, a bag of flour on the floor, a barrel, a crate¡ªbut nothing of nightmares. ¡°Through here.¡± Walton led me to the skinny staircase at the end of the room. We walked up it and out a proper door for a change, entering into a candle-lit hallway. Hardwood planks groaned beneath our steps. An oil painting of a conservatively dressed family hung on the wall that welcomed us: a father, a mother, and their only son, each pale face paler than the last, save for their rosy cheeks, that scarlet smudge of innocence¡ªor perhaps inebriation. ¡°This was my family¡¯s house,¡± Walton said. ¡°The one I grew up in, I should say. It¡¯s not my home anymore.¡± ¡°Fascinating.¡± I took in the details. ¡°Is it?¡± he asked. ¡°Oh, yes.¡± Outside the window at the end of the hall, a blizzard raged against the peace of night. ¡°Tell me about your parents,¡± I said. ¡°My parents?¡± He spoke of them like a forgotten detail. ¡°They were fine. They were fine as parents, at least. Their relationship with each other was another matter. I would say it was unhealthy, but non-existent is more apt. There was certainly no love between them.¡± ¡°Was that difficult for you as a child?¡± ¡°Difficult? Most children had far more difficult lives than the one fate bestowed me. Disappointing, I suppose.¡± Our conversation ended abruptly as a shrill voice rang through the house like a shopkeeper¡¯s bell. ¡°Walton, children, dinner.¡± Her tone was more instructional than invitational, as was the look on Walton¡¯s face: half dread, half exhaustion, the look of someone reliving his nightmare ¡°over and over again.¡± Those had been Walton¡¯s words. His words now: ¡°Let¡¯s just get this part over with.¡± I followed him down the hall and through a darkly trimmed door. The dimly lit room we stepped into could only have existed in a dream, extending into space where hallway should have been. Everything was the color of charcoal: the wiry chandelier hanging from an invisible ceiling, the tall open cabinet, the plates inside it, the not-so-silver silverware the woman arranged neatly on the table, and of course the table itself, the centerpiece of this strange dining room, built long enough to feed a small circus. There were only four charcoal chairs. ¡°You brought a guest?¡± She was a rather round figure, not unlike Walton, but where he bobbled about, she carried herself with discipline, with a discerning frown and a furrowed brow. ¡°Alchemist Ortez, meet my wife, Magda. Magda, meet Alchemist Ortez. He¡¯ll be staying for dinner.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dupree.¡± I extended a hand. Magda looked me up and down much like a cut of meat. ¡°Children.¡± She raised her voice. ¡°Would one of you fetch an extra chair. We have a guest this evening. And Walton, close that window, would you? It¡¯s a bloody icebox in here.¡± Walton was already walking toward the window. A flurry of snow blew inside as he slammed it shut. Behind him, two young girls wearing matching dresses entered the dining room. They were exactly identical, save for the fact that one was holding a chair. ¡°My daughters.¡± Walton took a seat at the head of our absurdly long table. ¡°Twins.¡± ¡°I see that,¡± I said. The girl with the chair found a spot for it near her father, setting it softly onto the rug. I took my seat and thanked her. Magda took hers in the distant chair opposite her husband. I could scarcely make out the details of her face in the weak light. The twins, meanwhile, hopped onto opposing seats halfway between their parents in seemingly choreographed unison, facing one another like mirrors freed of their two-dimensional existence. ¡°Girls, would you serve dinner,¡± Magda said. ¡°Our guest first, please.¡± One daughter lifted the cover off a large serving platter as the other retrieved my plate. I could not make out the food from here, but I could hear Walton¡¯s whispered warning: ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± And as I gave him a confused look, unfolding and draping a charcoal napkin over my lap, small hands returned with dinner, placing a modest portion down before me. I reached for my fork, took a gander, and¡ªit was an ear. A severed, uncooked human ear, in a red sauce, with a sprig of rosemary. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± Walton repeated as his daughters set down two more well-plated ears for their parents, their timing perfectly synchronized. The wind outside howled louder as the old house moaned a tired complaint. The girls began eating their ears first, with their hands, red running down their tiny fingers. Magda used a fork and steak knife, sawing back and forth through rubbery skin. ¡°I usually eat mine too.¡± Walton stared at his dinner. ¡°I¡¯ll admit it¡¯s a lot to digest,¡± I said. He shook his head, more at himself than at me. And then the wind really picked up, battering Walton¡¯s childhood home until the entire house swayed. I could see him clinging to the edge of the table, bracing himself. The window he closed minutes earlier shattered. Candle flames twisted sideways. The snow outside had piled higher than we could see, and now it poured into the dining room, forming glittering white ramps to nowhere. ¡°Walton!¡± This time Magda more than raised her voice. ¡°I told you to close that damn window!¡± Walton turned to me. ¡°This is the part where I panic.¡± The walls continued to creak. Snow continued to pile in. ¡°Walton!¡± He pushed himself up from his seat and motioned for me to follow. Magda glared on as we walked past her. Both daughters still had their heads down, devouring ears. The end of the dining room opened into a spacious foyer with a curved stairwell, a broken vase, and a front door that had literally blown off its hinges. It slid slowly down an expanding hill of snow like an abandoned sled. The house was falling apart. ¡°Right about now is usually when I run up here,¡± Walton explained as I followed him up the stairs into a new hallway lined with closed doors. We walked to the one at the far end and stopped suddenly. Rather, Walton stopped, or perhaps was stopped. He idled as if unable to take another step, unable to turn the knob before him. ¡°Are we going through?¡± I inquired. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can,¡± he said. ¡°The dream has never let me.¡± ¡°That is why you came to an alchemist, Walton.¡± I rested my hand on his shoulder. ¡°We put dreams in their place.¡± Sweat trickled down his temple. Even in the darkness, his eyes glistened through his glasses. ¡°Do you know what¡¯s on the other side?¡± I asked. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± he exhaled. ¡°Truly. Every time I try to open it, just as I twist the knob and catch the first slip of light from the other side, I¡¯m struck with such terror that I wake up. I¡¯ve never seen what¡¯s waiting.¡± ¡°I told you we would find an underlying cause for your nightmares,¡± I said. ¡°That cause is on the other side of this door.¡± ¡°I know, but¡ª¡± ¡°But what?¡± ¡°I¡¯m scared.¡± ¡°Fear is a bully, Mr. Dupree. The more you give in, the more it taunts you. Come, we both know you¡¯re stronger than this door.¡± He wiped his forehead with the back of his trembling wrist. ¡°Okay. Fucking hell. Okay.¡± Walton opened the door. Summer light warmed our chilled noses and icy fingers like a hot bath. Even before Walton closed the door behind us, I could no longer hear the winter storm we left behind, though we were not alone in that golden-hued bedroom. Two boys were bent over something on the sun-faded rug. I knelt to get a better look at them, and yet I already recognized the smaller boy with brown hair. Dreams have a way of telling us things. I examined him closely, Walton as a child. The other boy, blonde and gangly, touched his shoulder and pointed at some tiny, secret detail on the most impressively intricate model ship I had ever seen. The boys could not see us. ¡°Who is he?¡± I stood back up and turned to adult-sized Walton for an answer. Droplets dangled from his eyes, breaking into racing tears. I was not sure he heard my question. What happened next is hard to describe. Like a panic attack, only the feeling was overwhelming remorse and longing and realization, a wave of emotion so strong it obliterated clear thought and returned us to the rushing water. A dam inside Walton had broken, and we were swept up in it, soaring headlong through the blue blur between dream and reality. My old mentor once told me that people are delicate constructs. Tough exteriors, she said, but break them at their foundation and watch them come crashing down. For it is only then that they can build themselves anew. That is the job of alchemists. We do not fix people. We break them. We push them off their highest cliffs, set their childhood homes ablaze, open the doors they had carefully locked. And it is usually in that moment that they wake up, for few elixirs can contain a person when the crack is deep and true. Walton blinked at the ceiling of my office. I sat up straight and removed the copper halo from my head. I gave him a minute as we settled back into reality. ¡°He¡¯s my business partner, Jaymes.¡± Walton evaded my gaze, staring somewhere far beyond the juniper walls of my second-story practice. ¡°We¡¯ve been friends since we were children. Not just friends. We did everything together. We went on adventures, we started a business, and¡­ more than that.¡± He paused, carefully considering what words he could speak next. ¡°I¡¯m a married man, of course, and Magda is a good woman, despite her rough edges. She¡¯s lived a hard life, harder than mine.¡± The tears from Walton¡¯s dream now appeared in reality, running down his cheeks unchecked. I leaned forward. ¡°Sometimes we follow in our parents¡¯ footsteps even when we mean to walk the other way. We¡¯re all products of our upbringing.¡± ¡°It sounds so obvious when you say it aloud.¡± He put the question to me: ¡°Are you a product of your upbringing, Ortez?¡± ¡°In my own way,¡± I said. ¡°Right. You¡¯re an alchemist.¡± Walton lowered his chin. ¡°I remember now. It was something he said a month ago. We were sailing home from a business trip in Briarmont when we saw these whales crashing through the surface¡ªthese magnificent, impossibly massive creatures. One flipped up its tail and for the briefest of moments was completely midair. Jaymes turned to me. I still remember his exact words.¡± Walton spoke as if it were a question I might be able to answer for him: ¡°Why are the most beautiful things always beyond our reach?¡± We talked a while longer as Walton ruminated on choices that were as exhilarating as they were terrifying, but I could not tell you which hallway Mr. Dupree would walk down next, which doors he would open and which he would leave shut. For a moment of realization is just that. The truth offers no further instructions, and neither could I. On his way out one particular door, the one through which he had entered my office, Walton dropped a heavy sack of coins into my hand. I did not count them then, but I would later discover it was twenty stellings, double my fee. ¡°This feels too heavy,¡± I told him. He clasped my hand with both of his, closing my fingers over the coins. ¡°I know I don¡¯t look it, but I am a very wealthy man, Alchemist Ortez. Just take my stupid money.¡± And so, hesitantly, I did. ¡°Thank you, Walton.¡± He followed up with a quick smile, and then Mr. Dupree was gone. I closed the door behind him and walked over to my desk, treasuring in my small way the session that had transpired, for not all truths are as easily glimpsed, and not all glimpses are gratefully welcomed. But now it was time to wrap up for the day. I am a man of many mundane rituals, one of which is to read new mail before heading home. It is letters from patients mostly¡ªfuture patients with inquiries, past ones offering gratitude or, on rare occasions, regret. But I could sense even before opening the sole letter I had received that day that it was neither, that the thin envelope I held up and examined was something else, something unusual. For one, the return address was in Aurora. I pulled open my desk drawer, searching for my silver letter opener, only to find another object rattling inside. An old coin from my summer stint in Tianma, from the adventurous season I spent there seven years earlier. I held the button-sized copper rupa in my palm, letting it take me back for a fleeting second. I found the letter opener buried in a back corner of the drawer. I sliced open the curious letter. Contained within was a single piece of paper and¡ªI had to examine the printed slip closely¡ªa train ticket. I unfolded the paper and noticed immediately the immaculate penmanship. I looked at the logo in the letterhead: a pickaxe inside the circle of a sun, its simple line-drawn rays emanating strength and structure. The Day Company, it said. I read the letter. Dear Alchemist Ortez, My name is Everett Day. You may know me as the chief proprietor of The Day Company. We have a situation that could use the skills of a talented psycho-alchemist, and you come highly recommended to me by a former patient of yours, whose name I shall keep confidential, as it was a delicate matter for her. Our situation is also of a delicate nature, and I can disclose more details upon your arrival in Aurora. Enclosed with this letter is a train ticket, compliments of The Day Company. Your accommodation and living expenses would also be covered for the week that we require your services. As for payment, we would offer ten thousand stellings, half of which will be given to you upon your arrival, the other half when your work here is done. Alchemist Ortez, though I understand the disruptive nature of my request, I would ask that you make your decision hastily, as there is some urgency. Nonetheless, it is a sensitive and challenging matter we are dealing with, and as in all things, we require the best. Yours faithfully, Everett Day It was the first time Mr. Day had communicated with me, and I was taken aback, dare I say flattered. The most famous entrepreneur on the continent had requested my expertise. It was the promise of adventure. It was money, a lot of money. It was the letter every dreamer hopes to receive and never does. It was also a big decision¡ªimportant appointments would need to be rebooked, patients would be upset¡ªand one that I had to make ¡°hastily,¡± according to the chief proprietor. I almost struggled to believe it and yet had no reason not to. The train ticket appeared genuine enough. I left the letter on my desk and turned to the view outside my bay window, to the bustling streets of Dellmere. The summer sun still hovered high above the city¡¯s forest of chimneys as evening approached. I watched them for a while, the people passing one another along the cobblestone road below, ambling between work and home, between their routine destinations. Simply between. A horse pulled a carriage one way as an automobile zipped the other. It was not the first such vehicle I had seen in Dellmere, nor was it the first impressive invention to come out of The Day Company. I had never been to Aurora. And like Walton, I peered into distances unseen, wondering if decisions are ever truly made, or if I was but a number on a clock, existing between a wound-up past and a future into which I could only predictably tick. Wondering if this moment would be one that I remember. Chapter Two: The Daybreak Express Chapter Two THE DAYBREAK EXPRESS Perhaps I should tell you a bit about myself before we continue. I will not belabor a history of Alchemist Ortez, your honor, but let us briefly broach a subject I suspect many of you are already wondering about. I speak of my childhood. Imagine, if you will, a teenager standing in a living room full of strangers. The strangers are his parents, his sister, his friends and neighbors, the people he grew up with, the people who were the true texture of his immigrant neighborhood and the characters of its countless stories. A story in the alley outside. A story in the butcher shop. A story in every narrow brick home and on every face staring at him now. Imagine they had come together to watch him step through that front door with eager anticipation. For many of them, it has been two long years, and he looks different now, more man than boy, but they would never forget his face. Imagine all of this, for the teenager remembers nothing and no one, and he must imagine too. Losing my memory did not sadden me in the sharp, injurious sense. It had been my choice, after all, and I could not mourn what I did not remember. But forgetting is uncomfortable. Ironically, this was truest in moments meant to comfort¡ªa friend¡¯s heartfelt recollection, the inspiring reassurances of a parent¡ªfor it was these cherished memories and wishes that left me hollow when I only wished to be sad. Sadness would have been understandable. Sadness would have been a healing scar. Sadness we could have worked with. But I had only my hollowness, leaving me adrift with nowhere to dock, with nothing to move past, with nothing to forgive. With nothing but nothing. As the Daybreak Express chugged ever westward, a slightly older, more tired alchemist found himself falling in and out of sleep, glimpses of fast-moving farmland blurring into dreams of a rural life he never lived. We had a farm once, I hear, when my family first arrived on this continent. But I am not the teenage boy who might have remembered those days. I am an alchemist. I am a surface wiped clean. * * * I am also someone who does not sleep well in transit. ¡°Excuse me, sir.¡± I heard his voice in the way one weakly perceives background noise, like the mechanical tempo of our train. ¡°Sir, may I sit here?¡± he asked again. I opened my eyes after his second attempt, or maybe it was his third or fourth. He was a young man, which is to say a few years younger than me, with short blonde hair and a long scar over his left cheek. A rolled-up newspaper was tucked tightly under his arm. I took my foot off the fabric bench opposite mine. ¡°Apologies,¡± I said. ¡°Please, sit.¡± ¡°Much appreciated.¡± He smiled a big, memorable smile as he plopped himself down. ¡°Don¡¯t sleep well on trains, I take it?¡± ¡°I will admit, I much prefer my bedroom to a sleeper car,¡± I said. ¡°Not that I ever sleep particularly well, and yet somehow I forgot to pack a sleeping elixir.¡± ¡°A sleeping elixir?¡± He laughed. ¡°What are you, an alchemist?¡± ¡°Guilty as charged.¡± ¡°No shit? Sorry, sir. I have a real mouth on me, as my pa would say.¡± ¡°Swear to your heart¡¯s content, my friend.¡± The young man leaned forward, pressing his fingers into a steeple. ¡°So, you¡¯re an actual alchemist?¡± Wiping sleep from my eyes with one hand, I mimicked a showman¡¯s flourish with the other. ¡°Pinch me if it pleases you, for I am indeed a real alchemist, a potion master, an elixir wizard.¡± ¡°I¡¯m Bien, by the way.¡± His enthusiastic handshake did most of the shaking. ¡°Ortez.¡± ¡°Alchemist Ortez,¡± he said dreamily. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. ¡°Just Ortez is fine.¡± ¡°How long have you been an alchemist, Mr. Ortez?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been a practicing alchemist for seven years,¡± I said, ¡°notwithstanding my formal education.¡± ¡°Did you go to Saint Adena?¡± ¡°It is the only alchemy school on the continent.¡± ¡°I saw the academy a couple months back,¡± he said. ¡°It was beautiful. I¡¯m on a bit of a trip, I guess you could say, trekking across the Tri-States, finding myself, that sort of thing.¡± ¡°And have you found yourself?¡± I asked. ¡°I think I found a few parts in New Shore and lost some others in Valemont.¡± Bien chuckled at something, left it there, and then said, ¡°I¡¯m actually heading home now, so I guess that¡¯s that.¡± ¡°You¡¯re from Indemere, then. Aurora?¡± ¡°Yes, sir. Born and raised in that big, bizarre city. You?¡± ¡°I live and work in Dellmere now,¡± I said, ¡°but my parents came here from Gracia. I hear it¡¯s quite lovely. I myself grew up in Liberty.¡± That is, until the summer I was accepted at the prestigious Saint Adena, much to my poor mother and father¡¯s dismay. ¡°Liberty is something else,¡± Bien replied. ¡°Bursting at the seams, but in a good way. I¡¯ve never seen so many different types of people in one city. Not different different¡ªjust from different places, you know? As if all of civilization had coalesced in a few blocks. Do you go back often to see your folks?¡± My shallow grin was a boat for awkward waters. ¡°Not often, no. I suppose one might say alchemists tend to have a unique relationship with their family.¡± He had to process that comment. I witnessed each step on his expressive face: the pensive scrunching of his forehead, those inquiring eyes expanding with realization, that quick gasp of embarrassment. ¡°My apologies, Alchemist Ortez. I forgot about the whole¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s quite all right, Bien.¡± I stopped him. ¡°It isn¡¯t a sensitive topic. After the first year of school, every aspiring alchemist makes the same choice. If they wish to be a practicing alchemist, they must undergo a long-term memory wipe, erasing everything before their time at Saint Adena.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve never quite understood that part,¡± he admitted. I nodded with practiced empathy, for I had provided this explanation many times. ¡°It¡¯s not easy going into someone¡¯s mind,¡± I said, ¡°into their memories, their dreams. You must share their thoughts as if they were your own, which takes¡­ space. Try it now if you like. Try creating empty space in your mind, space that someone else might occupy.¡± I invited him to give it a go before concluding, ¡°It is difficult. And you must keep it empty¡ªthat is the most important part¡ªfor if your thoughts infiltrate theirs, well, that is why we must have our memories wiped.¡± Bien was visibly engrossed in every detail. ¡°What happens if you say no, if you decide to keep your memories?¡± ¡°Roughly half do,¡± I said. ¡°They go on to become elixologists, crafting and selling elixirs. But only practicing alchemists are permitted to go¡±¡ªI pointed to his head¡ª¡°in there.¡± He looked up with only his eyes, as if he might see his own mind beyond the tip of my finger. ¡°Is it hard,¡± he asked, ¡°letting most of your memories go?¡± ¡°It is a very hard decision to make and a very easy one to live with,¡± I told him. ¡°It¡¯s all very easy once you don¡¯t remember. I suppose that is the intention.¡± Bien shuddered at the prospect. ¡°I don¡¯t think I could do it. Forgetting my whole family. My ma, my pa, my sister, even Aunt Sella. No offense.¡± ¡°None taken.¡± This time it was his awkward grin. I suspected he had more questions but that good manners compelled a ceasefire. I turned toward the window and he toward his newspaper. The once endless-seeming stretch of farmland was behind us now, along with its quaint hamlets and patchy forests, and we had begun our ascent into the cloud-splitting mountains of Indemere. Flatlands fly by, but great mountains move stubbornly. I watched them for a while, inching in the distance, realizing a most obvious thing: that I had never seen mountains like these, mountains so mountainous. I reached into the satchel by my feet and pulled out a small black notebook. There were as many sketches as there were notes on the pages I flipped through. Extracts from my life in Dellmere. Memories from my time in Tianma. The detailed face of a bonobus troglodyte I had drawn many times, his name scribbled below. Hanson. I turned to a fresh page and began outlining mountains. Bien scoffed at something in his newspaper. ¡°What a bastard,¡± he added as commentary, but I did not inquire as to the bastardly deed in question. And then the train felt inexplicably quiet. It was not a silence of absence. Nearly every seat on the carriage was taken. I peered over my notebook at the man with a bowler hat plopped over his face, snoring softly. At the woman in a puffy-shouldered salmon dress, staring longingly out her window. At Bien, whose faded waistcoat could not quite conceal the lived-in wrinkles lining his shirt, reading his newspaper. Despite its immaculate construction and intricate detailing, the Daybreak Express was a train for everyone. While there were nicer sleeper cars for those who paid for it¡ªor, in my case, were given it¡ªthe basic price of admission was accessible. The Day Company, I would later learn, was connecting a continent, and a continent is its people. They were all here, and yet so was this silence, growing, consuming me. Not the lulling rhythm of a man¡¯s soft snores, not the quiet promise of a woman¡¯s distant daydream, not the unspoken words of a newspaper. No, this was a silence between two people. Between me and the man at the end of the aisle, whom I glimpsed only in flashes as our train wound through its mountain pass, as he leaned and turned just so. Three times I had seen his pockmarked face in the last week. Once in the shadowy back corner of The Misty Harbor, a tavern in Dellmere I am known to frequent. Once as I strolled home at the end of a long and foggy evening. He ambled past me through the hazy glow of a gas lamp, rain pattering the shoulders of his baggy jacket. And once but a stone¡¯s throw from my office as I gazed out its second-story window. We made eye contact for a fleeting second, before he vanished behind a rumbling caravan. And now here he was again, barely a blur in the edges of my periphery. It had taken me until now to realize. It had taken me until I could feel it first, that silence, our silence, the silence that exists between a hunter and his prey. But it was clear now, as clear as the uneasy reflection staring back from my window. The pockmarked man was following me. Important Updates THE AFTERWORD First and foremost, thank you for reading Trial of the Alchemist in its entirety! I must also quickly thank my wife for helping with the cover and my friend and agent for selling audio rights. Before you depart, I would like to make a quick request and share an important update regarding what¡¯s next¡ªand why you should keep following this story. How you can support this novel If you do me just one favor, I would ask that you leave an Amazon review on Trial of the Alchemist. I¡¯ve put the Kindle version live precisely for this purpose. I¡¯ll be doing a big promotional push of the book coinciding with its audio release, and having a number of positive reviews on Amazon will be critical to successful advertising campaigns. And if you¡¯ve taken the time to write a review, please consider leaving it on Royal Road and Goodreads as well. As mentioned before, an audio version of Trial of the Alchemist from Podium Audio will be published on April 4. You can support my work by pre-ordering Trial of the Alchemist on Audible (Canadian link) or Kindle. The narrator, Vikas Adam, is absolutely fantastic, and it will be a whole new way to experience the story. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. What¡¯s next (and why you should keep following me) I¡¯ve spent a number of months working on another story intended to be more marketable to audiences on Royal Road and Amazon, based on an idea I¡¯ve had for a while. It¡¯s progression fantasy (but more in the Name of the Wind / The Last Orellen sense), though I think both the setting (a merchant republic in the mountains) and the system are quite novel. Here¡¯s a quick synopsis: Elias Vice, a supposed nobody from the backwater town of Acreton, has already written his destiny, and it ends with him building the greatest business empire Sailor¡¯s Rise has ever known. But to get there, Elias will need to turn a pocketful of relics into a company worth millions. The Rise¡¯s caste-like business and political system stratifies power and access in the dock-ringed merchant republic, and Elias is starting with neither. And yet he isn¡¯t the nobody he first believes, as Elias¡¯s connection to an enigmatic people¡ªairship travelers with a unique mastery over space itself¡ªwill both help and haunt his ambitious endeavor. Elias, it turns out, is a collector. Expect Sailor¡¯s Rise to launch sometime in late spring or early summer. Unlike Trial of the Alchemist, it¡¯s actually being written as a web novel. I will send followers of this story an update as soon as it goes live¡ªso please, keep following! And thank you again for reading my book. I spent a lot of time writing this one, and building an audience¡ªeven at this early stage¡ªhas been a uniquely rewarding experience. Again, if you could take two minutes to quickly leave an Amazon review, it will help make this book a success. Thank you. ?? More Updates Hey everyone, Some big news today: Trial of the Alchemist has officially launched on Audible and Amazon KU. To celebrate this, and to boost sales, I¡¯m putting the book on sale for just 99 cents. If you have an Audible subscription or have yet to start one, you should be able to pick up a copy for free (same goes with KU, of course). Otherwise, I¡¯ve set the price as low as I can for now for anyone who hasn¡¯t finished reading yet¡ªas well as for anyone who enjoyed the book and wants to support me with a cheap sales boost at a crucial time (reviews and ratings also really help). Honestly, I would have kept all of Trial up here indefinitely were it a viable option, as my main goal is to reach as many readers as possible, but alas: we live in an Amazon world and must play by Amazon¡¯s rules. Coming this June: Sailor¡¯s Rise This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. The reason to keep following this stub: I¡¯ll be using it to let readers know when my next web novel launches on Royal Road. Launch window is June. Here''s the synopsis: Elias Vice, a supposed nobody from the backwater town of Acreton, has already written his destiny, and it ends with him building the greatest business empire Sailor¡¯s Rise has ever known. But to get there, Elias will need to turn a pocketful of relics into a company worth millions. The Rise¡¯s caste-like business and political system stratifies power and access in the dock-ringed merchant republic, and Elias is starting with neither. And yet he isn¡¯t the nobody he first believes, as Elias¡¯s connection to an enigmatic people¡ªairship travelers with a unique mastery over space itself¡ªwill both help and haunt his ambitious endeavor. Elias, it turns out, is a collector. Unlike Trial of the Alchemist, Sailor¡¯s Rise is actually being written as a web novel¡ªand will grow to be a lot longer. I will send followers of this story an update as soon as it goes live, so please keep following! See you in a couple of months, Trevor (a.k.a. Dremen) Sailors Rise is here! Hello faithful readers, I bring big news this morning: my new web serial, Sailor''s Rise, is now live on Royal Road! Follow it here. I''ll be releasing new chapters rapidly to start, so buckle in and enjoy the ride. I''ve already put a lot of time and thought into the writing and world of Sailor''s Rise, and I hope it shows. This is going to be a big one, much bigger than Trial of the Alchemist, which, by the way, I entered into SPFBO 9 (wish me luck). I''ll be sure to post future updates related to Trial to this stub. For now, check out the cover and description for Sailor''s Rise below¡ªand give it a follow! The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Elias Vice, a supposed nobody from the backwater town of Acreton, has already written his destiny, and it ends with him building the greatest business empire Sailor¡¯s Rise has ever known. But to get there, Elias will need to turn a pocketful of relics into a company worth millions. The Rise¡¯s caste-like business and political system stratifies power and access in the dock-ringed merchant republic, and Elias is starting with neither. And yet he isn¡¯t the nobody he first believes, as Elias¡¯s connection to an enigmatic people¡ªairship travelers with a unique mastery over space itself¡ªwill both help and haunt his ambitious endeavor. Elias, it turns out, is a collector. What to expect: - Epic worldbuilding, compelling characters, and vivid prose - A unique cultivation-like system where Elias grows more powerful by collecting and consuming relics, the shattered remnants of a bygone age - Business building as Elias cleverly expands his company from nothing, earning relics while climbing the political and social ranks of Sailor¡¯s Rise - Also: airships, pistols, and rapiers One last reminder Hello again precious readers, I''m sending one final reminder to check out Sailor''s Rise, my new web serial, if you''re interested. In case you had been waiting for more chapters to be released, now is an ideal time to hop on over and give it a whirl. There are 24 chapters up now, and I''m about to slow down my posting. Anyway, this will be the last reminder, and any potential future updates here will be related to Trial of the Alchemist. Thanks as always for your time and attention. You''re all heroes in my book. ¡ªDremen Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Trial won some things, plus a new launch on Royal Road Dear beautiful readers, Hello! It is me. I wanted to give you a quick update on Trial of the Alchemist while also promoting a new Royal Road story that went live today. In December, Trial of the Alchemist won 3rd place in the Book Bloggers Novel of the Year Award competition¡ªone of the biggest indie book competitions out there. There were roughly 300 competitors, and as I like to say, bronze is still a medal. It was also a semi-finalist in another competition, SPFBO, the year before that, though I still like to brag on Amazon that it was briefly one of the 20 Best Completed stories on Royal Road. Now, onto more pressing matters: I''ve launched a new story here on Royal Road. Well, it''s a relaunch with edits, but this time I''ve written A LOT in advance. In fact, I have an entire 130,000-word book one done and polished, and it will be uploaded rapidly over the next month and a half. So, for those of you who wait around until there''s enough story to really sink your teeth into, get your fangs out now, my friends, because you will get DAILY updates (I''m talking weekdays and weekends) until the first book is entirely finished. For context, Trial was 110,000 words, so this is even longer! And not only that, I also have not one, not two, but twenty chapters of book two written as well, which I will be posting after the rush of book one. I''ve toiled away in silence these past two years, putting hundreds of hours into this. The story may sound different from Trial of the Alchemist on its surface, but once you dive in, you''ll quickly discover a tale unmistakably woven by the same audacious weaver of words (and a few easter eggs for my Trial fans!). The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. And, hey, if you feel like dropping an early review, a rating, a favorite¡ªeh, you all know how this website works. I won''t beg. I don''t like to beg. But I will plead. You can jump in here. A final plea Hello again, friends. Last post about this, I promise. I''m in that critical period where Two-World Traders is nearing Rising Stars but needs a little push to get there¡ªand ultimately really set sail. If you have not yet followed the new story but intended to at some point¡ªor even if you just want to do me a quick favor¡ªa follow and a few page clicks would really help in this moment. It only takes 30 seconds! On that note, if you were waiting for completely new content before picking up the story again, we are already there! The last few chapters are completely new, and more new ones are coming daily. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. You can hop over here.