Finished with her story, Tiffany kicked her legs out from under her, sending her body plummeting down to the couch. Moments before the harsh impact, her body slowed unnaturally, her descent softening until she sank gently into the cushions.

  The sudden motion sent her already befuddled mind spiralling, and for a few moments, she lay still, blinking at the ceiling, just trying to psychologically right herself.

  Then—just as abruptly as the bitter memories of her horrible journey had overtaken her during the story—it vanished. Her attention veered sharply with a sudden remembrance. Her face lit up with excitement as if the past few minutes of ranting had never even happened.

  "Oh! Stark! I almost forgot!" She sprang upright, a grin creeping across her face. "I wanted to wait to show you, but—check this out."

  She eagerly dug into her pouch, fingers rummaging past her assortment of questionable goods until she triumphantly produced a vial. Inside, nestled together like some forbidden alchemical treasure, were the blue prism and the red flint separated by that thin metal divider.

  Her eyes gleamed with anticipation at his response.

  The improbable creation didn't immediately register with Stark in any meaningful way. He squinted at the vial, unimpressed. "What is it?"

  Tiffany huffed, momentarily annoyed—but no matter how many times she had to explain or how often people asked the same stupid question, it always gave her the same giddy pride of accomplishment to answer. "This, my young grasshopper, is an arcane pill."

  The familiar term sparked recognition in Stark's sensibility, and with such a revelation, his face finally lit with the surprise that Tiffany so desired. "You finally made one!?"

  A ripple of astonishment spread through the gathered crowd. Those who hadn't been present for her earlier reveal gawked at the tiny vial as if it held the secrets of the cosmos.

  Tiffany knew most of them had no idea why this pill was such an incredible creation—the actual mechanics, the artistry of its fabrication, were far beyond their dim little minds. Such was the unfortunate company she kept.

  But she had been hyping up this product and her efforts towards making it for so long that surely everyone in this small town understood, at the very least, that it was an impressive feat.

  Stark licked his lips, hunger flashing in his eyes. He had spent weeks at Tiffany's side, and though most of her overcomplicated gibberish sailed clear over his head, he knew one thing for certain—he wanted that pill. "Let me have it."

  Tiffany scoffed at him, dramatically shaking her head. "No way, with your pathetic potential essential flux, you would instantly die. And I cannot have your death wasting a perfectly good pill like that."

  Stark frowned, visibly unimpressed by the unapologetic slander. Tiffany either didn't notice or didn't care—most likely both.

  Moving on, Tiffany turned her palm downward, channelling the residual essence lingering in her body and forcing it out. A viscous droplet of blackened sludge oozed out from her pores. The ebony goo sheared light into a mesmerizing oil-slick rainbow. It condensed into a dewy, crystalline bead before slipping free and splashing onto the floor.

  A second droplet followed. Then another. With a deeper push of effort, the drizzle thickened, and soon, her entire hand was weeping a grotesque rain of shimmering black gunk.

  The crowd instinctively inched away from the growing puddle on the floor. Unlike ordinary liquid, it did not spread outward but instead crept upward, shifting and rising like fine-grained sand—yet it remained unmistakably fluid.

  Tiffany watched the display with an air of smug satisfaction, then clicked her tongue at Stark. "No, no. This special little child is for me."

  As the puddle pooled higher, it became clearer to see that the strange fluid emitted a faint colourless glow. Even Puce, who had been shrinking into the farthest possible corner, found himself leaning forward, torn between instinctive revulsion and a gnawing, fearful curiosity.

  He asked, voice hushed. "What are you doing?"

  Tiffany smiled, turning to Puce. "Oh, welcome back to the club Puce."

  Everyone turned to Puce, finally noticing his noble elegance and rich clothing. The attention made him uncomfortable, and he felt that Tiffany had entirely intended for such. "To answer your question, I am purging my body of any essence and contaminants. A proper arcane pill requires prep."

  Stark blurted out into laughter at her informative answer. "Purging any contaminants? Well everyone, we're going to be here awhile."

  Stark's comment brought with it a round of laughter, but Tiffany could only roll her eyes as she retorted. "Arcanal contaminants, obviously."

  Stark deadpanned in response. "Obviously."

  By the time the crystalline liquid structure had piled up to knee height, Tiffany's body was finally ready. The arcane residue shimmered faintly, shifting with an eerie, self-sustaining motion, but she paid it no mind.

  Just then, Yearn's voice cut through the din. "Hey, everyone! Poetaster's play is about to start!"

  Immediately, the crowd's interest shifted, and they forgot about Tiffany and her pill, snapping their attention to the incredible technology. Murmurs turned to eager chatter as they gathered around the small brown incalescent firebox, its illuminated front pulsing like a heartbeat, the static noise shifting to form a monochromatic image of a stage in Egress's town square.

  Tiffany barely acknowledged them. She uncapped the vial, fingers steady despite the anticipation. She upended the vial, allowing the blue prismatic pill to fall into her palm; the secondary red flint, obstructed by the metal divider, remained inside.

  That small crimson flint stole her attention, its faint glow reflected in wide, unblinking brown eyes. A hollow obsession corrupted her glazed gaze as if the shard had ensnared her very soul. Eyes so deeply enthralled by the flint yet simultaneously not quite present in the room either.

  "Let's go."

  She swallowed.

  An echoing light harvested her muddled sights. A conscientious sway of disordered stimulus rocked along wreathed weavings of wrong wiles.

  It was a dance.

  She was dancing with phantom children, their elongated silhouettes gnawing down on her fortitude's manifest. The darling dance's fevered pace brought her an auspicious levity and a fleeting lightness hollowed her body.

  The songs played by sleeping demons became sonic umbrellas, shielding her mind from the venomous rain which once wormed through her thoughts.

  She felt the dance play, a sparking call flitting about through that odd box which spoke to her unlike any had before. A unique energy, akin to that of the rare warring sky, but tamed in a content placation to unknown masters.

  Her luminant dance partner's face was a recast progression—a play, a waltz of its own. Its attention so demanding that eyes became lovers, depth buried to the heart thumping along.

  A heart snatched.

  Torn from the dance, she fell, encircled by the phantom children—no, not children. They were dolls, for their eyes bore no weight. They carried eggs in their hands and pushed her, tossed her, just as they had her dance partner. Together, they were presented with a new hand, an intruding character of embryonic portraits, demanding the next song.

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  A lie.

  She wanted her former. She wanted the spark to play upon her heart once more.

  A heart, she remembered that. Lost in a cave, pulsing with a lulling red glow. The heart was too big for her; she could not carry it. She wanted it, but the heart hated her; it did not want her. No one wanted her; not even the embryonic portrait, not really.

  The old glow was walking off on light steps to another anatomy no longer illuminating a familial fuel.

  In darkness, she vegetated as a hollow tunnel in hypertension. Her flesh—a cowardly chick desiring escape through wings it did not have—left only ablation of the procession, instead waiting for a comely mother.

  She held dearly to that flesh, begging rest, for her feet had turned to a shadow's root.

  She carried an empty beggar's cup that chained itself on the unloved tongue hidden in huddled warmth within another's garden.

  The rose, a ghost imposter in a sanguine flower bed of lies… or maybe just mistruths. Their running ichor a kinetic heat sealing the holes and branding her with a faux flesh.

  The artificers built from her foundations a puppet—a ghostly doll whose strings, though directed, fell upon a silent stage. Her eyes without weight were set ablaze.

  A cool fire burning in another room awoke her eyes to an unspoken truth. She crouched beneath linens, embraced in proactive regret. The doll, even when purchased, was assailed by hefty witches whose nags did not sound like butter flying eloquently into honourable ears, but like caterpillars waiting on a future cry.

  She died.

  A splitting pain snapped Tiffany's agonized skull to life, forcing her groggy eyes open.

  She found herself in a familiar bed, entangled amongst unfamiliar bodies.

  Surprisingly, Puce had been among them.

  The sight amused her clouded mind, stirring a fleeting curiosity—what absurd sequence of events had led to that? But she had no time to dwell on the mystery. A sudden lurch in her stomach sent a warning gag up her throat, and boarded vomit clawed for release.

  With a groan, she scrambled over the naked masses in search of relief.

  A bucket, placed conveniently beside the bed, became her saviour. Tiffany barely made it before emptying her venomous stomach, granting her liver the smallest, most pitiful reprieve. It was times like these when she was truly grateful that Yearn was such a magnanimous host with the foresight to match.

  A discomforted grunt rumbled from the naked heap, alerting Tiffany to the knee she'd just jammed into someone's ribs.

  "Oh, sorry." Her voice came out raw, barely more than a croak. Every part of her ached—her skull throbbed like it had been split open and put back together wrong, her limbs felt waterlogged, and a rancid nausea coiled deep in her gut.

  Untangling herself from the mass, she rolled off the bed and flopped onto the floor. The cold stone sent a shudder through her, but its stark contrast against her overheated, sweat-slicked skin was almost blissful. For a moment, she considered just staying there, letting the chill siphon the poison from her soul and lull her back to sleep.

  But the lurch of her stomach reminded her she had more pressing concerns.

  With a groan, she forced herself up. She barely spared a glance at her discarded clothes before giving up on the effort entirely. Instead, she grabbed the bucket—clutching it to her chest like a holy relic—and staggered out of the bedroom, feet dragging against the floor.

  Even with her head half-buried in the metal container and her skull feeling like it was being chiselled open, her body carried her forward on pure muscle memory. The halls twisted around her, her vision swimming at the edges, but somehow, she still found her way to the dining room, her steps powered by instinct alone.

  "Well, if it isn't the woman of the hour!" Yearn's chipper whistle grated against Tiffany's raw nerves like sandpaper. She barely managed to lift her head from the bucket long enough to shoot the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed boy a withering scowl.

  She groaned, words slurred and stunted between withheld retches. "How… are you so energetic?"

  Yearn's laugh hit like hail, each syllable stabbing into her skull and churning her brain to liquefied putty. "Though you did make the idea seem tempting, I had to go cold turkey for the party. There was no way I was going to let the incalescent firebox get damaged. My parents may leave me with uncaring abandon, but even their neglect has limits—and letting THAT much money disappear would definitely bring them back."

  He flashed her a teasing grin. "Good thing I did, too. You nearly broke the firebox a couple times."

  Tiffany collapsed into the nearest dining chair, boneless. She tried to summon the memories to match his story, but her mind was a wasteland, scrubbed clean by the previous night's delirium.

  A servant entered, balancing a silver platter stacked with fatty foods and aromatic coffee. They halted mid-step, eyes locking onto Tiffany—naked, awkwardly hunched over a chair and disgorging her stomach's contents.

  Tiffany sluggishly raised her head, eyes meeting the servant's with bleary disinterest. Then, with a weak wave of her hand, she croaked, "Carry on."

  The servant flushed deep red, unsure how to address the nude, hungover peasant.

  Yearn coughed into his fist, reclaiming the servant's attention. "May you please give my breakfast to Tiffany and have the chef cook another meal for me?"

  The flustered servant bowed stiffly, then inched toward Tiffany, jolting slightly when Tiffany suddenly lurched forward and unleashed another torrent of vile phonics.

  Struggling to keep their composure, the servant set the silver platter on the table in front of her and swiftly retreated from the room.

  Once Tiffany found a break between shallow heaves, she gorged herself upon the starchy breakfast laid before her. The heavy meal settled her raging stomach just long enough for her to croak out the question plaguing her. "Why am I the girl of the houuuuuuurrr!?"

  Her body violently rejected the meal mid-sentence, and she barely made it to her rapidly filling bucket in time. The rancid mélange of half-digested pills, molten brownies, and curdled cocktails sloshed together in a grotesque slurry. In a churning moment of disgust, Tiffany swept a clammy hand through her tangled hair to pull it free from where it draped into the bucket, damp and discoloured.

  Yearn winced at the sight of his usually immaculate companion displaying the most undesirable aspects of her essence. The dissonant contrast between her beauty and her current state's sheer wretchedness was, frankly, appalling. He dragged his gaze away as if to spare himself the sight.

  "Well," he asked carefully, "how much do you actually remember from last night?"

  Tiffany sluggishly pulled her head from the bucket, fixing Yearn with a withering glare. He might have regretted laughing at her karmic suffering—if he weren't still so thoroughly amused.

  Fair enough," he conceded, grinning. "Your loss, though. It was quite the event. I threw this whole party to watch Poetaster's play, but all the real excitement came after. At the end of his play, Poetaster got an invitation to The Tournament! Not just any Tournament but THE Tournament!"

  His voice brimmed with giddy exhilaration as if the revelation alone might be enough to jolt Tiffany back to life. She remained utterly unmoved.

  "What does that have to do with me?" she muttered, head dipping closer to the bucket again.

  Yearn's grin widened. "That's the best part! When Poetaster got his invitation—at that exact same moment—you got one too!"

  This time, Yearn was really expecting her to jump to his levels of fevered enthusiasm, but instead, he got another round of vomit echoing out of the bucket.

  After squelching her gut, Tiffany lifted the container toward him pimply. "Can I get another one of these?"

  Yearn sighed but gestured to a servant standing off to the side. They quickly scurried away to fetch a replacement. "But what about the invitation?"

  Ignoring him, Tiffany dragged the oversized coffee mug toward herself, cupping its gracious warmth in both hands. She took a slow, deep inhale of its rich aroma, savouring the one small pleasure available to her.

  "What about it?" she murmured, still half-asleep.

  Yearn visibly recoiled back. "What do you mean? Isn't this amazing!? You'll get to meet some of the world's most influential people in the world! The Hero of New Heirisson Conquest, Princes of both Sodalities, Poetaster!" Yearn couldn't believe Tiffany's apathy toward being invited to the most prestigious event in the world.

  Tiffany took her first sip of the enchanting coffee, the warmth seeping into her bones like a long-forgotten comfort. "Nah." She set the cup down. "I'll pass."

  With that, she pushed back from the table, leaving the rest of the meal untouched. She was done here. She was growing bored with Yearn and this place. She knew if she stayed long enough for the others to start waking, she would be inundated by the foolish queries of admiring toddlers. Their stupidity made good company for crass wantonness, but beyond that, they were nothing but rebarbative barbarians in terms of anything requiring half a brain.

  Yearn blinked. "Where are you going?"

  Tiffany ignored Yearn and caught the eye of the returning servant. She noticed they'd also brought a fresh set of clothes—one of the spares Yearn always kept for her.

  She dressed in the clothes right there, then irritably snatched the bucket and showcased it to Yearn, "I'm taking this with me."

  Without another word, Tiffany strode out of the estate, irritation bubbling beneath her skin. Whatever good humour had lingered from the party was long gone, soured by a splitting hangover, Yearn's idiotic excitement, and the miserable prospect of trudging back to the slums she called home after a night spent in the fief lord's luxurious estate.