Page 105 of Alchemised
Perhaps Ferron was secretly negotiating with Hevgoss to overthrow Morrough.
Terrifying as the High Reeve was, the Ferrons were an old family, considered a part of Paladia’s history even before they’d made their fortune. The Undying maintained their regime entirely through fear, and those in Paladia still benefitting from it could fit in Spirefell’s ballroom. The disillusionment was reaching its climax. Once it finally crumbled, people would want someone familiar, someone with power they could take pride in.
The whole world knew the revolutionary power of Ferron steel. It had forged the industrial era.
At this point, Paladians might consider Ferron a saviour if he usurped Morrough. He could blame the bulk of his atrocities on Morrough, and take responsibility only for what benefitted him.
From everything Helena knew, Ferron had no competition. Greenfinch was little more than a puppet, and the Guild Assembly was a joke. Ferron was Morrough’s only visible crutch.
It would explain why Morrough was torturing him so much: out of resentment for his own failing immortality. He was critically dependent on Ferron and without alternatives.
Yet Helena couldn’t shake the sense that she was missing something.
How did she fit into Ferron’s plans?
Whatever machinations were in place, she somehow played a role. He was too invested in her safekeeping for it to be otherwise. Ferron devoted an excessive degree of effort to ensuring her well-being while trying not to appear so.
She kept thinking about his hesitation when she asked him to kill her. He had considered it. Why? If she was a necessary part of his plan, how could killing her possibly be an option? But if she wasn’t, why all the effort?
IT WAS AFTER NIGHTFALL WHEN Ferron returned. When he entered the room, they stared at each other, neither speaking.
There was nothing to say.
He turned, slipped a tablet under his tongue, and when he turned back, his gaze went through her.
Helena lay, eyes fastened on the canopy.
She didn’t flinch when she felt the bed shift. She didn’t make a sound when her skirts were pushed up to her waist. He moved between her legs, and she stared straight up so intently, her vision blurred.
When he entered her, she gave a small choking gasp and turned her face towards the wall, writhing with internal anguish.
Her body had anticipated it. Just as the drug had acclimated her to the house, it had attuned her body to this.
It was such a profound betrayal.
She thought of shoving him off. If he’d physically force her, pin her down, or paralyse her, then she might hate herself less.
But she was so tired of being hurt, and so she didn’t move.
When it was over, he left without a word. She didn’t look at his face.
After five days, the door stayed shut, and the house was silent. It was finally over, but she scarcely felt any relief.
She was going mad. She could feel herself fragmenting with anxiety, coming apart, consumed by the cage holding her.
What if it worked? What if it failed?
She didn’t know what she was more afraid of.
AS THE DAY LENGTHENED INTO evening, Helena grew increasingly agitated, but it wasn’t until it grew briefly dark and then searingly bright again that she realised why.
Lumithia had reached full Ascendance. The world outside lay cast in silver almost bright as day, radiating light from amid a black sky. Every star and planet erased. Luna, halfway across the sky, looked like a broken piece of pottery in contrast.
Lumithia’s slow orbit meant she waxed full only twice each year, in the spring and autumn, while entering her Abeyance in summer and winter.
When she was in Ascendance, it had an intense effect on alchemists.
For those with low resonance, Ascendance was the only time of year when they could transmute, while alchemists with strong abilities found themselves disoriented by her radiance. Moon-drunk, people called it.
