Romans & histoires The Merchant And The Alchemist's Gate

Julian murmured against her lips, before closing the distance entirely. The kiss was long, deliberate, and laden with the immense, solid pressure of a reality that no longer required a ninety-day contract or a public stock price to validate its existence. It was the steady, unyielding hum of a system operating at peak throughput, unfiltered, unmanaged, and completely built to outlast the century. Below them, through the heavy floorboards of the warehouse, the thousand-year escapement wheel struck the hour. *Thump.* On the terminal table, the amber vector of *The Alchemilla* shifted to a brilliant, vibrant green. The flat-bottom barge had just cleared the shallow channel, its automated cranes

They arrived at a very grand and luxurious gate. The sturdy gate that stood before them was made of pure silver and Bedros' solid protective stone. There was also a guard standing guard above seeing their arrival. "Who are you?" asked one of the guards, pointing a crossbow at the two of them. Altair and Adir who were covered in clothes were a bit hard to spot. Altair removed the hood he was wearing and removed the cloth covering his face. Those who saw Altair's golden hair and jeweled eyes immediately understood and ordered to widen the Bedros gates. A squeaking sound was deafening and the huge gate slid into the snow around them.

Focusing on the feel of her in his arms, her weight a steady, reassuring presence, he crossed the last of the distance to the small, dilapidated gate that marked Entra’s territory line. As he nudged the gate open with his knee, his vision cleared. Gone were the crooked trees and scraggly thorns of the endless forest; in their place stood a bustling market town, bordered by wildflower meadows and cut through with wide canals. Sunlight dripped through the last of the trees, dappling the ground in an uneven pathway towards the innermost square of traders. A canal curled around and through its centre, wooden platforms sticking out at regular intervals for the merfolk to sit upon whilst keeping t

The flame had not come to destroy. It had come to reveal. In the marketplace of Old Delenth, a merchant reached greedily for a relic, something plucked from a grave, polished for sale. The fire found him. It coiled around his wrist, bright as a sunbeam, cool as breath. No pain. No searing. Instead, a vision: A woman cloaked in grey. No crown. Whispering not condemnation, but mercy. His knees buckled. He dropped the relic. And wept.

Kieran The ledger on the table is open to a page filled with red ink. It looks like blood. I stare at the numbers, watching them swim in the harsh afternoon light pouring through the windows. The air in the room is stale, smelling of expensive wool, and the nervous sweat of the three men sitting across from me. “The deficit is... substantial, Alpha,” Matthew says. Matthew is the Guildmaster of the Merchants. He is a man made of soft curves and velvet, with a beard oiled to a shine and hands that have never held anything heavier than a coin purse.

Althea screams upon seeing us all. “How? Why here?” Morgan asks, turning around as if looking for something. “Each gateway leads to somewhere. With the four stones, you open the door to the realm of gods.” Althea says, as if it should be common knowledge and we should know this. “But the dagger… That’s what it did, opened a chasm between realms.”

I stared at the handle for a long moment before placing my hand on it. “You trusted the wrong woman,” I muttered under my breath. “You let her into our lives… and she destroyed everything.” The metal groaned under the pressure as I forced the door open. The smell of old wood and faint dust filled my nose. I stepped inside, and the emptiness hit me like a punch to the chest. The room had been stripped bare, no trace of the man who once called himself Alpha of this pack. No framed pictures. No notes. Not even the scent of him lingered.

I looked back at the road and said nothing. The jewelry store was private—appointment only, the kind of place where they brought out trays of stones on velvet cushions and no one discussed price tags in the showroom because the people who came here didn't need to. The owner, a small precise man named Aldric, had worked with me on two prior occasions and asked no questions about the nature of today's visit. He simply appeared at the door when we arrived, took our coats, and arranged us at the display table with the practiced efficiency of a man who understood that discretion was the most valuable thing he sold.

Black SUVs idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the storm. I screamed until my throat tore. “Father!” The last thing I saw before they shoved me into the back seat was his face—smiling, satisfied, relieved to be rid of me. Something inside me shattered so completely I wasn’t sure it would ever heal. The palace loomed hours later, rising from the storm like a fortress of stone and glass, lightning etching its towers against the night. I stumbled as Killian’s warriors dragged me into the candlelit hall. The air smelled of smoke and iron, the walls adorned with banners black as shadow.

“So… what’s the most complicated potion, spell, or talisman have you created so far?” I ran my hands over the counter where a couple of expensive stones sat. “I don't know if you are going to believe it, but I already made a curse spell.” She froze, looking at me. “What curse spell in particular? And to whom?” "It was for Alpha Calle," I explained as I looked out the enormous window. The massive gate was visible, but it was only the size of an ant from where I stood. "I cursed his companion. She will never locate him, wherever he is. Even if she's merely passing through, she'll never know Calle is her mate."