The Spellcrest Misadventure: Chaos at Arcanum

Ep. 7: Potions and Paranoia

The blinding light of the black sphere was still burned into Alarion’s retinas, a ghost of violet energy that refused to fade even as the stone walls of the ancient basement were replaced by the sun-drenched, oak-paneled interior of the Alchemy Wing. The deep, tectonic resonance of the voice—𝘚𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴—clung to the inside of his ears like a physical weight.

"Alarion? Earth to the walking disaster. Are you actually here, or did your brain finally loop itself into permanent orbit?"

Alarion blinked, his vision finally clearing. He wasn't in a graveyard of ambition anymore. He was sitting on a high wooden stool, the smell of sulfur and dried lavender replacing the sharp tang of ancient ozone.

"I’m here, Eldric. I’m just... I’m thinking."

"That’s a dangerous pastime for someone with your track record," Eldric said, not looking up from a massive ham sandwich he’d smuggled into the lecture hall. "Seriously, you’ve been staring at that empty cauldron for ten minutes. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a very disappointing grade."

"I told you," Alarion whispered, leaning in so close his nose nearly brushed Eldric’s bread. "The basement. The sphere. It spoke to me, Eldric. It knew my name."

"Mhm. 𝘍𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘶𝘴 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮, right? Very dramatic," Eldric mumbled through a mouthful of ham. "Look, Al, I believe you saw something weird. I even believe Lysandra and Merovin are acting twitchy because of it. But 'Son of Stars'? Maybe the basement air was just thin. Oxygen deprivation does funny things to the head."

"It wasn't the air! The whole room woke up. The brass rings were spinning, the light was everywhere—"

"And then Professor Enchantor found you three, gave you a week’s detention for 'trespassing in restricted zones,' and hauled you back to the surface," Eldric interrupted, wiping a mustard stain from his lip. "If it was some world-ending prophecy, don't you think she would’ve mentioned it instead of complaining about the paperwork for the broken mapping rods?"

"She didn't hear it," Alarion insisted, his voice rising in frustration. "She wasn't there for the voice part. Only I was."

"Exactly! Selective hearing! It’s a classic symptom of 'I-almost-died-in-a-basement' syndrome." Eldric gestured with a crust. "Focus on the now, man. We’re in Master Hemlock’s 'Basic Brews for Basic Minds' class. If you mess this up, he’ll make us scrub the toad vats for a month. And I’ve heard those toads have... opinions."

"I can't focus on a Draught of Lucid Dreams when my actual life feels like a hallucination," Alarion groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Just follow the instructions on the board," Eldric urged. "Look, even Rosamund is actually working today. That’s how you know it’s serious."

Alarion glanced toward the front of the room. Rosamund Magelight, the girl whose family literally owned the most prestigious light-stone quarries in the kingdom, was carefully measuring out silver-flecked powder. She looked perfect, as always—not a hair out of place, her robes shimmering with a faint, expensive glow.

"She’s using a gold-plated scale," Alarion muttered. "Who even brings a gold-plated scale to a first-year lab?"

"People who want to remind us that their lunch money could buy our houses," Eldric said. "Now, pass me the Sun-Leaf. The recipe says we need to simmer the base until it’s the color of a bruised peach."

Alarion reached for the tray of ingredients, his mind still drifting back to the obsidian blackness of the sphere. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦. What did that even mean? His family was a mess of failed evocations and soot-covered manors. There wasn't any 'gate' in the Spellcrest history books, unless you counted the one that fell off its hinges three years ago.

"The Sun-Leaf, Alarion! Before the cauldron boils over!"

"Right, right. Sun-Leaf," Alarion said.

His hand hovered over the tray. There were two jars side-by-side. One contained flat, golden leaves that shimmered like autumn. The other contained long, fuzzy, orange stalks that looked remarkably similar under the flickering candlelight of the lab.

"Is it the leaf or the tail?" Alarion asked, his eyes glazed.

"The leaf! It’s literally in the name!" Eldric snapped, trying to adjust his flame.

"Right. Sun... tail. Wait, no." Alarion’s fingers closed around the fuzzy orange stalks. His brain was playing back the sound of the sphere’s hum. Wake, Alarion.

"Did you hear that?" Alarion asked, turning to Eldric.

"Hear what? The sound of my stomach? Yes, it wants a cookie."

"No, the hum. It’s starting again."

"Alarion, don't you dare—"

𝘗𝘭𝘰𝘱. 

Alarion dropped three large Sun-Tails into the bubbling blue liquid.

The reaction was instantaneous. The cauldron didn't turn the color of a bruised peach. It turned a violent, neon, pulsating shade of magenta. A thick, sweet-smelling vapor began to pour over the sides, rolling across the stone floor like a heavy fog.

"Uh, Al?" Eldric asked, pulling his stool back. "Is it supposed to look like a sunset had a nervous breakdown?"

"I think I used the Sun-Tail," Alarion whispered, his eyes wide.

"The Sun-Tail? As in the 'Aromatic Truth-Seeker's Catalyst'?" Eldric’s voice went up an octave. "The ingredient they use for interrogation potions? Alarion, you idiot! That’s a concentrated aerosol base!"

"Everyone, stay calm!" Master Hemlock shouted from the front, but it was too late. He took one deep breath of the magenta mist and his face went slack. "Oh, sweet heavens, I really, truly hate teaching you lot. I only took this job because I have a massive gambling debt to a group of forest gnomes."

The classroom went silent for exactly one second before a collective gasp echoed through the room.

"Professor?" Rosamund asked, her hand over her mouth. "Did you just... say that out loud?"

"I can't stop!" Hemlock yelled, his eyes darting around in terror. "I also think the Headmaster’s beard looks like a bird’s nest that’s been through a hurricane! Help! I’m a prisoner of my own honesty!"

The fog reached the front row. A boy named Silas stood up, his face turning bright red. "I’m the one who’s been drawing moustaches on the statues in the West Wing! And I think Rosamund’s perfume smells like a wet dog dipped in vanilla!"

"What?!" Rosamund shrieked, her perfect composure shattering. "It’s bespoke Arcanelle Mist! It costs more than your entire life! And honestly, Silas, I only talk to you because your family owns the carriage company and I like the free rides!"

"I knew it!" another girl yelled. "And I’ve been faking my 'high-tier' mana readings by hiding a charged crystal in my boot!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of unwanted truths.

"I think the school lunches are actually made of recycled golems!"

"I haven't washed my favorite socks in three weeks because I think they’re lucky!"

"I’m actually terrified of butterflies!"

Alarion watched in horror as the chaos spread. The magenta mist was everywhere now, a thick blanket of forced sincerity. He looked at Eldric, who was covering his mouth with both hands, his eyes bulging behind his glasses.

"Don't... breathe... Al..." Eldric muffled through his fingers.

"It’s too late, Eldric," Alarion said, the sweet scent filling his lungs. He felt a strange, tingly sensation in the back of his throat. It was like a pressure building up, a dam about to burst. "I... I think I’m actually really glad you’re my friend, even if you do spend most of your time talking about ham."

Eldric’s hands dropped. He took a breath and slumped over. "I only let you hang out with me because you make me look normal by comparison! But also, I think you’re going to do something incredible one day and I want to be there to say 'I told you so' to everyone who called you a failure!"

"That’s... actually really nice, Eldric," Alarion said, feeling a surge of warmth.

"And I think your hair looks like a bird died in it!" Eldric added, unable to stop himself.

"Hey!"

"I can't help it! The fog wants the truth, Al!"

Across the room, the door creaked open. Lysandra Arcanelle stood in the doorway, a stack of books in her arms. She stopped dead as the magenta cloud hit her square in the face.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice as cool as ever. "Why is Master Hemlock crying in the corner about his gnome debts?"

"Lysandra, don't come in!" Alarion yelled. "It’s truth gas! I messed up the potion!"

Lysandra took a breath, her silver eyes narrowing. She didn't turn and run. She stood her ground, though her grip on her books tightened until her knuckles turned white.

"A truth gas," she repeated. Her voice wavered for the first time since Alarion had met her. "How... inconvenient."

"Run, Lysandra! Before you say something you regret!" Alarion warned, stepping toward her.

"I don't regret my thoughts, Spellcrest," she snapped, but her face was beginning to flush a deep pink that matched the fog.

"She’s fighting it!" Eldric whispered, leaning forward. "Look at her! She’s actually struggling!"

Rosamund marched over, pointing a finger at Lysandra. "Oh, look! The Ice Queen is finally going to melt! Tell us, Lysandra! Do you actually think you’re better than everyone else, or is it just an act to hide how lonely you are in that big, empty manor?"

Lysandra’s jaw drifted open. "I think you’re a shallow, status-obsessed magpie, Rosamund. And I think your 'bespoke' perfume actually does smell like a wet dog."

Rosamund shrieked in outrage, but Lysandra wasn't looking at her anymore. Her gaze shifted, locking onto Alarion.

Alarion felt his heart skip a beat. The air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in the center of the magenta haze. The chaos of the other students faded into a dull roar.

"Alarion," Lysandra said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a shout.

"I’m sorry, Lysandra," Alarion said, his own honesty pushing its way out. "I’m sorry I keep blowing things up. I’m sorry I’m a disaster. I’m sorry I’m the one who dragged you into that basement."

"Stop," she commanded, taking a step toward him. Her eyes were wide, the pupils blown out. She looked terrified—not of him, but of what was coming out of her mouth. "You think I’m angry about the basement? You think I’m angry that you’re messy?"

"Aren't you?"

"I’m angry because I can't stop thinking about you!" she blurted out, her face burning. "I’m angry because every time you fail, I want to help you instead of watching you fall! I’m angry because you’re a walking disaster, Alarion Spellcrest, but when that sphere called your name, I wasn't worried about the magic... I was worried it was going to take you away before I could figure out why I..."

She stopped, her breath hitching as the fog reached its peak density, the magenta light glowing so brightly it obscured the rest of the room.

"Why you what?" Alarion asked, his voice trembling.

Lysandra reached out, her fingers brushing his soot-stained sleeve. "I think... I think you’re the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to this boring, suffocating school. And I think I’ve wanted to tell you that since the moment you blew up your own trunk."

Alarion stared at her, his brain completely stalled. "You... you think I’m interesting?"

"I think," Lysandra whispered, her eyes fixed on his, "that if you die before I figure out what that sphere meant, I will never forgive you. And I think... Alarion, I really think..."

The potion in the cauldron let out one final, deafening 𝘗𝘖𝘗, and the magenta mist suddenly turned a blinding, pure white.