Unbound Divinity: The Art of Divine Inconvenience

Master Vane’s Workshop

Chapter 17: Master Vane’s Workshop

The heavy wooden door of Master Vane’s establishment did not have a bell; it had a rusted iron knocker shaped like a scowling gargoyle that looked as though it wanted to bite off whoever was foolish enough to touch it.

Nyxara didn't bother knocking. She simply planted the heel of her boot against the warped timber, shoved hard, and let the door bang open against the interior wall with a sound like a small cannon shot. A cloud of grey dust immediately billowed out into the damp corridor, accompanied by an overpowering olfactory assault that made Calista gag instantly. It smelled like scorched vinegar, over-steeped chamomile, sulfur, and something that strongly resembled a burnt woolen sock.

"Close that door, you illiterate mountain goat!" a voice screeched from the gloomy depths of the room. "Do you think I run a public thoroughfare for draft animals and vagrants? The draughts ruin the condensation coils!"

A diminutive, incredibly ancient man emerged from behind a towering stack of glass alembics and bubbling copper retorts. He wore a stained leather apron that looked stiff enough to stand up on its own, round spectacles held together at the bridge with greasy twine, and a hairtuft that stood straight up like an insulted cat's tail. His eyes, magnified by thick lenses, darted suspiciously from Nyxara to Calista, and finally landed on Aether, who was currently flickering between solid flesh and pale orange mist with every breath.

Vane stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dropped open, revealing three very yellow teeth. He dropped the copper spoon he was holding; it clattered against the stone floor, splashing a few drops of smoking green liquid across his boot.

"Well," Vane whispered, his voice dropping from a shrill screech to an awestruck rasp. "Look what the sewer rat dragged in. A walking metaphysical catastrophe."

"Good evening to you too, Master Vane," Nyxara said smoothly, stepping past him into the cluttered workspace and brushing a cobweb off her shoulder. "Your hospitality hasn't improved since the last time I had to drag a dying client through your window."

"That was a corpse, Nyxara, and he didn't pay his tab!" Vane barked, jabbing a grease-stained finger in her direction. Then he pivoted his head toward Aether, squinting through his thick lenses as if inspecting a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. He stepped closer, sniffing the air loudly. "Ah. Smells like ozone, bad decisions, and high-society greed. You were at the grand estate gala when the hearth-core blew, weren't you?"

"I prefer to think of myself as an involuntary energy investor," Aether offered weakly, offering a lopsided, semi-transparent smile. His right shoulder dissolved into a thin cloud of golden sparks for a fraction of a second before knitting itself back together with a faint, electrical snap. "Though my portfolio is currently evaporating."

"Shut up, Aether," Calista muttered, supporting the greater part of his weight against her hip. Her own shoulders ached from the continuous strain, and the silver divinity beneath her skin hummed with a low, irritable thrum. She glared down at the apothecary. "Can you fix him, or are we wasting our time standing in this chemical hazard zone?"

"Fix him?" Vane squawked, throwing his hands up in theatrical dismay. "Fix an Over-Saturation of the Hearth-Core? Young woman, do you have any idea what kind of raw, untamed municipal magic is currently ricocheting off this man’s bone marrow? He didn't just get caught in a blast; he absorbed the foundational ley-line surplus of an entire aristocratic district. He’s essentially a ticking crystal bomb wrapped in terrible tailoring!"

"I resent that," Aether wheezed, leaning heavily against a shelf lined with jars of pickled eels. "The tailoring is actually quite expensive. Or it was, before it started dissolving into a fine pink mist."

"Quiet, spark-plug," Vane snapped, grabbing a heavy brass rod from a workbench and poking Aether experimentally in the ribs. Aether hissed as his side turned to liquid light for a second. Vane nodded sagely. "Just as I thought. The core energy is trying to lower his density to match the surrounding atmospheric pressure. In about twenty minutes, he won't even be able to hold a teacup. By midnight, he’ll be a localized weather phenomenon."

"And how do we stop that?" Calista demanded, stepping forward until she was towering over the diminutive apothecary, her hand instinctively resting near the hilt of her rapier. The golden light of her solar heritage flared faintly in her eyes. "Give us the exact ingredients or process. Now."

Vane didn't flinch. Instead, a cunning, gap-toothed smile spread across his wrinkled face as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture of financial extortion.

"Oh, I can stop it," Vane purred, turning away to rifle through a cluttered shelf of ceramic jars. "A simple stabilization draught. Ground dried mandrake, a pinch of river-moss, and—most importantly—a primary catalyst of high-grade Luminescent Salt. Very rare. Very expensive. Especially since the Gilded Regulators blockaded the lower docks this morning."

"Luminescent salt?" Calista’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with sudden danger. "We just crawled through three miles of sewage to escape those guards. You want us to go back out there and steal marine contraband?"

"I don't care if you steal it, barter for it, or cry until the harbor master pities you," Vane said cheerfully, pulling a dusty glass vial from the shelf and rattling it under Aether’s nose. "No salt, no draught. And within the hour, your glowing companion here will become a permanent part of my workshop's wallpaper. Quite decorative, really. I could use a new lampshade."

"He's joking," Aether whispered to Calista, though his voice was noticeably breathier than before, his fingers looking alarmingly loose at the joints. "He’s entirely serious, isn't he?"

"Dead serious," Nyxara observed, leaning against a stack of crates and crossing her arms with an amused grin. "And we don't have a choice. The market closes at midnight, and the salt is sitting in the shipping warehouses down on the sinking piers."

Calista closed her eyes for a long, agonizing moment, letting out a slow breath through her nose as she fought the overwhelming urge to draw her rapier and run the obnoxious apothecary through the liver. The silk sash binding her wrist to Aether's twitched as he swayed against her, his physical form growing noticeably fainter. The sheer exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours pressed down on her like a physical weight, but the alternative—watching him fade entirely into nothingness—was not an option she was willing to entertain.

"Fine," Calista snapped, opening her eyes with a sharp, lethal finality that made Vane take half a step backward. She grabbed Aether’s good arm, hauling him upright with a jerk that made him wince. "We get the salt. But if this draught tastes bad, Vane, I am coming back to turn your alchemy shop into a parking lot."

"Oh, it tastes atrocious," Vane chuckled, shoving the empty glass vial back onto the shelf. "Hurry along now. The tide is coming in, and the docks get awfully slippery at midnight."

"Come on, ghost-boy," Nyxara muttered, pushing off the crates and heading toward the dark, narrow service corridor that led back out toward the canals. "Let's go steal some salt before your shoes fall through the floor."

Calista dragged Aether behind her, their bound wrists catching the dim, flickering amber light of his dissolving skin as they plunged back out into the damp, freezing shadows of the lower city. The air grew colder, the scent of brackish water growing heavier with every step they took toward the sinking docks, where the real danger w

as just beginning to wait for them in the fog.