“Good character is nothing but honest surrender to the body. One can only become what one’s corporeal chymistry permits; a happy man is the satisfied sum of his Elements. Only the unsatisfiable fiend demands to be more than he is.” – The Metabolic Texts, Akor er-Akash

  The arms were each a masterstroke. The right leg was a true masterpiece. A single strike with the cleaver separated it at the joints. He retrieved the last part from the duffel bag, unwrapping layers of excessive plastic and a thick, waxed tarp. Old, crumpled clothes hid the shape and scent. His hasty fingers pulled it free and laid it on the covered surface beneath the overhead light. More than just beautiful and masterful. Daringly humanlike. Dazzlingly executed.

  The skin had an icy translucency, ready to surrender its Secrets. Elias ran his fingers down the forearm, pressing lightly, feeling the generous give of subcutaneous fat. No bruising, no marks of stress. No signs of ordinary wear. Six months maximum. A newer creation, beyond crude mimicry. The subtleties of the ankle betrayed a melancholic reverence. That confused him.

  Then it bored him. He studied the elbow of the arm next, testing its rigidity. The tendons flexed under pressure, responding almost organically. Even the delicate creases at the knuckles were present, fingerprints and all. Why would it need them? A charming detail, nevertheless. He reached for his scalpel and made the first incision along the wrist, following the natural lines where the skin should separate. It parted effortlessly, revealing glistening, pink and compact musculature. The blade worked further, uncovering fine, blueish threads that ran between them in fractal patterns. An improvement, more efficient than the real thing. He paused, breathing deeply through his nose.

  Every fiber, every vein had been designed with costly intent. His thumb pressed into the palm, feeling a spring of stored movement. Real, corporeal essence began to leak from the severed end. Elias dragged a gloved finger along the opened flesh, watching the reticent liquid trickle and pool. No lethargy or impassivity could deny its animating force. Death could not contain it. It remained his favorite.

  Red.

  The first color; blush and flowing Secret of life. The one true thing. Others were distractions, chromatic noise, a meaningless procession of light bending at different angles. He was fanatically opinionated about it. Blue: too cold, too distant. Office staleness, confined sweat. Green: passive, existing only to be rather than to act. Plentiful, yet too dormant. Yellow had energy but lacked weight. Simply repulsive. White was an absence of thought, cureless innocence. A pregnant void pretending to be pure. It means nothing to me.

  Red flaunted purpose: a current of craving and heinous hunger. Curiosity, that unfortunate child, somehow born of the two. He pressed harder, squeezed more. Beheld life. It was it; even as the body fell and fractured. Dying was rarely bloody. That matter most defined by movement; outflowing and outpouring. Run. Strike. Feed. He put this one aside and grabbed the other.

  It was inevitable, hopeless, that he would love it. He was embarrassed by it – hated it, hid it. It was his birthright: an inseparable umbilical cord drawing him backwards. This one emptied quickly. That too was inevitable. As a boy, he stared at fresh wounds with fascination. The others recoiled in more than mere fear. Disgust. He remembered his first: a broken glass, a careless step. Enough to teach him. The pain was irrelevant – painted over. The world of the wound willed it away. My first discovery.

  Little scent remained in this one. Not like his. The deep, auric smell was not metallic, not really. A myth. Extolled and exalted by prideful Erdamancers. An idea even ignorant people clung to when they tried to rationalize why it unsettled them. Blood belonged to the earth. Undeniably so. But its source was something else. It reflected this wellspring. Salty sea. Endless oceanic potential. Water in waves. A parous puddle. That’s it. The earthly flake and layers of dross, stacked by evolution and Convergence alike, hid this simple base. It all had to be stripped away. Nose and stomach worked tirelessly whilst the rest of his body felt abandoned.

  All four severed. All eight drained. He began washing them. Tinted water spiraled down the drain. Passion was red. The setting sun, the embers of a dying fire, the first light of dawn cutting through the dark. Introduction and termination. Of course, the Sanguine Art was red. But so was Wedamancy. He knew the desultory history well. The Agnimancers were so entranced by the sidereal hoard of the night sky, that they arrogantly appropriated blue – nocturnal and elevated blue – as their own. No matter what laymen and postulants claimed about prismatic asymmetries or inconsistencies, arcana had a cost. That cost was always written in red. Pay with life to live. The currency of the body, the raw alchemy that governed power, desire, hunger, rage, vitality, lust. The raktic nectar of the Fool’s Flower. That too. Most of all. No escape from it. No mastery beyond it. The committed cultivars lost their selves, not their blood. Even as they wandered selflessly, it kept sway over them. Drained, washed and dried.

  Elias regretted not retrieving the torso – his first real thought after escaping the red reverie and wiping the sweat from his face. Skin, muscles and bone were valuable enough, Elementally balanced. Yet it was the overbalanced Cores that contained the true achievements of Artistry. Too many risks, too many unknowns. I didn’t even check the ears. The limbs were enough for now. Filtered essence filled two of his receptacles. He packed the lower left leg in butcher paper, the rest in a trash bag. The door to the basement was already open.

  They stepped into darkness. His soles knew the path best, counting the uneven steps, as his free hand traced the wall for reassurance. A low ceiling brushed his hair, squeezing him into the space and arching his spine. After placing the packaged meat into the large freezer, he turned around and floundered with his fingers for the damphouse. He unzipped the plastic hatch and stepped in. The pale, foamy fruiting bodies of his clutch were discernible even with what little light seeped through. Sly as a thief among his own, he stalked around the hanging, dripping bags to the wooden box containing substrate. Its rotten base found his foot first. He dumped the remaining parts into it and evened out the mix, spreading previous substrate over it. Enjoy the grub, angels.

  The work, stretching throughout the day from early morning, was now over. Undone; he was at the top of the stairs when he felt the arresting call. Hesitation, abetted by exhaustion, kept him still for a while. Then, without thinking too much, he went back and opened the freezer. The old frost had not taken it, the paper peeled off easily. It remained soft in his hand, barely cold. I shouldn’t. But I want to. I should know. He lifted the leg to his mouth, lowering his lips to the taut muscle of the hale shin. One, incisive bite. Enough for the tongue to inquire on instinct. Firm and fair, surrendering just the right amount. A realistic resistance. More than passable. How? He lowered it back into the frost and redressed it in the paper, hiding his bitemark.

  Elias sealed the basement door behind him and went to work on the kitchen. The room held the layered smell of a long day: iron and herb, meat and ash, breakfast surviving under it all. The arcanid had left its mark, its musk, in the whole. Nothing pure survived long; it always blended, absorbed, became something richer. The cooking table in the middle was shrouded in a layer of protective plastic, stretched tight. He peeled it away, rolling it into a cylinder, the static clinging to his sleeves. The plastic rasped as he folded it once, twice, then dropped it into the bin with the gloves. Each ragged stroke erased a trace of the act. The metallic scent drifted into the drain, replaced by lemon, soap, and steam.

  The recovered essence was promising. Held up to the light, it shifted from rose to vermilion, settling with a greenish edge. He tilted it once, observing the way it clung to the cylindrical glass before slipping free. Satisfied, he labeled it with a piece of tape and stored it in the refrigerator door among jars of mustard and herbal tonics. When the tiles and counters were polished, the sink rinsed, he sprayed everything with more bleach and watched it mist across the surface. Impressed, he removed the mister and brought the bottle closer to his face. Eroding, total, almost holy. The stomachal acid of some baleful god. It stripped the air clean of doubt, but the softer notes of the room survived: basil on the sill, thyme hanging to dry, and the low, brown-green aura of the potted plants in the corner. He gathered the bucket and brush, their handles cool and slick, and carried them back toward the bathroom. The chemical scent intensified there and kept him a moment further.

  The living room, which doubled as an office and directly opened by the entrance, was a carefully arranged illusion of comfort and intellect. Light from the narrow hallway pooled across the parquet, caught in the sheen of waxed wood and the edges of brass frames. Nothing here was accidental. Every object played its part in the quiet theater of appearance. A respectable Arcane Investigator’s study and just eccentric enough to show it. The shelves held the right sort of books: thick, uneven spines with cracked gilding, their titles old and almost unreadable. Between them stood curiosities meant to draw the eye but remain undefined: anatomical curios and a skull that was not quite human, bottles of pointlessly tinged liquid, urns that held nothing more than fireplace ash and dust, though their paucity lent them weight.

  The space was neat, but not sterile; lived-in enough to soothe the nervous. The chair opposite his desk sagged comfortably, its leather darkened by decades of other people’s trust. A good find in the wasteyard. Visitors would glance around, reading meaning into arrangement, the clutter of genius, the relics of experience, and in that moment, believe they understood him. The reflection of themselves in the polished surface of his desk would confirm it. Beside the ledger and rotating index sat a beige desk phone, its coiled cord twisted into permanent memory and keypad numbers faded. The pulsing heart of this fantasy was the chandelier hanging in the middle of the L-shaped room. An unevenly armed relic stitched from several lives. Its neck was brass, its font a swollen globe of floral enamel. The bulbs were mismatched too, some milky, some clear, their filaments exposed in delicate amber spirals. When lit, the whole thing glowed choppily, casting the room in layers of warmth and shadow. Elias turned it off after checking the front door.

  The creaking stairwell led him to a door slightly ajar. When he pushed it open, dark and scentless air met him. The attic was unlike the rest of the house: not possessive like the basement, not distracting like the office. It lacked the enthusiasm of the kitchen. Tuned, balanced, the kind of stillness that invites and subdues sound. There was little to fill it. A bed of dark linen and metal frame; a desk crowded with notebooks that had overflowed into the floor; a single lamp whose pull-chain clinked faintly when he passed.

  A rounded window at the far end breathed a faint draft through the imperfect seal, enough to stir the corners of a page. He loosened his shirt and pulled it free, the fabric sighing against his grayish fawn skin, resisting both the pallor of the typical Eisenstadt office and the tan of leisure. His hair, nails and eyes leaned towards umber. The frame was lean and sufficient, built more by habit than discipline and threaded with dendritic veins that followed his Vanahan lineage. Barefoot, he rubbed the back of his neck before settling under the cool linen.

  The house made its nightly inventory: pipes ticking, wood contracting, the low, regular hum of a neighbor’s television set somewhere beyond the wall. As he lay, he listened, waiting to learn if the neighboring couple would begin their postprandial labors. Love is loud. Lust louder. They were late, or away. Such days made dreams sublime. Yet sleep did not come until his mind had spun itself into its own, unfailing silence. His fifth year here.

  *

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Elias woke with little passion and plenty of pressure. The body has its relentless rhythm, the glands their own chymistry. Who am I to defy it? He sat up before his eyes were fully open, breathing in the morning gust. Outside, masses murmured and stirred into waking: a drone of machinery, the low chorus of pipes, ventilation, and voices. The city could be dimmed and deluded, even starved of power, but it never dissolved. He stretched until his joints cracked with audible satisfaction, stood, and dressed into a taxpayer’s shirt, sturdy trousers and a jacket to match his serotinal colors.

  The bathroom mirror told him nothing new. Three stops. One morning’s work. Then the study session with Miss Sourrheim. His mouth moved faster than his thoughts. The grin turned to gobbling as he met his breakfast: black bread, runny eggs, salted cheese, mild tea. The routine was so well-rehearsed that even hunger felt like scheduled fulfillment. He opened the fridge and retrieved three packets, then reached for two more from separate cabinets, stashing them all into his heavy canvas backpack. The bagged waste and remains of last night came along.

  Elias switched to his running shoes at the door, scuffed gray leather with laces stiff but obedient. Door locked and key pocketed, he stepped out of the last townhouse in a row flanked by two thoroughfares slanting down to Lasting Peace Street. Puddles and cigarette butts gathered by the pavement where the slope ended. He followed the curb toward the waste containers clustered behind the closest apartment block. The stocky bins were the color of faded municipal optimism: green, yellow, and a reluctant red, each labeled in bureaucratic script and plenty of graffiti. The sound of the arriving tram car snapped him out of enjoying the newest additions.

  The guardhouse squatted between two concrete warehouses, a dozen more behind them. Their windows were bricked and exteriors yellowed from the adjacent road. Inside the little post, three old monitors stacked on a metal desk flickered in slow rhythm, showing identical corridors from similar angles. Each feed hummed faintly, the image ghosting every few seconds. Lukas, a broadly built Andhanaha, dressed in the standard dark blue uniform, was watching and waiting impatiently. His face was lined with exhaustion and aglimmer from the CRT screens.

  “Finally. I was flirting with a nap,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  Elias retrieved an unmarked black tin and passed it through the little window. “Before coffee and energy drinks, naps were the backbone of productive civilization. But if you insist on staying awake,” he said, handing it over. Lukas took it without hesitation, flipping the lid open to inhale the scent. A slow nod followed.

  “Smells right. Tastes right.”

  Lukas fished into his uniform and handed over the payment in an envelope. No counting was needed. Trust was a currency more valuable than any Eisenmark. The plain, crisp texture made Elias grin. Lukas scoffed politely at his greed on display. He tucked the drink below his desk and let out a slow breath.

  “They’re extending my shift next week. Might need another dose soon. Thursday?”

  “You can find me at Lucy’s then. It wouldn’t hurt to have your nerves examined again. This stuff can fry them if you aren’t careful.”

  “No offense, but that woman’s screwy. I’d rather not be in her care again. This stuff’s just fine.”

  “She does take excessive interest in the welfare of her patients,” sighed Elias with a smirk. He looked around, then paused. “By the way—you haven’t seen anyone around the eastern lot yet?”

  Lukas leaned back and let out a low chuckle. “Sorry to disappoint you, sleuth. Nothing on the feed or logs. Dead quiet, since you left it.”

  *

  The western side of Academy Park looked forgotten and unreclaimable. The grass was blithe and lush, growing in patches between bare earth and broken benches. A concrete rotunda waited at the end of a neglected path, its ceiling cracked and pillars collapsing. Every reachable surface was covered in graffiti: signatures, symbols, slurs, select body parts. The metallic kenotaph inside was rusted and equally rich. Two Toranaha second-year students leaned against it and smoked, waiting for him. Dyadic and devout. Bet he pulls them out and she lets them go. The guy was broad-shouldered and heavyset, wearing a green jacket that sprouted his black fur at the ends. His Hands of Shanyara were polished and neatly kept. The girl beside him was tall and lanky, dressed in a pale blouse and long skirt, accented by a gold septum ring. She tapped her friend’s shoulder and pointed towards Elias with her spent cigarette.

  “You Sonya’s contact, Ilya?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh,” said Elias. “You the two underachieving neophytes?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small commercial urn wrapped in paper. The male student took and opened it. He ran his finger through the ash. “It’s exactly what you asked for,” assured Elias.

  The Necromancy students exchanged a few glances and nods. The guy produced a roll of yellowed Eisenmarks from his jacket and offered it to Elias. “We might need more next month. We spend a lot on practicing. Efficiency’s the problem.”

  “Yeah… efficiency,” she scoffed, crossing her braceleted arms. “He just spills and sneezes a lot. Focus is the real problem. Maybe commitment too.”

  Whilst they exchanged a few more unkind glances and scoffs, Elias looked up at the sky and scratched his throat. “You can mix and modify it with clay-dust or finely-ground chalk. They have a similar Elemental constitution. Some Adepts in your vocation prefer the clay alternatives. However, your problem isn’t the ash – it’s coordination. As a pair, you rely on each other absolutely. You,” he nodded at the guy, “adjust your evocation timing for her. You’re the Exorcist; she’s the Extinguisher. Don’t force your own rhythm; lead with consideration. Like in the other Two Gates: coitus.” They eyed him suspiciously and without gratitude. The urge to cringe or retort eluded them both. “If you go too fast, she can’t follow. If you lag, she can’t close. Control yourself, time it with her breathing. You’ll last longer – in the act and as a duo – if you sync up your techniques. That you can practice without wasting ash.”

  “Another thing,” he said, fanning the crumpled banknotes in front of them reproachfully. “Use an envelope next time and exchange your rumpled bills for newer ones. Use the post office for both, but not a nearby one. It’s basic decency.”

  “Thanks for the lecture. We’ll keep it in mind,” he said mildly.

  “He probably won’t, but I will,” she said acerbically.

  Elias returned a polite smile and stashed the money into the envelope Lukas had given him.

  *

  The florist’s shop occupied the ground floor of a narrow building on a quiet street. A green awning hung above the entrance, and a small bell usually rang whenever someone came in. Behind the counter, a glass door opened onto a deeper space, larger than the shop itself. Anya was in the back of the walled garden, whistling while she worked. A line of ferns waited on the bench beside her, their roots loosened and ready for new soil. She wore dark dungarees and a sleeveless white top, the fabric clinging to her shoulders and chest where the heat had caught it. Her fawnish skin was tanned and dusted with soil, her brown hair pinned up but coming loose, curls falling around her gleeful face as she leaned over the workbench.

  “People who work with life never seem to wither.”

  “Ah, there’s my seedling,” she straightened and brushed her hands against her thighs, approaching him with unyielding intent. She was tall and solidly built, older than Elias by a few years.

  “Mm,” he acquiesced as she pressed her full chest against him in an embrace. He inhaled unreservedly. Caramel, earthy tones rising through recent perspiration. Jaggery. She never disappoints.

  “I hope you brought something more than just yourself this time,” she whispered into his ear and released him. “Not that I really mind,” she added, pinching his cheek.

  Elias exhaled, smiled and placed the wrapped package of substrate on the closest raised surface. Anya peeled back the paper, revealing the rich, finely textured material within.

  “This is going to make them very happy.” She patted the side of the package and looked at him with satisfaction. “You and your secret composts. I can barely sprout a morel after rain, but you’re a natural mycophile.”

  “I don’t grow them like you do. Things just deliquesce and disintegrate in my hands,” he protested. “As they say: Shrunk like a shroom, swell like a stalk.”

  “Naughty and modest,” she laughed. “No one says that, but never mind – I’ve got something in my repertoire to dump on you.” Anya disappeared into a corner of her garden. When she returned, it was with a plant nearly his height. The leaves were shiny and sharp.

  “Your newest Artistic attempt?” he inquired, unable to place the species.

  “A failure,” she declared, placing it between them. “Name it and it’s yours. I didn’t bother.”

  “The thing is massive. I’m not sure how I’ll carry it back.”

  “Oh, and another thing.” Anya reached for a paper envelope behind the corner and handed it over to him.

  *

  The train car was quiet, humming along the track with the reliable efficiency of Eisenstadt’s lifeblood system. Elias sat, nearly invisible behind a hide of green. He held the plant between his legs, the pot heavy on the floor, its massive leaves obscuring most of his upper body. From the outside, it seemed as if a plant had taken the ride alone. An already wearied salaryman across the aisle kept sneaking glances, trying to determine whether there was, in fact, a face behind the foliage. Elias stared absently past the leaves, watching the city blur bluely through the window. The combination of gentle colors made him doze off until the correct station was announced.

  Elias carried the clay pot in both hands, careful not to tilt the damp soil or break the long stem. He reached Lucy’s clinic to drop the cumbersome thing off. Trying the handle, finding it locked, he lowered the plant and searched his pockets for the key. With a sigh of familiarity, he entered below the wooden sign showing a carved emblem of a shin and foot, assembled from knotted roots, hollow bones, and curling mycelium, the whole thing leaning toward both life and decay. His last name was inscribed below it.

  The bust of Veyovis-Akeso greeted him, face stern and serene, her neck ringed with a scatter of wilted wreaths. He set the plant down next to the syncretic divinity in the hallway, brushed his palms, and looked around. One shoe lay tipped against the wall, the other abandoned halfway up the stairs, a trail more suggestive than subtle. He called out:

  “Lucy? Got something for you.”

  A male voice erupted from upstairs, loud and rapturous, vociferous in its praise. Elias blinked, caught off guard. Her technique resonates. Saints shelter him. Silence fell just as suddenly, broken only by muffled gasps and the creak of swift steps on the parquet above. From the landing, Lucy’s words reached him, steady but unseen. “Lief? I thought I gave you furlough for the week. If it’s work, I’m already busy up here.”

  Elias tilted his head, a grin forming only for himself. “You are? Must be one of your holistic treatments. Down-and-up.”

  “This one skipped the downstairs part,” she replied dryly. “Strictly upstairs.”

  “Treating yourself, then.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He nudged the clay pot with his boot. “I just came by to leave this plant. Anya insisted I take it with me. It’s a whole lotta clutter down here, you might bring it upstairs. Your… patient-friend can help haul it after his Hymn of the Healed.”

  “Uh-huh,” she repeated definitively and returned to her den. The parquet squeaked, a door shut.

  The walk north was familiar, a slow climb through tight thoroughfares and storefronts that widened until the crowds and traffic thickened. The intensity of the Central Districts leaked through the many arteries of the Eisenring surrounding it. As he reached Findrake Street, the flow of pedestrians dispersed again. Trams passed by every few minutes, but his thoughts stayed on the chipped stone steps, the familiar rounded windows, the smell of varnish and undispellable dust. He didn’t notice the cranes until they loomed over him, yellow against the sky.

  The library was gone. In its place stood a new building, modern and nearly finished. Three months. How? No… The fencing had been pushed back; workers were rinsing down the pavement, sweeping away the last piles of plaster and grit. Trucks were idling at the curb, loaded with debris. The square intruder already gleamed with clean angles and mirrored glass. Elias stood there a while, hands in his coat pockets, trying to find the steps that weren’t there. The library had been old and cramped, but it had belonged to the street. The new one had invaded the plot overnight and confidently, polishing away memory.

  A few men sat along the curb outside the construction fence, their vests unzipped, eating and smoking under the shade of the scaffolding. One of them balanced a plastic cup on his knee, his cigarette floating above and dropping ash inside. Elias slowed beside him, still staring at the alien building behind the fence. He turned to the man. “What happened to the library?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

  The worker glanced up, surprised but not offended. “That old thing? It went down quickly,” he said, judging Elias’ confused and pitiable face. “We’re nearly done putting this one up. Whole thing’s going to be glass in another week.”

  “Renovation… When do they bring the books back?” he demanded, frowning.

  “Renovation?” The worker laughed. “The books have been shipped to Central and aren’t coming back here. This isn’t a library anymore, son.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Some kind of obscure government Bureau, I think,” he said and turned to his crew, most of whom shrugged and offered little of value. “Anyway, it’s something under Internal Affairs. They commissioned it.” He pointed lazily toward the distant end of the Street, where Findrake converged into the Eisenring. The Ministry’s fa?ade gleamed behind busy traffic lines and lesser titans of administration.

  Despite the frost creeping up his legs and into his lower back, Elias snapped and stepped away. He backed into a section of scaffold, metal clanging against his backpack, turned in a stiff half-circle, and forced himself into a sprint. It’s nothing. They’re just moving. Buildings move. All things do. His shoes scraped the pavement as he inhaled inhospitable air. This is Eisenstadt. It swallows and spits out. Nothing… Crossing careless, ignoring even ringing red, he was in the street against the light. Red… A car horn blared, brakes shrieked, and the white-painted heat of it halted as he whisked past. The driver’s curse followed him, lost in the hiss pedestrians parting. Muttered complaints and brushed shoulders followed him until he found a narrower, emptier alley. By the time he reached the clinic, his chest burned, and his feet fluttered. Lucy St. Klara-Gavrilov was unaccompanied, her head lifting from a page as he stumbled inside, heaving.

  Eraic Lorebook: Era

  Era refers to the Elemental order. Supposedly, the term was once Eo Ra, meaning something like “dawning together.” This etymology is dubious; Era is likely just a resonant, meaningless name. It is used to describe the all-encompassing state in which the four Elements (Aer, Agn, Erd, and Wed) are configured. The defining factor is that their coexistence is within and through Time.

  Comments appreciated, questions welcome.