#cradleseries

“Dross? Lindon thought with desperate hope.

[Unless you pulled another mind spirit into your soul when I wasn’t looking. You didn’t do that right? I feel like I would have noticed, but things did get a little weird when Ghostwater collapsed on us.]

Lindon thought of the bright vivid blue that had consumed the world only moments ago. It was easy to recognize now, or perhaps to remember, as the last time Lindon had experienced that sensation was right here— on the stage of the Seven Year Festival— after the Heavenly Messenger Suriel had shown him the outside world. 

He looked down to his hand, and saw the warm marble, clenched in his grasp. Whatever this was, he would handle it, and survive, and keep moving forward.

[Oh that’s good, like really good —the moving forward thing— because it’s starting to get a little awkward out here.]

Lindon pulled himself from his thoughts, and became aware of the murmuring of the crowd. Wei Jin Sairus had finished speaking, and the Unsouled had said nothing in response. He was risking his life with every second he disrespected the Patriarch by failing to answer.

He called out to the child elder of Heaven’s Glory, the words of the past flowing freely through his lips with the help of Dross. He needed to reach Yerin and Eithan, they would know what this was, they would know what to do, he just needed to survive to get to them.

Across the stage, Wei Jin Amon readied his spear. An Iron enforcer on the Path of the White Fox, Amon could move faster and hit stronger than Lindon could have dreamed of at this point in his life, his attacks would be false, tricks of madra that Lindon couldn’t even sense at this point in his life, but Lindon had his own trick up his sleeve.

Doss, battle plan.

[Ok, so the thing is, I’d love to give you a battle plan, and I absolutely will, when I can. Except I’ve never seen this man before in my life, let alone seen his path or how he fights. Also? Your spirit is super small and cramped right now, and it’s really limiting my abilities.] 

[Like, I didn’t want to say anything before, because I thought maybe you might be ashamed of it. Not that you should be! Just that I would totally understand being deeply, deeply, embarrassed by the state of your spirit right now, I mean— you only have one core, and it’s tiny! Not what I had imagined when I first met you at all! That's why I'm pretty sure this isn't a dream —because your spirit is so weak that is. Uncomfortably tight in here. Oh you should probably duck now.]

Lindon dropped to the ground, Amon’s spear swinging through the place where his neck had been merely a moment before. 

He hadn’t even used a technique.

Jeers from the crowd echoed in Lindon’s ears as he rolled to the side, out of the way of a thrust of Amon’s spear that threatened to pin his body to the stage. Panic finally receded enough for Lindon to push his wisps of madra through his body, cycling the Soul Cloak. His movements became smooth and intentional, carrying him gracefully out of his desperate roll and into a ready and waiting stance.

Amon rushed forward once more and Lindon moved almost as if he had the surety of an Iron body once again, slipping under the reach of Amon’s spear, landing an Empty Palm on his core, and slamming his foot against the side of Amon’s own in one fluid step.

Amon stumbled and fell to the ground, his fall due more to the unexpected disruption of his madra than the kick. It had taken two strikes to cause Mon Keth to lose his footing, but he had been an Iron for decades, and Amon was only recently advanced to his stage and less sure in his power for it.

He wasn’t the only one who stumbled though, as Lindon felt his core abruptly grow dangerously low. He hadn’t paid attention to how rapidly the Soul Cloak was draining his limited supply of madra, and his Empty Palm was far more efficient at delivering power than it had been back when he was truly Unsouled. Between the two techniques he had already consumed far more than he was used to.

Amon was already rising to his feet, his spirit beginning to recover, and Lindon began to panic. If he dropped the Soul Cloak he would lose, and if he kept it up he would only last enough to land maybe two—

[One]

—One more Empty Palm against his foe. He had to make it count, and had to land it before Amon had finished recovering. Lindon eyed the edge of the arena, and how close Amon’s fall had brought him. Defeating Amon traditionally wasn’t an option, he’d after to remove him from the stage. 

With the Soul Cloak enforcing him still, Lindon threw himself towards Amon. Like following the steps of a dance, Lindon rushed forward, body twisting even as his arm raised, ready to redirect the momentum of Amon’s spear thrust against him in order to land his own strike. 

Pain blossomed in his side as his arm passed through nothing. The Foxtail. Amon had decided to use his sacred arts after all. Lindon gritted his teeth and pushed forward— biting down on his cries as his movement caused the head of the spear to erupt out the other side of his body— but it was enough. He was close enough to thrust his spike of pure madra into Amon’s core, pushing everything he had into this last technique. 

Amon’s eyes went wide as his madra lost all cohesion and the enforcement technique running through his body fell apart. Lindon shoved, and Amon fell backwards across the boundary of the arena. He needed to be sure though, and with a scream Lindon pulled the spear free from his side, turning its bloody point against the throat of Amon.

“I win” he said, his words echoing in the silence of the Festival grounds, and then he collapsed into unconsciousness.

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Tensions were high as the competition matches went on, everyone could feel it, everyone was on edge. For his part, Lindon had been more grateful that he hadn't been expected to fight, than focused on the potential for an attack. The previous Festival had been an exercise in humiliation, for both him and the clan, and neither desired a repeat.

It had been worth it though, he had thought, with his hand clasped tight around the copper badge he now wore. Disgraceful as his actions may have been, they had gotten him his path at last, even if his badge didn't show the hammer he had always longed for. More than the badge, was the freedom from his status as Unsouled, and all that such change brought with it. His other hand fell to his side and clasped the gentle fingers of the woman that stood by his side.

Unsouled were forbidden to court, let alone to marry, but Lindon had found companionship with an outsider, a woman from beyond Sacred Valley. Jai Chen had understood his struggles, reflected as they were in her own. She too was now free. Her brother had acquired her a vial of Grandfather's Tears nearly two years past, and the sacred elixir had repaired her ravaged channels. Chen had walked with Lindon to the festival under her own power, and Lindon could not have been more proud.

When the sky turned yellow with the overwhelming power of Earth Aura, chaos unfurled. The Wei, determined to counter the plans of their ancestral enemy before they could come to fruition, attacked with all their forces. It was a bloodbath. Despite the assumptions of the Wei Elders, the Kazan were as caught off guard by the changing sky as they were by the attack, and suffered massive casualties before rallying.

Though the sky may have not been their doing, the aura was still to their strength. Kazan rulers harnessed that power and massacred the Wei in their counter offensive. Even the Li were not content to remain bystanders, striking at backs of Wei and Kazan alike, determined to come out on top, as had been the way of Sacred Valley for a thousand generations.

In the moment, Lindon would have described it as feeling like the end of the world. His Foxtail wreathed blade flashed over and over again as he fought back to back with his sister Kelsa. They fought not for the honor of the clan, but for survival alone.

When the Beast stepped through the hills between Mount Samara and Mount Venture, Lindon learned what the end of the world truly meant. The tidal wave of earth displaced by the giant swept across the Valley with the sound of a billion tons of crashing earth. In an instant, the territory of the Wei clan was simply gone, buried beneath a hundred of feet of dirt and stone.

The chaos of battle was nothing compared to the pandemonium that followed. Lindon couldn't even bring himself to feel shame when his sister tossed both him and Chen over her shoulders and ran. The speed of her Iron Body far beyond what Lindon could have matched, even with his abilities as an enforcer.

They and a crowd composed of panicked Sacred Artists of every rank and every clan stormed the halls of the Golden Sword School, seeking shelter. Jade guardians attempted to block their path inward into the mountain and were torn to shreds for their efforts, letting the mass of humanity pour into the ancient passages beneath the earth.

Dust and rock fell from the ceiling as the walls and the very mountain above them shook beyond what it felt the world should be capable of bearing. It felt as if the great beast was clawing its way through the stone, determined to reach them. Wei, Li, and Kazan alike had spread through the rooms and halls, scattering away from their rivals seeking a place just for themselves to hole up in and defend. Lindon never knew what became of the others. He, Kelsa, and Chen had been running down a hall when the walls came alive with scripts flaring and flashing. The door before them vanished, and so did the shaking of the world.

Silence fell in an instant, and moments later a new door had opened. For hours they had wandered, before they found an exit.

Wei Shi Lindon was twenty-three years old when the mountains fell, but he did not perish. He and his family exited the halls at the depths of the world into a city of dragon bones, and lived.

He made a small noise of acknowledgment and tipped a little more crimson daggerroot onto his scales. This was not the first summons they had received. Both of their spirits had felt the tugging sensation from their Blood Shadows, calling them home to Redmoon Hall, to the Bleeding Phoenix. Only the Phoenix and Redmoon himself were capable of resonating with the shadows from such extreme of a distance, and neither Lindon nor Yan Shoumei had any interest in responding to their calls, but if Red Faith had sent a message of his own as well, then the whole sect was being gathered, and their presense was no long optional.

"I can be ready by first light tomorrow," he said, sweeping the daggeroot into the refiner once he was satisfied with the measurement. The dried root immediately began to smolder, releasing an acrid red smoke that was quickly swept away by script circles embedded over his workbench.

As much as Lindon would prefer to remain and continue working in this place that had become a second home, he in particular could not afford to ignore the summons of the Sage. Red Faith had taken an immediate interest in him when he arrived at Redmoon Hall as a half starved Jade with a unique Iron Body. Of course, the personal attention of the Blood Sage was as much curse as it was boon. While Lindon was shielded from the worst of Redmoon Hall, a target had been painted on his back for those jealous of the Sage's time and knowledge.

In some ways, Yan Shoumei had saved him, taking him under her own wing even as a young Lowgold herself, and when she left Redmoon Hall to return to her home, Lindon came with her. The years in Sailfin had been kinder than those at the Hall, or those back in Sacred Valley. Here the people treated him and Shoumei alike with respect and admiration rather than as monsters—as strangers were want to do when they traveled. Lindon's face had only grown more severe as he advanced, and the blood red eyes that served as his goldsign didn't help matters in the slightest. Between his appearance, his size, and his path, he tended to give a first impression that was unfortunately more "violent serial killer" than "gentle giant".

Not that Shoumei was much better. With her pale skin, raspy voice, and long black hair that so often fell in front of her face, she passed easily for a monster from a horror performance. The sight of the two of them together had, on more than one occasion, sent children crying to their parents, But not here. Here they were protectors and providers, keeping watch against the growing threat of Anagi and his minions.

He returned his focus to his current project, noting down the exact measurement of daggerroot that he had added, alongside its spiritual strength and source, which he'd already recorded. This was his 48th iteration of this spiritual refinement elixir, and while none of them had been failures since the fifth, there was always room for improvement, and improvement was what Lindon desperately needed. He'd reached the peak of Truegold over a year ago, and yet Underlord remain frustratingly out of his grasp. So he refined. Both elixirs and himself. His core sat behind his navel like a polished sphere of red marble, as dense, compact, and potent as he could manage before advancement, but it could never be enough.

It had been long years since he had first come to the realization of the true magnitude of the task he had undertaken. One could only spend so much time amongst a Dreadgod cult before understanding exactly what sort of threat can walk through mountains and require a Monarch's power to defend against after all. As a Truegold, Lindon was stronger than the vast majority of the inhabitants of Cradle, let alone his home of Sacred Valley. Even if he never advanced again he could live out his life in comfort as the head of a small village or sect out here in the wider world. And yet, as a Truegold, he stood as significant of a chance at defending Sacred Valley from the Wandering Titan as he had as an Unsouled.

Suriel had visited again around the time he had first stalled in his progress, drawing him into a vision of warning and apology. She had laughed at his urgency and impatience and reminded him that even she had not reached such heights of power in thirty years, let alone five. It had served to mollify him for a time… but then the stars went out.

All had witnessed the Battle of the Heaven's as the Man in Black fought against the Man of Bones and reality broke around them. The world had not ended, and Suriel had put everything right once again, but something had remained broken nonetheless. Tension filled the world and whispers filled the Dreamway. The Monarch factions were in motion and Lindon dreaded the outcome for those weaker than them. A Monarch's plans could be just as destructive and uncaring as a Dreadgod's foot. There were even concerns that the raging conflict of the Destroyers had disturbed the Dreadgods themselves. None had yet awoken, but the Phoenix's dreams had been disturbed by the fighting—anyone with a blood shadow could feel it.

If time was growing short, if he didn't have all of those years that Suriel had suggested... Well, his path would honestly be the same as always.

Improve.

He began finely dicing the heart of a Truegold fish that Shoumei and one of her fathers had pulled up this last week. It's species wasn't known to any of the fishermen in this area, but its scales radiated with the same sword aura it had been using to cut fishing lines and shred nets in the months since it had swam into their bay. It was an unexpected windfall and would hopefully elevate this latest elixir to greater heights.

As always, Shoumei waited patiently for Lindon to finish his cutting before continuing to speak.

"So... who's the guest?" she asked.

Lindon glanced up above his refiner, where a sacred artist hung suspended from the ceiling, glaring at him as if he wished to cut him to shreds with his very gaze. Which would have been more of a threat if not for the cocktail of reagents Lindon had stuffed him full of that served to keep his madra firmly out of his grasp.

"Ingredients." He said, and began weighing out the fish heart.

Lindon didn't have to turn around to know the unimpressed face Shoumei would be making at him from behind her long hair. He sighed and turned around.

"A Flashing Knife sect member I caught outside of their territory, sneaking around the edges of town in fact. Nothing Kestos could claim offense over, let alone something that could push Anagi to action."

"Ah, well, then by all means" she said, gesturing to the captive slaughter artist.

Lindon turned back, checked his notes once more, nodded , and then plunged a dagger into the man's heart. Blood immediately poured from the wound and down into the refiner, which Lindon allowed for only a moment before using a rudimentary ruler technique to redirect the rest of the falling lifeblood into some prepared vials.

After a short time, the struggles of the murderer ceased and the remnant began to form—red and silver essence coalescing into a growing mass, all sharp edges and rage. The nice thing about following a path of blood and sword was that there were always more slaughter artists, and people generally approved when they suddenly vanished. Lindon smiled and flooded the script he had carved beneath his refiner with madra.

Before him, swirling power grasped at the still forming remnant and began pulling it apart, sucking its power downward to join with the rest of the ingredients of his elixir. It would need twelve hours to refine, but Lindon felt certain that this version would be his most successful yet.

He ran his spiritual senses over the remnant that would never form and noted one last thing on his page.

"Alright, I'm finished. Apologies for the delay. Would you like to get dinner before we pack?"

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The sight of them sent his stomach churning. Combat was part of the sacred arts, and death was the natural result, but Lindon had remained fairly insulated from it in his life. He knew his parents had killed before, but he didn't know the details, and he certainly hadn't seen any bodies.

Now, he saw them wherever he looked. In his copper sight, the world was bathed in red, silver, and a sickly green. Lindon had finished processing his spiritual elixir that morning, and his significantly fuller core had taken on a the same shade of red that he saw painted on the world. He wondered if blood aura was always so easy to sense or if it was due to his new connection to it. Another possibility was that it was simply due to the sheer volume of blood that had been spilt here.

That certainly seemed to be the reason for the other two colors of aura. Legends among the Wei claimed that death aura was exceedingly rare and difficult to sense, nearly impossible for all but the most powerful Jades and for the worst of the clan-less, those murders that any of the three clans would execute on sight. The sickly green Lindon saw now couldn't be anything else, from the way it hovered over the corpses around him.

The sword aura was what truly awed him though. The shimmering silver seemed to fill the mountain, so dense and concentrated that it seemed to block out the light from Samara's ring. It sprung out from every fallen blade in ribbons of razor sharp silver, like echoes of a thousand strikes of a blade. Judging from the state of the bodies near those swords, that wasn't unlikely to be the truth of what had happened. More than the natural swords though, were the forged ones. They were everywhere, impossibly thin and sharp, yet gleaming as if they were of the natural world, visible even outside of his aura sight. This battle had clearly been fought days prior and still the Sword Sage's forged blades remained solid as steel.

The scene left Lindon marveling at the power of a Sage. Most of the fallen members of the Heavens Glory school wore Iron badges, but not all, and it did not even matter. Not even a host of Jades could defeat this man. It was a display of strength beyond everything Lindon had seen outside of his vision from Suriel. For all that it looked as if the school had been sacked by an invading army, the unbelievable truth was that this had been the work of a single man and his disciple.

And yet Suriel had said the Sage could not save Sacred Valley, that for Lindon to save his home he would not only need to reach this level of power, but surpass it. The idea made his mind spin, and he found himself clutching at the blue marble in his pocket, drawing comfort from its warmth. No matter how long the journey was, he had already taken the first steps, and now he needed to find the Sages trash, whatever that may be.

Finding the building shown to him by Suriel was both more and less difficult than he'd expected. The shape of the land had been permanently altered and building after building had been cast down, leaving no recognizable landmarks by which to navigate, but a clear pattern had emerged in the ruins of the school, a circle of destruction, growing more devastating with each step he took inwards.

At the center lay the basement he had been shown by Suriel. Just the basement. The rest of the building was simply gone. Bodies lay thicker on the ground here than anywhere else, as if they had been cut to shreds while laying siege to the building.

Lindon turned away from the grisly sight and dropped down into the basement. The script circle he had seen the Sage carving was unreadable, the runes charred and scorched by the power that had been channeled through them, but it was the object at the center that had his attention.

Its form shifted moment by moment, appearing in one second as a sphere or perhaps an egg, before stretching out tendrils that eventually collapsed inwards into an undulating mass once more. Lindon opened his aura sight to examine it and gagged. The mass was made of congealed blood madra beyond everything he had seen on the mountain—so dense that it seemed to stain the world, so potent he could taste it on his tongue.

Visions of slaughter, of a sky filled with blood, flashed through his eyes, threatening to overwhelm him, before he wrenched his eyes away and cut off his sight. His knees shook as he backed away from the horror and slid down the wall of the basement. This was what Suriel had sent him here for. Somehow, this thing was supposed to help him survive in the outside world.

Lindon glanced across the floor at the squirming mass and nearly vomited again. He didn't yet know how to use it, but such strong and condensed madra would certainly make for a powerful elixir, no matter how unpleasant the source. He hung his pack on a protrusion from the wall and pulled an empty ingredient jar from its depths, before cautiously advancing towards the bloody madra.

Chills ran down his spine as the madra seemed to react to his presence, its shifting and twisting movements accelerating the closer he approached. His jar shook in his hand, but still he leaned forward to scrape the mass in. Which is when it struck, a tendril spearing out from the mass towards his navel in a flash, and sinking into his skin.

Pain coursed through his body, but the true agony was in his spirit. The bloody madra had latched onto his core like a parasite and was draining him of his power as quickly as it could. Whatever connection it had formed when both ways though and impressions from the leech began to flash through his brain as it fed. Desperation, hunger, pain, greed, fear, desire.

It was hurt and weakened, but determined. Images began to join the impressions as Lindon tried ineffectively to expel the intruder from his spirit. Hundreds of moments like this, hundreds of people attacked, taken, puppeted.

His own power turned against him, feeding the parasite within his soul, which started to grow and stretch through his madra channels—filling them with its squirming mass, like a gory parody of his veins. Lindon had thought he knew agony, until the parasite began to push its tendrils out from his channels and into his flesh. His body jerked and flopped on the ground as those tendrils expanded, filling ever space they could find. Muscles and bones spasmed as the parasite flexed, attempting to assume control of him, body and spirit.

It felt like dying, and Lindon knew that for certain because he'd already tasted his own death. Despite all the power of the parasite consuming him, a shaking hand reached his pocket and found the warmth of Suriel's marble once again. He would not fail here. His will would be tempered steel. A Heavenly Messenger had sent him here, not to die, but to get stronger.

Waves of frustration rolled off the parasite, alongside images of a familiar girl, though much younger. Yerin, the disciple of the Sword Sage, who also defied its control, even as a child. Her willpower left Lindon awed, and his efforts to throw off the intruder redoubled.

He saw the sword sage binding the living madra, which he called a Blood Shadow, forming it into the shape of the red belt Lindon had seen Yerin wearing. But Lindon didn't want to just ignore it get rid of it as they had done. This trash that a Sage would discard was to be his treasure—his path out of Sacred Valley.

Madra within his core stirred as he began to cycle, looping it around and around again, and then forcing it forward, and into the parasite. The shadow's spirit was revealed as clearly as he could visualize his own, and Lindon realized with a shock that they weren't that different at all. All of the madra that the shadow had consumed from him swirled within it, mixing and blending with its own, and Lindon's own hunger surged at the sight and at the understanding that flooded him. Suriel had led him to the Bloodmaker Pill, not just to start his advancement, but for this very purpose. His core had taken on an affinity for the power of blood so that he could use this monstrous thing.

He pulled, cycling his madra back into his spirit, and the power within the shadow resonated within him, and responded to his call. Panic burst from the parasite but Lindon did not cease cycling. With each rotation of his spirit more of his power returned to him, and brought even more with it. Lindon cycled it all, processing it like he had the Bloodmaker pill, making it his own, making himself stronger.

Memories came with each flood of power. Flashes of voices and images, incomprehensible in their cacophony. Lindon's brain swam with the cascade of information, but he refused to lose control, not now. Sword madra joined the strength of blood flowing through his spirit—the power this thing had taken from Yerin, Lindon made it his own as well.

His core, which had been so small and undefined merely days before, was once again full to bursting and Lindon couldn't help but grin through a mouth full of blood. He must have bitten his tongue at some point while fighting for control, but that didn't matter. The parasite's struggles were fading, and this time, he knew what he has doing.

Power drew back from his extremities, pulling back along the new extensions of his madra channels that the blood shadow had carved, until it formed the shell around his core. Lindon squeezed, and blacked out.

He came back to his senses to the sound of shouting. Up above him, at the edge of the basement stood a disciple of Heaven's Glory, his face red with fury. Lindon's sight was sharpened by his advancement, as if he had been viewing the world through sheer cloth his whole life. Which just meant that he could see the golden power of a striker technique gathered around the man's hand in perfect detail.

Two voices whispered in his mind, overlapping each other.

When you're alone, first look for a weapon.

The basement was splattered with black sludge, coating nearly everything, including Lindon's body, but a shining shard of forged madra stuck out of the sludge nearby. The fragment emanated such powerful aura that Lindon's hand split open before he even grasped it, but grasp it he did, his blood flowing over the blade like water.

When the time is right. You shed blood.

Lindon looked up once more, and stirred his madra according to an instinct that was not his own, cycling in a technique he did not know. The Heaven's Glory disciple raised his fist to release his technique, but Lindon moved first. His blade flashed, and an arc of red and silver erupted outwards, taking the man's head off at the neck.

The world was quiet. The shouting ceased. Lindon waited, for another voice to call out in anger, for another whisper in his mind, for a reaction to the fact that he had just taken his first life. Nothing more came. His mind had been bombarded with such visions of slaughter that this act of self defense failed entirely to compare. The body that had fallen into the basement looked no different than those he had walked past all this morning.

His pack had luckily been spared from the filth of his advancement. He dropped the sword fragment to grab it and leaped up out of the sludge filled pit in a single jump. It felt as easy as taking a single step. Iron. In less than a week, Lindon had achieved the same heights in the sacred arts as the rest of his family. It felt as surreal as everything else did. Back home, this would have been cause for a celebration, but here on this mountain top he had no one to share the triumph with.

When you're alone… he thought, echoing the voices of the Sword Sage and his disciple. Swords and weapons of all types lay scattered around, Lindon picked up a few and hefted them. None of them truly felt right in his hands, but they were better than a shard that cut himself as easily as his enemies, and definitely better than nothing. Lindon strapped one the least offensive one to his waist and waited.

No more voices whispered in his mind with helpful advice, but he did feel a prodding sensation from deep within his spirit. There wrapped around his core, diminished and weakened, but clearly alive, the Blood Shadow remained. Lindon was shocked, he thought he had destroyed the thing entirely, consumed it completely. The prodding came again, along with flashes of images—a city in a desert, a fortress in the sky, a sect full of people accompanied by blood shadows of every shape and size. A direction.

Lindon was wary of a trap, but had little else to go on. He tugged his pack onto his back and turned south east, putting Sacred Valley behind him, and walked.

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Luckily, they had finished, and his mother would be busy overseeing the distribution of the elixirs rather than making any more. The refinery was his and his alone for the next three days. His key glowed brightly for a moment as he passed the boundary fields engraved into the foundation of the workshop and the frame of the door, which let him pass unhindered.

The ingredient store was situated at the back of the building, past the various refiners, sinks, preparation areas, and the stool where he had spent years sitting, watching as his mother worked miracles. The storeroom itself was more of an alcove than a room, filled with shelving and fantastic ingredients of all types. Lindon grabbed a basket as he arrived and set to collecting.

Four downy shrike feathers and a branch of a marauder root went into his basket, followed by three greenheart leaves, which carried the required life-aspect, and then the fire-aspect blood essence... Lindon's hand closed around the last jar and paused. While not particularly difficult to acquire, essence represented something far different than branches or feathers. Plants could be cultivated or foraged, animals could be raised or hunted, but essence... essence required investment from the Clan. Essence required the time and skills of an Iron capable of hunting down remnants. Essence required the expertise of refiners like his mother.

In many ways these last two ingredients represented everything that he had been denied by the Wei, and taking them would be crossing a line he could never step back from. His hand tightened around the jar as he shook himself free of the hesitation. His decision had already been made the moment he walked out his door. Lindon's future was death. Whether in thirty years, three days, or anywhere in between. He couldn't take any opportunity for power for granted.

When his treachery was discovered he would be labeled a traitor and stripped of his family name. He would likely be killed on the spot by any Wei that were to come across his path. Unless the next time they saw him he was too strong to be touched. Unless he improved himself.

Lindon placed the jar in his basket, as well as the one of water-aspect blood essence, and then he swept the rest of the shrike feathers and greenheart leaves in as well. He could almost hear his mothers voice in his mind as he walked back to the refiner, whispering the explanations she had given over the years as she explained the process of refinement in terms a child could understand.

Balance. Balance was the key to every successful elixir and the constant challenge of refinement. Every ingredient carried aspects and sub-aspects of madra, and most of them conflicted with each other. The talent of a refiner came in their ability to understand their ingredients and find that balance.

The Bloodmaker recipe, like many refinement recipes, did not include measurements for all of its ingredients. It was expected that the refiner would be able to appropriately discern the correct measurement of materials such as essence. Lindon didn't have that skill yet, but he had watched the work of his mother for as long as he could remember, and he was confident that the recipe as written only required a thimbleful of each essence to achieve balance.

The clan would damn him just as certainly for a splash of essence as they would for a jar, he thought as he set his basket down in front of his mother's eighth grade refiner, rather than the twelfth. Anything lesser would be unable to condense down his additional ingredients to a single pill, but anything better would have been beyond his ability to use.

Technically all of this was beyond his ability. He lacked Copper or Jade eyes to truly see what he was doing on a spiritual level, but the certainty of his coming death and the recency of his last one bolstered him into taking the risk.

He poured the entire jar of fire aspect blood essence into the heart of the refiner and twisted the crystal flask beneath it to flood it with power. Within the ornate metal the essence began to boil immediately. Next, came the shrike feathers, twenty four of them, dropped together as one mass into the bubbling essence. They ignited nearly instantly as they reacted with the aspect of fire now concentration within the refiner, burning away and leaving nothing behind. Lindon's mother had explained that their power remained within the refiner, waiting to be incorporated, but this step of the process looked the same as it always did to him, like nothing.

Undeterred, he moved on to the marauder root branches. Two should be sufficient, as they served more of a stabilizing purpose than anything related to the actual balance of the elixir. The first stick went in and Lindon stirred the mixture clockwise twice before the branch ignited as well. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, whether from the heat or the intensity of his focus he could not tell, but he dared not stop to wipe it away. The second branch went in and he began to stir counter clockwise, snatching his hand back as the length of shaved branch caught fire almost immediately.

Inside the refiner the blood essence roiled energetically, threatening to escape the confines of the shaped metal if not for the protective scripts etched into its surface. The next step in according to the six sided star method would be for him to add the greenheart leaves, before balancing with the water aspect blood essence, but, as Lindon watched the fiery concoction rage inside, he couldn't help but hesitate, considering the balance of the elixir.

The fire aspect essense provided the power for the initial reaction, the feathers were the fuel, stoking that power to greater heights. The branches were supposed to stabilize, and the leaves to direct, before the water aspect essence calmed the reaction and completed the balance. That is how it should have gone, but the marauder root shouldn't have burned so easily either. Warnings from his mother sounded like alarm bells in his head and stayed his hand. The life essence was intended as a focus for the elixir, the heart of its final form, but that life force could easily burn up in the barely contained blaze.

Carefully, Lindon uncorked the bottle of blood aspect essence and poured in a small amount. The liquid hissed and spluttered, and the temperature in the room immediately cooled. A single leaf was added and did not ignite instantly, smoldering and releasing a sweet aroma instead. Lindon grinned and added another splash of essence, switching back and forth between the two reagents until he had added the last of both.

He collapsed back against a nearby table in exhaustion, his muscles were stiff and his neck strained, but he had done it. All that was left was to wait.

The last of my recently completed chapters, though I have much of chapter 4 written and bits and pieces of various chapters up to 14 in my notes.

I did change the method of refinement for the Bloodmaker to more closely match the style of refinement revealed in the deleted scene from Blackflame, and also because this sounded more interesting than just weighing, combining, and shaping.