A newly built shed stood in the castle's rear garden, its walls lined with wooden planks except for two window-like openings.
At its center lay a three-meter square pit lined with gray bricks and filled with compacted clay. Mixed with water, the soil became fire-resistant yet malleable—easy to shape with a trowel. Iron ingots scavenged from the blacksmith by Sir Kael Thornwood lay piled beside it. A nearby well had convinced Cedric to build the shed here.
For a laboratory, it remained crude. Cedric sighed. A night's hasty preparations couldn't yield perfection. A proper workshop would wait until Bartholomew finalized his reports.
"Sleep well last night?"
He turned to Elara Vey, whose bewildered expression contrasted starkly with her prison gauntness. Washed and groomed, her chestnut hair now cascaded in soft waves, her youthful skin flushed with health. Faint freckles dotted her nose, and though still slender, color had returned to her cheeks. The bruises on her neck had faded—likely accelerated by her magic.
"I'd have let you rest longer," Cedric said, circling her appraisingly, "but time's scarce. The clothes fit?"
Her outfit catered to his whims: a modified servant's dress with shortened sleeves and hem, a folded collar tied with a ribbon—proto-maid attire. Paired with a pointed hat (custom), knee-high boots (repurposed), and a calf-length cape (tailored), she resembled a storybook enchantress.
"Your Highness… what do you require of me?"
Elara struggled to parse the prince's motives. Dragged from the dungeon in a sack, she'd expected execution. Instead, she'd been bathed, groomed, and dressed in fabrics softer than clouds. Steward Alden (the white-bearded elder) had presented a contract: monthly pay of one Gold Dragon for her services.
Her miner father had earned one Silver Wolf at best—a hundred of which equaled a single Gold Dragon. What service could justify such wealth? Whispers among the maids suggested carnal duties, yet Cedric hadn't touched her. Instead, she'd slept on a bed so luxurious it stole consciousness instantly.
Lunch—bread, cheese, steak seasoned with pepper—had reduced her to tears. If such beauty existed in the world, perhaps resisting the magic's corruption was worth enduring.
Now, standing in this shed neither prison nor palace, Elara resolved to comply—whether donning absurd garb or wielding her cursed gift.
"Master your power," Cedric said. "Practice until you control it utterly."
"You mean the devi—"
"Your power," he corrected, kneeling to meet her gaze. "Most fear what they don't understand. They'll call it evil, but you've never believed that, have you?"
He recalled her dungeon laugh—too defiant for self-loathing.
"I've only used it once," she whispered. "Against the thief."
"Self-defense isn't evil. People fear warriors less because they comprehend their strength. Yours?" He grinned. "A mystery. But I'm not afraid."
"Because it's mine?"
"Precisely. Now"—he gestured to the clay pit—"let's begin."