Ingrid Kane leaned over the frail body of the dying man, her white eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of her hidden laboratory. The air smelled of sterile chemicals. In the background, the soft hum of machinery droned. Her fingers hovered over a series of syringes filled with a viscous silver liquid. The man, gaunt and shivering, looked up at her with hollow eyes. He was one of the few who came willingly, desperate enough to place his life in her hands.
“You understand what this means,” Ingrid said, her voice clinical and detached. “There are no guarantees.”
He nodded weakly, unable to speak through the weight of his illness. The disease had ravaged him, stealing his strength, his dignity, his future. But Ingrid Kane had promised hope, the same hope she had given others before him.
“Then we shall begin.”
Ingrid selected one of the syringes and inserted the needle into a port attached to the man’s arm. The silver liquid shimmered as it disappeared into his bloodstream. She watched the instruments that reported heart rate, blood density, everything. Then she waited.
Minutes passed. The man’s body began to convulse, his back arching against the metal table. Veins darkened. Blood thrummed beneath his skin. A light flashed, but Ingrid remained calm, her expression unreadable. She expected this. It was part of the process.
Finally, the man grew still. His body sagged back onto the table, motionless. The flashing ceased. Ingrid frowned.
“Subject twenty-nine,” she murmured to herself. “Another failure.”
She walked to a cabinet at the far end of the lab, her mind already racing toward the next steps. Vials, journals, and strange apparatuses—some of her own design, others relics of eslar technology long forgotten—cluttered the room. It had been months since she had gone into hiding, evading the authorities and her peers, who once called her a visionary. But she was close now. Closer than ever.
The vital extraction process had nearly reached perfection. One could siphon, transfer, even restore the essence of life itself—but the challenge was keeping the recipient alive long enough for the body to accept it. So far, no one had survived the full transfer. Yet Ingrid refused to give up. The answers were within reach.
A soft knock echoed throughout the room, pulling Ingrid from her thoughts. She stiffened, her hand reaching for a concealed blade beneath her desk. She hadn’t been expecting anyone.
“Enter,” she called, her voice betraying nothing.
The door creaked open, revealing a young, eslar woman with deep blue skin and wide, frightened eyes. She wore a patched cloak, and dirt caked her bare feet. Behind her stood a small boy, no older than six, clinging to her leg. The boy’s skin was pale, much paler than it should have been for one of their kind. Sunken eyes marked his face, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
“I . . . I heard you could help,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “Please, my son . . . . He’s dying.”
Ingrid’s gaze flicked between the mother and the child. It wasn’t uncommon for people from the slums to seek her out. They had all heard the rumors—whispers of the rogue scientist who could perform miracles. But this child’s condition was far worse than that of the man who had just died on her table. He had only days left, perhaps hours. Yet something in the woman’s voice stirred an old, forgotten part of Ingrid.
Compassion.
“Come in,” Ingrid said, stepping aside to allow them entry. “Tell me what happened.”
The woman guided her son to a nearby cot, gently laying him down. She brushed his hair back with trembling hands. “It’s a sickness of the blood,” she said. “No healer in the city could stop it. They claim it’s a curse, but I know it’s not. Please, you’re our last hope.”
Ingrid’s gaze focused on the boy, her mind already assessing the situation. His skin was becoming translucent, and his lips had turned a deep blue. She didn’t need to run tests to know he wouldn’t survive the night without intervention. But the question was whether he could endure what she was about to offer. And if his mother was willing to accept the price.
“You understand,” Ingrid said slowly, “that what I do is experimental.”
The mother’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. “I don’t care what it takes. Save him.”
For a moment, Ingrid hesitated. In another life, she might have been a true healer. In another life, she could have walked a path that didn’t lead to hidden laboratories and whispered accusations of monstrosity. But this was the path she had chosen, and she knew what she had to do.
“I can save him,” Ingrid said, her voice even. “But the process requires an exchange.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “Exchange?”
Ingrid nodded. “To heal his body, I must draw the life force from another. It’s the only way.”
The woman’s face went pale. She glanced down at her son, his tiny chest barely moving. “You mean . . . someone else has to die?”
Ingrid didn’t answer. The silence was enough. She could see the horror and confusion in the woman’s eyes. Ingrid had seen that look before. She had seen it on her colleagues, on the faces of those who had once admired her, before they learned the truth of her work.
“I don’t have any other choice,” Ingrid said quietly. “If you want him to live, you must decide. Bring me someone. But do it quickly before it’s too late.”
The woman looked torn, her hands shaking as she reached for her son’s hand. Tears dripped onto the boy’s pale skin. The moment stretched out, long and suffocating, until finally, the woman lifted her gaze, her voice a whisper.
“Take me.”
Ingrid blinked, surprised. “You would give your life for him?”
“I’m his mother,” the woman said. “If it means he lives, then yes. Take me.”
For a long moment, Ingrid stared at her. A mother’s love. She had never understood it, never experienced it herself. But here it was, raw and real, laid bare before her. Something stirred inside Ingrid’s chest, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
She turned away, her hand hovering over the controls of her machine. “Very well,” she whispered. “Lie down next to your son.”
Still clutching his hand, the woman obeyed. As Ingrid prepared the equipment, she focused on the delicate procedure ahead. But as she worked, a quiet inner voice asked if this was the right path. How many more lives would she take in the name of healing?
Ingrid shook the thought away, hardening her heart once more. The price of immortality was steep, and she had long since accepted that it wasn’t hers to question.
The machine whirred to life, and the extraction process began.
This story featured the following characters from The Alchemancer series:
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