The door to his room closed with a soft click that sounded like a cell locking. Irelion dumped the bag of materials onto his small table, the Fire-Ant cores rolling across the scarred wood with faint clicking sounds, each one pulsing with barely contained energy.
One night. He had one night to turn theory into survival.
Chen was already asleep, his snoring a rhythmic rasp that would serve as both cover and timer. If the noise stopped, Irelion would have seconds to hide his work before his roommate woke.
He laid out the components with the care of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. Two Fire-Ant cores—volatile, unstable, angry with compressed flame. A handful of Cinder-Bloom petals—the catalyst that would turn potential energy into kinetic death. Dried Iron-nettle leaves— nature's shrapnel, sharp enough to draw blood at a touch.
Ravenna's voice echoed across the decades, bright with mischief and practical wisdom.
"The secret isn't in the ingredients, it's in the ratios. Too much core and you get a fireball with no force. Too much catalyst and it ignites in your hand. But get it just right..." She'd snapped her fingers, grinning. "...and you get beautiful, efficient violence."
He'd called it crude at the time. Unworthy of a Saint's attention.
Now that crude knowledge was all that stood between four disciples and a mass grave.
The grinding was the dangerous part. He took a loose stone from the wall and wrapped his metal bowl in cloth strips torn from an old shirt, muffling the sound to a dull scraping. The Fire-Ant core resisted the pressure, its shell designed by nature to contain explosive force. He ground slowly, applying steady pressure, feeling the energy inside fighting to be released.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool night air. One spark. One moment where the grinding stone struck metal instead of core. That's all it would take to turn this room into a crater and wake the entire barracks to investigate the corpse of their most forgettable disciple.
The core cracked, then crumbled into coarse red powder that seemed to shimmer with internal heat. He carefully transferred it to a clean cloth, then started on the second core.
Chen's snoring hitched.
Irelion's hands froze mid-grind, the stone hovering over the half-crushed core. His breath caught in his throat. The snoring had stopped completely, replaced by the rustling of blankets and a low, sleepy grumble.
Ten seconds passed. Each one felt like an hour.
Then Chen snorted loudly, rolled over with a heavy thump, and resumed snoring—somehow even louder than before.
Irelion released his held breath and finished grinding the second core with hands that trembled slightly from more than just exertion.
The Cinder-Bloom petals came next, releasing their sharp, sulfuric scent as he crushed them. The smell was unmistakable—like striking flint in a fireworks shop. He worked quickly, knowing the odor would dissipate before morning but not wanting Chen to wake to a room that reeked of explosive materials.
Finally, the Iron-nettle. He broke the dried leaves carefully, creating fragments just large enough to be lethal without being so large they'd add excessive weight. Each piece was a tiny blade, sharp enough to slice his fingers as he worked. Small drops of blood mixed with the plant matter, and he had the dark, bitter thought that perhaps that was appropriate— blood mixed with the tools meant to spill more blood.
The mixing required the precision of a master alchemist and the faith of a desperate gambler. He combined the powders in ratios Ravenna had shown him during a quiet night between battles, when she'd been so excited to share her discoveries that she'd barely let him sleep.
"Three parts core to two parts catalyst to one part nettle. Any more and you're making a suicide vest. Any less and you're wasting good materials."
He worked by the faint moonlight filtering through the window, his movements slow and deliberate. Each bomb took twenty minutes to assemble— wrapping the mixture in oiled cloth, binding it tight with twine, leaving a small tail of catalyst-soaked fabric as a fuse.
By the time dawn's first grey light touched the window, he had five crude bombs arranged on his table. They were ugly things, lumpy and irregular, smelling of sulfur and desperation. They looked nothing like the elegant weapons a Saint should wield.
But Ravenna had taught him that elegance was a luxury. Survival required only effectiveness.
He tucked three bombs into his pack, cushioning them with spare clothes. Two more went into his pockets, positioned carefully so they wouldn't jostle against each other. The weight was constant, a reminder pressing against his ribs with every breath.
In the water basin, he caught sight of his reflection—a young man with old eyes, face pale with exhaustion, hands stained with powder residue that no amount of washing would completely remove before the mission.
He looked like a soldier preparing for a battle he'd already lost.
But this time, he wasn't fighting alone. This time, he had Ravenna's legacy in his pockets and the desperate hope that crude, inelegant violence would be enough to rewrite fate.
He hoped she'd forgive him for taking forty-seven years to appreciate what she'd tried to teach him.
He hoped even more that her lessons would be enough to save the woman whose death had started this impossible journey.
Chen stirred in his cot, finally waking as dawn broke. He sat up, yawning, then paused and sniffed the air suspiciously.
"Smells like... sulfur?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Bad dreams," Irelion said without turning from the basin. "I was sweating. Probably just the smell of cheap soap and fear."
Chen laughed, accepting the explanation without question. "Yeah, I get those too. Today's the Blackwood patrol, right? You nervous?"
"No," Irelion lied, his hand unconsciously touching the pocket where two bombs waited. "Just ready."