Chapter 109: Race Change?
Franklin stood at Snow's alchemical workstation, his sharp eyes scanning the jars and bundles of herbs neatly arranged on the shelves. He ran his gnarled fingers over a knotted piece of ginger root and nodded approvingly. "Thith'll do," he muttered, his voice carrying the soft lisp of a toothless old man. "Ginger root, Zingiber officinale. Ith antifungal, though not the motht potent. We'll uthe it ath a bathe for the thpray."
Snow stood beside him, watching attentively. "What else do we need?" she asked, her hands reaching for tools and vials.
Franklin tapped the table thoughtfully, then pointed to another jar. "Licorith root," he said. "Containth glycyrrhizin. It'll thlow the growth of the funguth."
Snow blinked. "Gly... Glycy what now?"
Franklin repeated, unhelpfully, "Glycyrrhizin, called Glycyrrhiza glabra. A chemical in licorith."
Snow uncorked the jar and handed it to him. "I've used licorice in healing potions before. Never thought of it as an antifungal."
Franklin chuckled happily. "It'th about how you uthe it. Glycyrrhizin maketh the environment too hothtile for the funguth to thpread." He rummaged further, picking up a dark shard of cinnamon bark. "And thith, cinnamon. It'th a heavy hitter. Will break down the funguth'th membrane."
Snow began grinding the cinnamon bark in a mortar and pestle, her movements precise. "How finely should I grind this?"
"Fine ath you can," Franklin replied. "The more thurface area, the better the extraction."
As Snow worked, Franklin pulled out a clove of garlic and held it up. "Garlic. Allium thativum. Containth thulfur compoundth. Very lethal to fungith. Do you have a preth?"
Snow retrieved an enchanted press and handed it over. Franklin crushed the garlic, adding it to the pile of ingredients. He glanced at her, his weathered face softening. "You've got quite the collection here, girl. Been gatherin' from the Highlandth?"
Snow nodded. "I take what I find on my travels. Some of it's just trial and error, though. Magic helps where science doesn't."
Franklin hummed thoughtfully, dropping the crushed garlic into a small cauldron. "Well, trial and error ith how we learn. But let'th keep the magic thubtle for now, too much might interfere with the chemicalth."
Snow adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, letting the mixture simmer softly. "And after this is extracted?" she asked.
"We dilute it and thpray it on a thample," Franklin replied, picking up a flask of moonflower extract. "Thith'll therve ath a tholvent. It'll draw out the compoundth from the ingredient-th."
Snow leaned closer, her green eyes narrowing. "Do you think it'll work?"
Franklin's lips curled into a faint smile. "If it doethn't, we'll try thomethin' elthe. That'th how we beat theth thingth."
They worked in tandem, Snow learning quickly under Franklin's guidance. As they distilled the mixture, she grew comfortable with his lisp, no longer second-guessing his words. By the time the solution was ready, her movements mirrored his precision.
Franklin handed her the finished spray bottle. "Go on, girl. Moment of truth."
Snow sprayed the solution onto an infected leaf, ensuring even coverage. Both watched closely as the white fungal patches stopped growing. Snow's eyes grew wide, and she turned to Franklin expectantly. "It's too weak," she said uncertainly. "It's not growing, but it's not dying either."
Franklin tugged at his lower lip. "How abouth the planth? Did the thpray hurt the planth?"
Snow shook her head. "No. And that's good, right?"
Franklin smiled broadly, toothless. "That'th good!!" They shimmied with partial success, but Franklin paused. "But naught good enuth. We need thomeone to juice up our potion."
Snow paused, thinking. "Well, we can juice up the potion to make it more potent. Magical potency, maybe. But I don't think anyone here knows how to apply the intent correctly... Well, you would, if you could do magic."
Franklin raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Me? Magic? Ha, girl, I'm probably far too oldth for that'th."
Snow tilted her head thoughtfully. "Maybe you aren't too old. Let me check something." She stepped away, closing her eyes to focus inwardly. "Moira? Are you there?"
Moira's soft presence stirred in Snow's mind, her voice strained and hurried. "I'm here, Snow, but it's... not a good time. Things are tense outside."
Snow hesitated but pushed forward. "I need your help. This man, Franklin Manning, is helping me create a solution for the fungus. I think he might be a good candidate for the spark. Can I give it to him?"
Moira paused, frustration evident. "A moment." After a faint pause, her voice returned, calmer. "I need a single drop of his blood to tell. That will give me what I need to know."
Snow turned back to Franklin, who was carefully wiping down the mortar and pestle. She offered a soft smile. "Mr. Manning, can I ask for a small sample of blood? Just a tiny drop from your fingertip. It's for something important."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, curious but not alarmed. "Juth a drop? Thure, girl. Let'th thee what you're up to." He pricked his fingertip with a pin from Snow's workstation and held out the tiny bead of blood.
Snow gently touched it, just as Moira had instructed. Then she paused, waiting for the goddess's response.
Franklin sat back on the stool, flexing his fingers slowly. "Haven't had anyone athk me for blood thinthe the army." His voice was casual, but his eyes looked far away.
"You served?" Snow asked.
"Aye," he said. "Britith Army. Agricultural logithticth corps. I wath part of a thupport unit back in Afghanitthan. '07, give or take. Helped with the theed bankth, rotated cropth, ran thoil tewth. Not glamorouth, but it mattered."
He paused, glancing at the shelves as if they held somethin' long gone.
"There wath a lad in our team. Welth kid. Twenty-one. Quiet. Had a real gift with plantth—thingth jutht grew when he touched 'em. Didn't matter the dirt or the water. I uthed to think he'd change the whole bloody food chain."
Snow stayed quiet, listening.
"But the job took uth to Sangin. Convoy hit an IED, two mileth from bathe. Took him with it. Right after he finithhed diggin' irrigation channelth by hand." Franklin's voice didn't waver, but hith jaw clenched slightly.
Snow's expression softened. "I'm sorry."
Franklin nodded. "Me too. I didn't train anyone for a long time after that. Felt like I'd already thpent my miracle."
He looked back at her with a faint thmile. "But you—sharp eye, thteady hand, quick with the plantth... You remind me of him."
Snow held his gaze, her voice quiet. "That means a lot. Thank you."
Moira's voice returned, bright with excitement. "Oh yes! Definitely him, if he's willing! The man is a rare prodigy. He's quite old, but his experience with plants has given him a rare skill, a legendary profession, and... a what now? Hang on a minute, Snow."
Moira's voice cut off abruptly. Snow smiled apologetically at Franklin. "She's... checking something. Apparently, you're very special, Mr. Manning. She called you a prodigy and said you might have a legendary profession. Whatever that means."
Franklin blinked, scratching his chin. "Prodigy, huh? Never been called that before. I thuppothe there'th a firtht time for everythin'."
Snow chuckled softly. "Well, let's see what she says when she comes back."
Moira returned with a rush. "Give him the spark, willing or not, Snow. Preferably willing. I've never, in all my existence, seen this."
Snow was taken aback. "Uhm. Okay. Why? What will happen?"
Moira, fully in Snow's thoughts, replied, "If I'm right, this kindly old man will undergo a change. He will get a choice. The system Robert imagined into existence says he will be able to become a new race entirely."
Snow started coughing in shock.
Outside the Arcane Tower, the tension that had lingered since morning was finally beginning to boil.
The gates of Doras Dagda remained shut. Reinforced iron, shimmering with passive enchantments, barred the way. The Kobrutes stood silent, stone-faced and unmoving, flanked by their kobold riders who scanned the crowd with sharp, unblinking eyes. The air was thick with dust and rising voices.
"It's been two days!"
"We need food, not excuses!"
"My kids haven't eaten since yesterday!"
The refugees pressed closer to the gates. Merchants, farmers, miners, and mages—all caught in the anxious rhythm of an unsolved crisis. Rumors had spread like rot. Some said the Ambrosial Tree was cursed. Others claimed the council had turned on itself. But the loudest voices were the ones whispering about betrayal. About being locked out. Abandoned.
At the edge of the crowd, a young woman in a gray shawl moved silently between clumps of anxious settlers. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"They're saving the food for themselves," Isobel murmured to a group of miners, her voice soft but sharp. "Stacking it in cellars behind those gates while you're out here, rationing dust."
One of the miners—a broad-shouldered man with soot-stained hands—snorted. "We came here with nothing. We've done our best to pitch in, help however we can. And this is the reward?" He spat at the ground. "I came here to escape a cataclysm, not to walk into slow starvation."
Isobel gave him a sympathetic look. "You deserve better."
Another voice shouted at the walls, hoarse with anger. A kobold rider raised his arm, voice projecting across the plaza.
"Return to your dwellings! No entry will be granted until Master Robert McCallum lifts the lockdown!"
His words only stoked the fury. The crowd pressed forward. Another stone flew, bouncing off a Kobrute's thigh plate.
The massive creature didn't flinch.
A young woman shouted, "They're not allowed to fight back! They won't stop us!"
The kobold rider tensed, shifting uneasily. "Stand down! I said—stand down!"
Then the pickaxe came.
One of the miners struck the closest Kobrute in the side of the knee joint—an angled blow, just enough to catch it while the giant was adjusting its footing. There was a groan of crystal and metal.
A hairline fracture bloomed across the joint.
The Kobrute swayed, stumbled, then crashed to the stone with a deafening crack.
Gasps. Then silence. Then utter chaos.
The kobold rider tried to scramble clear, but the crowd surged, blocking his path. He darted toward the base of the wall, clawed feet digging into stone, desperate to climb to safety.
He almost made it.
Isobel's hand shot up from the edge of the throng. She grabbed his hairy ankle.
And pulled.
The kobold let out a shrill cry as he was dragged into the mob.
What followed was messy. It wasn't righteous. It wasn't organized. It was desperation. Rage. The kind of violence that explodes when people feel forgotten, and hungry.
The kobold vanished beneath the mob.
Up on the wall, Robert saw it unfold, and he was mightily displeased.
His jaw clenched. His hands curled. The Aetherium in his chest flared with sudden heat.
At first, his voice was lost under the crowd's roar.
Then his magic surged forth. The wind turned
Clouds gathered unnaturally fast above Doras Dagda, swirling low in the sky. The air snapped with static. Light dimmed.
And Robert's voice boomed through the chaos like rolling thunder.
Robert glared at the crowd as he yelled, "ENOUGH!"
Everyone stopped, suddenly terrified of their savior. Except for Isobel. She smiled slowly in her hooded cloak.
All eyes turned to the wall. Robert stood above them, cloaked in gathering shadow, his hands aglow with white-hot power, eyes burning with justice.