Lilah Meristre — The Captive Alchemist

Lilah Meristre grew up with ink-stained fingers and the sharp, herbal scent of alchemical smoke woven into her clothes. She was a prodigy from the moment she could stand—one of those rare children whose brilliance emerges so early it feels less like talent and more like instinct. Before she was tall enough to reach her father’s workbench, she was already memorising recipes, measuring powders by weight alone, and identifying which ingredients would combust, cure, or kill with nothing but a cautious sniff.

Her home lay just beyond the boundaries of a small, quiet town nestled among Cezorus’s interior farmlands. It was modest, cluttered, and full of the comforting chaos that came from two dedicated artisans working side by side. Her father, a patient man with a steady hand, taught her everything he knew: how to brew for healing, how to craft for labourers, how to mix solvents, glues, tinctures, antidotes, polishes, and fire-salts. Together they made a meagre but honest living, producing whatever the townsfolk needed. For Lilah, life was simple—soft in its rhythms, warm in its familiarity.

It ended in a single night.

A Briar Knot, hungry for coin and notoriety, launched an ambitious raid against the nearby town. They expected a weak militia, easy plunder, terrified villagers. Instead, they met prepared resistance. Their attack collapsed into chaos; several of them were wounded, and the rest fled into the dark, scrambling through the outskirts in panic.

They found the Meristre home by chance.

Lilah had been alone that evening—her father in town delivering orders—when the battered, desperate Briars forced their way inside. They saw her youth, her fear, and the well-stocked workshop behind her and decided she might fetch a ransom. They bound her, ransacked the house, and waited for word from the town.

No word came.

Her father had been killed during their botched raid, a fact the Knot discovered only after the militia sent a terse message:
No ransom. No negotiation. No interest.

The Briars weighed their options. A captive who brought no profit was a liability, and liabilities were dealt with swiftly. They dragged Lilah outside beneath the trees, intending to cut their losses. A blade touched her throat.

And Lilah, trembling but desperate, spoke.

She told them what she was—a prodigy alchemist. She listed potions by effect, mixtures by potency, poisons by speed, and explosive salts by yield. She promised she could brew for them, fight for them, keep them alive. It was a gamble, a frantic one—but it worked. The Knot spared her life, though not out of kindness. They shackled her instead, forcing her to produce tools of destruction rather than healing.

She obeyed, but every moment she looked for escape.

Her chance, she thought, came weeks later when the Knot crossed paths with the Root.
Kial Mayers arrived with the calm intensity of a man certain of destiny, flanked by the Rookfell twins and shadowed by something Lilah could not name. When he examined the Knot’s gear and realised the quality of the alchemical devices, his interest sharpened. He asked questions. Lilah answered honestly—her life hung by threads far thinner than loyalty. Recognising her skill, Kial claimed her.

The Knot protested.
Kial did not care.
Lilah was taken.

She told herself she would run at the first opportunity.

But her first attempt at escape brought her face-to-face with Xix.

She had slipped away at dusk, clutching a satchel of carefully chosen reagents and a single flask of smoke-dust to cover her trail. She made it less than two hundred paces before the forest grew unnaturally still. Something moved between the trees without sound. A shape—metallic, organic, impossible—stepped into her path. Its blue-white eyes pulsed like heartbeats. Its presence pressed against her thoughts.

Lilah froze.
It did not strike her.
It simply watched her until she turned around and walked back to camp, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

Fear became her constant companion after that—cold, persistent, and bone-deep. But Lilah was clever. She adapted. She learned to work quietly, quickly, and obediently, all while biding her time for a chance that did not involve crossing the demon’s gaze again.

Now eighteen, Lilah moves through the Root’s camps with the solemn composure of someone far older. She is pretty in a gentle, understated way—long black hair, pale complexion, eyes too knowing for her age. She dresses simply: a skirt and blouse beneath a thick leather apron and gloves, perpetually smudged with chalk, soot, and the bright stains of alchemical ingredients.

Her workspace is orderly, her mind sharp, her hands steady.
She brews what she is told to brew:

• explosive charges,
• fire-flasks,
• corrosive acids,
• paralytic vapours,
• hallucinogenic mists.

Every vial is a compromise she despises, but every vial also keeps her alive.

The only small refuge she has found comes from Rex and Tann Rookfell, who—despite their mercenary nature—have taken to watching over her. They treat her not as a captive but as a younger sister, a fragile thing to be guarded in the chaos swirling around Kial. Their presence is the closest thing to safety she has known since her home burned.

Lilah still plans to escape.
She dreams of it every night.
She does not know when that moment will come, only that she must be ready.

Because if she is not careful—
if she misjudges Xix, or loses the Rookfells’ protection, or lets fear outweigh caution—
the Briar will not only take her freedom.

It will take her life.