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In the elven capital of Liaheim, Moira focused intently as she carefully held a sliver of crystal with her tweezers and brought it to the flame kindled upon her right palm. Her slightly clouded eyes watched the slow shift in the crystal's hue, waiting for a precise moment.
When the surface shimmered with a sheen of "iridescent black"—a darkness laced with hints of shifting color—Moira swiftly dropped the fragment into a vial she had prepared beforehand.
A sharp crack echoed through the room, unpleasantly loud to the ear. The gray-white crystal shattered as its fragments slowly sank to the bottom of the vial.
"The seventh failure," Moira muttered with a sigh. "I really am getting old. Nothing works the way it used to. Without Wang Yu around, even processing materials has become a monumental task."
She tossed the ruined vial and its contents into a small incinerator set in the middle of the room. Despite its difficulty, the process of refining a volatility-transmuted flame crystal had never stymied her like this in the past.
She even used to chide Avia for lacking practice in handling materials. To Moira, mastery of materials was second only to innate talent in alchemy—it was a core skill that every true alchemist had to possess.
But after relying on Wang Yu for so long, she'd come to understand the reason for Avia's...
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