The Alchemist General walked the streets of the Capital, overlooking the glory of his King’s creation, and whispers trailed in his wake. Soon, a small crowd of citizens also trailed in his wake. After following him for half a mile, a bold innkeeper dared step forward.

“Alchemist General, sir? It is known that you are a man of principle. We beg of you, right the injustices done to us!”

“Calm yourself, good citizen. Whatever is the matter?” The Alchemist paused mid-step and turned to see the crowd that he had gathered. Over twenty people milled about aimlessly on the road at a polite distance of fifty paces away. Only the innkeeper had approached within ten paces, and even he paled when the Alchemist’s gaze fell upon him.

“Forgive my imposition, sir. The new City Guard Sheriff arrests innocents on made-up charges, and we never see them again. He confiscates our property without reason, yet the officials are too terrified of his goons to stop him.” The innkeeper dropped to his knees in the street, raising clasped hands in supplication. The other citizens mirrored his posture from afar. “Sir, please use your authority as General of the Sun Army. We beg you to stop this petty thief before he robs us of our livelihoods!”

The Alchemist looked deeply troubled.

“If you speak truly, then the Sheriff’s error is grave indeed. The Sun King—splendid be his vision—would never tolerate such corruption in one of his trusted officers. I will investigate the matter at once.”

The citizens shuffled closer, murmuring grateful praises of the Alchemist’s kindness.

“Do not thank me for doing my duty. Hail the Sun King, whose righteous rule shall raise you from the follies of the weak and unworthy.”

“Hail the Sun King,” the crowd echoed weakly.

The Alchemist left them as they were, setting off to find the Sheriff.

The street near the apothecary’s shop was typically peaceful, but today it seemed more quiet than usual. As the Alchemist walked by, fearful eyes peered at him from windows and doorways. Whispers followed the Alchemist, and no few of them expressed hope at his presence. From these whispers, the Alchemist determined that the Sheriff was currently targeting the apothecary.

The apothecary was an old grandfatherly fellow with white hair and a pleasant voice. The Alchemist had interacted with him a handful of times to exchange tips on collecting plant or mineral samples for their respective experiments. Their respective arts held a similarity that most soldiers failed to grasp. However, the Sheriff had always been a quick study.

When the Alchemist arrived at the apothecary’s shop, the Sheriff and three of his underlings were present. Two held the old man’s arms, while the third poked carelessly through the neat shelves of herbs and containers. The Sheriff himself was questioning the apothecary, and the Alchemist stepped behind a neighbor’s house to listen without interrupting. The Alchemist still had a clear line of sight through the shop door, but this way the Sheriff was less likely to spot him.

“I don’t understand. I’ve run this shop for fifty years without a single complaint. What could I possibly have done to offend the City Guard?” the apothecary was saying.

“Quiet.” The Sheriff slammed a fist into the wall, and the apothecary flinched as the attached shelf clattered. “You don’t ask questions. You answer. Got it?”

The apothecary nodded.

“Where do you keep texts on alchemy?”

“Alchemy? Do you mean chemistry?” The apothecary jerked his chin toward a corner. “In that cabinet. The key is under—”

The Sheriff lifted his foot and kicked in the cabinet doors. A pile of paper scrolls, each bound by a colored ribbon, tumbled out amid splinters of wood. The Sheriff scowled at the number of scrolls. “Anything here on the Northern Mountain Sages?”

“Just a couple of old myths,” the apothecary croaked, looking at the ruined cabinet.

“Great.” The Sheriff spun around, a satisfied smirk twisting his mouth. “You’re under arrest.”

The Sheriff’s three underlings dragged the protesting apothecary into the street, whereupon they promptly marched him off in the direction of the prisons. Meanwhile, the Sheriff gathered an armload of scrolls and dashed away in the opposite direction, carrying his stolen property toward the residential area.

The Alchemist headed to the palace barracks to gather his own elite soldiers. Once there, he sent a messenger to the prisons with a written command—marked by his official military seal and all the authority therein—to have the old apothecary released.

Five handpicked elite guards saluted the Alchemist, eager for a new task. The Alchemist explained the situation. Then, accompanied by the guards, the Alchemist set off to the streets again.

The Sheriff was just leaving his house when the Alchemist arrived. The former looked mildly surprised at the visit.

“Good day, General. Did you want something?”

“As the Sun King decreed, ‘One who abuses rank for personal gain shall lose both.’ Guards, detain the Sheriff.”

Two of the guards seized the Sheriff’s arms. He frowned but did not fight.

“I don’t understand. What does the General want with me?”

“The scrolls you took from the apothecary. If the Sheriff of the Center sees fit to rob his own people instead of discouraging robbers, then he shall be treated as one.” The Alchemist turned to the remaining three guards. “Search the premises.”

The guards spread out, storming through the doors of the house and scouring the surrounding grounds.

One soon shouted a confirmation: he had found scrolls in a toolshed behind the Sheriff’s house. Being illiterate, he could not tell what the scrolls said, but a few were wrapped in colored ribbons like the apothecary’s had been. The Alchemist walked over to inspect the stash, and the guards restraining the Sheriff marched him there as well. Inside the shed, rolls and stacks of paper were indeed visible. A guard handed the Alchemist one of the ribbon-wrapped scrolls. It was stamped with the distinctive signature of the apothecary.

“Tell me this: what is the punishment for larceny?” The Alchemist walked a slow circle around the Sheriff. “No words? According to the very law you swore to uphold, ‘That which enables a thief to steal shall be disabled.’ In this case, your hands. The left one should suffice.”

A blow struck the back of the Sheriff’s leg, and he fell to the ground. One guard pressed him down, while the other wrenched his left arm upward, fully extending it behind his back. If he struggled too much against this hold, he would dislocate his own elbow. The Alchemist stopped directly behind the Sheriff, drawing a long knife. A sharp crackle sounded, and heat washed over the Sheriff’s fingers.

“Wait, wait!” Panic laced the Sheriff’s voice. He twisted against the guards’ grasp, but he could not escape. “This is a misunderstanding. I can explain.”

Heat from the burning knife stung his restrained wrist, though the metal did not brand his flesh yet. His free hand curled into a fist against the ground.

“I only wanted to learn the Magicks of the Sages—the magicks you refused to teach me,” the Sheriff said quickly. “You once told me, ‘Let no obstacle stand between you and the goal.’ I only follow the ways I know. And here, I have amassed great knowledge of the Sages at the expense of a few trivial laws. It is an enormous benefit with minimal losses.”

It was a rather pathetic plea, but the Alchemist considered these words seriously. He sheathed the knife and waved the guards away. The Sheriff stood slowly, wary of the Alchemist’s thoughtful pause.

“If a student is too eager, his curiosity may cloud his judgement. This I understand,” the Alchemist said. “Show me this great knowledge of yours, and we shall see whether your punishment is deserved.”

The elite guards took up positions on either side of the shed entrance. The Sheriff grudgingly led the Alchemist into his prized collection of old texts. Piles of paper and parchment scrolls were stacked on wooden shelves. The Sheriff thought of it as an impressive stash of knowledge waiting for a keen student; the Alchemist saw it as fuel waiting for a spark.

The Alchemist selected a paper scroll from the bottom of the pile. This one was marked with the golden wax of an Imperial Archives seal.

“‘Untold Secrets of the Northern Sages,’ by... an officer of the Imperial Census Bureau. Hmm. What secrets could he have possibly uncovered?” The Alchemist began to read aloud.

“‘Two years before the decennial census inspection, a great famine fell upon the North. At the time, casualties were reported in one of every three households. The townspeople blamed the famine on the negligence of the Northern Sages, who had failed to warn them of the long drought. All in the shadow of the northern mountains speak of the Sages’ mystical powers, warning that the Sages will bring dire consequences upon any who dare to interfere with their affairs. From the villagers’ fantastical tales, one might even think they hold the Sages in higher regard than the Crown! Such rural superstitions are fueled by unfortunate natural disasters, but even wild superstitions may hold some basis in truth.’”

“‘During the census inspection, I found a disturbing anomaly: the farming villages in the North have fewer pairs of twins than at the heart of the Empire. After careful research, I understand why. As one might expect from the proximity to the mountains, the Sages are indeed responsible. Consider this: when a ladle of water is scooped from a pond, the water level lowers evenly. When the earth is scooped, a hole remains. Two impressions of the ladle are created, equal and opposite images of the ladle’s mastery over gravity. The reclusive Sages of the northern mountains can shape a pair of twins in much the same way, impressing the ancient powers of Nature within living flesh.’”

The Alchemist scoffed at this passage. “Ancient powers, indeed. If only my training had been so easy—it is not innate magicks, but years of observation and practice, that unveil the ways of flame.” He pinned the Sheriff with his gaze. “And that, Sheriff, is after a student has trained his eye and mind to achieve focused intent. This, I cannot teach. You have not even mastered your own whims; how can you be prepared to wield the powers beyond?”

The Sheriff scowled. Undaunted, the Alchemist returned to the scroll.

“I witnessed evidence of this phenomenon with my own eyes. On the West-facing slope of the mountain, a boy of four or five years was laying out wet sticks in a fire pit. As I watched, the boy snapped his fingers—and the soaked wood burst into flames! Indeed, it must have been some form of sorcery.”

The Alchemist’s mouth curled upward.

“On the East-facing slope of the mountain, not two hours’ walk from the first sorcerer’s apprentice, I saw another boy of the same age. At first, I thought them to be the same child, so similar were their looks, but it was not so, for their clothing and mannerisms differed. The two must have been twins. This boy ran past my campsite after dusk, but he held no torch in hand. Instead, his torch was his own hand set afire, and yet the flames did not trouble him.’”

Disturbance flickered across the Alchemist’s face, there and gone in an instant. Had the Sheriff not been watching so closely, he might have missed the slight wince. The Alchemist paused but did not comment on this passage. Reshuffling the scroll to expose the next section, he continued reading.

“‘These twin boys were the only children I encountered on the Sages’ mountain, as well as the only children whom I observed practicing sorcery. From this strong evidence, I must conclude that the northern villages have fewer twins because such pairs are spirited from their homes by the Sages. Once taken, they must then be magicked into becoming new Sages in their own right. It is truly incredible that twins can be given such power over Nature, while we single-born children must be content with our pitchforks and spears.’”

The Alchemist crushed the scroll in his fist.

“Claiming such simple tricks as a special property of twinhood is the sure sign of a superstitious fool. Anyone with eyes can learn this. Nonsense from decades past will not yield the knowledge you seek.”

The Alchemist opened his gloved hand. Aged paper burst into flames as it fell, disintegrating into ashes at his feet. The Sheriff lunged forward with a wordless cry, but the scroll was gone before he reached it. The Alchemist selected another text from the library shelf.

“‘The Arsonist of the Great Upheaval.’ I remember this story. One of my childhood favorites.” The Alchemist began to read, but he soon shook his head again. “Lies, worthless lies. The Nesting Spider firetrap was invented by a minor secretary in the Rain King’s supply caravan, not the leading general of his vanguard.”

The Alchemist tossed this scroll aside, and it again caught on fire in midair. Shreds of blackened paper fluttered to the floor. The Sheriff gritted his teeth as months of searching and decades of historical wisdom crumbled to dust in an instant.

“‘Ancient Fire Magicks of the Sages: Fireproof Parchment.’ Ah, a classic technique. Very useful if applied correctly.” The Alchemist tested the scroll. To his disappointment, it burnt to charcoal in his grasp. He shook his head, dusting the bits of ash off his gloves. “If rubbish like this is in circulation, it is no wonder that the Sages’ way remains a mystery to lesser men.”

Half an hour later, the Sheriff’s entire library was aflame. The Alchemist strode out, a single scroll in hand: the Sheriff’s archival index, covered in the careful lettering of a person newly initiated to the written word. It described when and from whom the other scrolls had been collected. According to the Alchemist, this was the only truthful document of the lot, and it would be confiscated as such. The Sheriff followed his superior out with his face held in careful blankness, refusing to acknowledge the amusement radiating from the guards outside.

Neighbors came running down the street with buckets of water, ready to put out the fire. When they saw the Alchemist and the Sheriff, they halted in their tracks. The Alchemist raised a hand in greeting.

“There is no cause for alarm, fellow citizens. This fire will benefit us all. As the Sun King once said, ‘Falsehood ought not be recorded in the written word, lest overeager students confuse it with fact.’ His foresight is indeed vast,” said the Alchemist. He ordered water tossed on the neighboring buildings, including the Sheriff’s house proper, to prevent the flames from spreading through the city.

“Do not look so disheartened, Sheriff. Anyone can start a fire, but few can truly master its ways. You have already memorized the basics. The next stage is not one that you can learn simply by copying another’s work. If you are perceptive, you might understand in a few years’ time,” said the Alchemist.

As punishment, he instructed the Sheriff to watch the shed burn until its fuel supply had been exhausted. Afterwards, the Sheriff was to serve a term in the city prison to “reflect upon his mistakes,” as the Alchemist put it.

The guards took up position behind the Sheriff, blocking his escape. He watched the smoke rise from the ruins of his scroll collection. After months of amassing knowledge of these forbidden magicks, had he not proven his determination? Yet the Alchemist still denied him.

Even after the fire dwindled to hot coals and the guards retired to their own homes, the Sheriff continued to stare into the dust of his dreams. One day, that power would be his. Until then, the hunt would go on.