The Bitter Alchemist

The Bitter Alchemist

Mira’s hands trembled as she poured the last of the crushed nightshade into the vial, the acrid scent stinging her nose. The apothecary’s shop was dim, lit only by a flickering oil lamp that cast jagged shadows across shelves of dusty jars. Outside, the village of Thornwick slept, unaware of the poison brewing in its heart. Mira’s heart, though—she swore it was still in the right place, even if her actions tonight would brand her a monster.

She wasn’t always like this. Once, Mira had been Thornwick’s beloved healer, her remedies saving babes from fever and elders from wasting sickness. But the village turned on her when the plague came. They blamed her for the deaths, whispering she’d cursed the wells out of spite. Never mind that she’d worked herself to collapse, brewing tonics for free while her own sister withered in her arms. The council banished her to this crumbling shop at the village’s edge, forbidding her to practice healing. “For your own safety,” they sneered, as if the rocks thrown through her windows were her fault.

Now, Mira was done begging for trust. She’d save Thornwick her way, even if it meant poisoning its rotten core.

The vial glowed faintly, the concoction complete. It wasn’t lethal—not quite. A drop in the council’s ale would leave them writhing, feverish, their tongues loose with confessions of their greed. They’d hoarded grain while children starved, sold safe water to the wealthy while the poor drank sludge. Mira had seen the ledgers, stolen from the magistrate’s desk during a midnight break-in. She’d always been too clever for locks.

Her plan was simple: dose the council at tomorrow’s feast, let their own words damn them, and slip away before the mob formed. The village would be better for it. She’d be gone, a ghost, her sister’s memory avenged. But as she corked the vial, a pang twisted her gut. Was this what her sister would’ve wanted? Mira, skulking like a thief, betraying the healer’s oath?

She shoved the thought down. Sentiment wouldn’t undo the council’s sins. She’d tried being good—look where it got her. Exile, scorn, a sister’s grave. No, this was justice, even if it tasted like venom. Mira's thoughts said to her, " I don't have a choice ".

The next night, Mira stood in the feast hall’s shadows, a stolen servant’s cloak hiding her face. The council laughed, their tankards sloshing as she’d planned. She’d bribed a kitchen boy to lace their drinks—easy enough, with a coin and a glare that promised worse. Her heart pounded, not with guilt but with a sick thrill. Let them choke on their lies.

As the first councilor clutched his throat, babbling about hidden grain, Mira felt no triumph. Only a hollow ache. The crowd gasped, then roared, turning on their leaders. She slipped out the back, the vial empty in her pocket. Thornwick would heal, she told herself, even if she never could.

By dawn, she was miles away, the village’s cries fading behind her. She’d done right, hadn’t she? Saved them, in her twisted way. But as she walked, the wind seemed to whisper her sister’s voice, soft and disappointed. Mira didn’t look back.

The Bitter Alchemist: Aftermath

Mira’s boots crunched on the frost-dusted path as she trudged back to Thornwick, the weight of her choices heavier than the threadbare cloak on her shoulders. She’d meant to vanish forever after poisoning the council’s ale, to let the village’s upheaval be her final act. But something—guilt, curiosity, or her sister’s phantom voice—had tugged her back. The sky was bruised with dawn as she reached the outskirts, the familiar silhouette of her crumbling apothecary shop looming like a gravestone. She hadn’t expected to see it again.

Inside, the air was stale, the lamp long burned out. Mira dropped her satchel, her fingers brushing the empty vial in her pocket. She’d planned to sleep, to hide, but the silence felt wrong. No birds sang. No cartwheels creaked. Thornwick was too quiet, as if holding its breath. She barred the door and waited, her heart thudding against the stillness.

By mid-morning, whispers seeped through the cracked walls. Mira pressed her ear to a shutter, catching fragments from passersby. The council’s feast had unraveled into chaos. Her poison worked too well—councilors had collapsed, foaming at the mouth, their confessions spilling like blood. They’d admitted to hoarding grain, rigging water prices, even burning a healer’s shop to silence dissent. Mira’s shop, she realized, her chest tightening. The crowd had turned feral, dragging the councilors to the square. Some said they were dead, others that they’d been locked in the magistrate’s cellar, awaiting trial. Mira’s breath caught. She’d wanted justice, not a massacre.

The village itself was splintering. The confessions had sparked riots—looters raided the council’s storehouses, neighbors accused neighbors of collusion, and the poor, emboldened, demanded blood. Mira’s poison hadn’t just exposed the council; it had cracked Thornwick’s fragile trust. She sank to the floor, her hands shaking. Her sister’s face flickered in her mind, gentle and disapproving. “Fix it,” the memory seemed to say. But how? She was no healer anymore, just a shadow who’d traded hope for vengeance.

A knock jolted her. She froze, expecting a mob. Instead, a child’s voice called, “Mira? It’s Lara.” The baker’s girl, barely ten, who’d once brought Mira bread when the village shunned her. Mira unbarred the door, peering out. Lara’s eyes were wide, her apron smudged with soot. “They’re fighting in the square,” she whispered. “Ma says you can stop it. You always fixed things.”

Mira’s laugh was bitter. “I’m no savior, girl. Go home.” But Lara didn’t move, her gaze stubborn. Mira saw her sister in those eyes—trust she didn’t deserve. She sighed, grabbing her satchel. “Stay here. Lock the door.”

The square was a battlefield. Torches flickered, illuminating overturned carts and shouting figures. Mira lingered at the edge, hooded, as a man screamed about “cleansing traitors.” She recognized him—a farmer who’d once begged her for fever tonic. Now he brandished a pitchfork, his face twisted with rage. The councilors, she learned, were alive but battered, chained in the cellar. The crowd wanted executions. Mira’s stomach churned. Her poison had lit this fuse.

She could run again. She should. But Lara’s words gnawed at her. Mira slipped into an alley, her mind racing. The apothecary in her stirred, calculating. She had herbs left—valerian, chamomile, enough to brew a calming draught. Not for the council, but for the mob. If she could dose the well, dull their fury, maybe Thornwick could breathe long enough to rebuild. It was a frail plan, but it was something.

Under dusk’s cover, Mira worked, grinding herbs in her shop, her hands steady despite the shouts outside. Lara helped, silent but quick, fetching water as Mira brewed a tincture. It wouldn’t fix trust, but it might buy time. By midnight, they crept to the village well, Mira’s heart pounding as she poured the mixture in. No one saw. No one knew.

The next dawn, Thornwick was quieter. The square was littered with broken barrels, but the mob had dispersed, their rage softened by exhaustion or Mira’s draught—she couldn’t tell. Word spread that elders were calling a meeting to form a new council, one with farmers and weavers, not just the wealthy. The chained councilors would face trial, not torches. Mira watched from her shop, unseen, as Lara’s mother hugged her daughter in the street.

Mira packed her satchel again. She’d stay a shadow, slipping away before anyone tied the poison or the well to her. Thornwick might heal, but she wouldn’t. Not with her sister’s voice still whispering, now a mix of sorrow and pride. As she left, Mira dropped the vial into a ditch, its glass glinting one last time. She’d broken the village to save it, and that truth would haunt her longer than any mob could.