The interior is like a hoarder's dream: cluttered shelves of herbs, vials of powders and liquids, and rows of labeled bottles packed tight. The L-shaped workbench groans under the weight of stacked instruments, and a single table in the center holds a leather box with drawers pulled halfway out. Each one reveals more vials and tucked-away tools—and even more storage.
Mortars, pestles, beakers, pipettes, and wide glass wicks lie scattered across every surface, set up for boiling, blending, and brewing. Among them are rings designed to conceal poisons. Hanging from copper hooks are long gold and silver chains with hidden compartments: lockets, pendants, and hollow cores.
Kalix might look like a brute, but the man has a rare talent for alchemy.
He grew up in the village of Caldwell. The local apothecary took him in at a young age and gave him work so he could help feed his family. Kalix stuck with it: learning, experimenting, and refining his skill. When he hit a wall in Caldwell, he left, eventually landing at Tyran’s court. Within two years, his loyalty and strength earned him a captain’s title.
He never lost his love of potion-making. Felix saw value in that and gave him this space. Encouraged him. Felix carriesKalix’s brews everywhere—for protection, sure, but I suspect a few are for hangovers too.
Kalix strolls to a nearby shelf, trailing his fingers across rows of corked bottles. He selects one, turns to me, and holds out his hand.
I take the vial, within which a small amount of shimmering green liquid swirls.
“Drink it. It’ll taste awful, and you’ll feel weird. The effects will last eight hours—no longer—so I’ll give you a backup just in case. When you take it, focus hard on Felix. The potion responds to desire,” Kalix explains.
I uncork the vial and throw it back in one swallow. I wince with instant regret. The taste is sour and dry, like licking a copper coin dipped in vinegar. My throat tightens, my tongue shrivels, and I cough hard, choking on the afterburn.
I slap my chest, trying to clear the tightness, and then freeze.
My hand is no longer my own. The skin is softer, paler. The broad lines of my fingers are replaced by Felix’s long, elegant ones. I shove my sleeve up; my tan skin is gone, taking my mage markings with it. My show of power and strength is simply absent. I quickly call on the magic so readily available to me, and the cold replaces any previous warmth in my body as it awakens, filling my tissues. My next breath is looser, and my power, even if I can’t see it, is confirmed.
Kalix claps for himself, grinning like a madman. “Goddamn, I’m good.”
He points toward a circular mirror mounted beside the door, the glass covered in a thin film of dust. I stare into the mirror.
No tousled raven hair. No grey eyes. No mage marks. I’ve been erased.
And in my place…stands Felix.
“I look exactly like him,” I mutter, the words slipping out in a tone that’s not mine: softer and lighter. My eyes widen. Even my voice sounds like his. This is messing with my head.
“You sound exactly like him too,” Kalix says, circling the workbench to look me over. “Damn, this is good. You need to change—too much black. Felix ismuchmore in style. Fancy outfits—gold everywhere.”
He grins, fully aware that the thought of dressing like a gilded peacock grates on me.
Still, I nod and leave his workshop.
The walk to Felix’s room takes ten minutes. The palace feels different like this. Guards and servants bow—not stiff or cautious but warm, even yearning. I forget I’m not myself until their reactions remind me I am their king. The submission and desire awaken the sleeping hunger. I shut them down quickly, preventing any delusional whispers of conquest and power in my mind.
For all intents and purposes, I’m Felix.
When I reach his chambers, I don’t bother knocking. I push open the golden double doors to find him already waiting, grinning by his wardrobe.
“Damn, I look that good?” he beams.
“Stop admiring yourself. It’s unsettling. You look like you might kiss me—or yourself, I guess. Either way, it’s disturbing.”
I cringe inwardly at the thought.
“My dashing good looks can be overwhelming like that.” He shrugs, turning back to his wardrobe. He waves me over, and together we dig through his gaudy collection until he pickstheoutfit; then he demands I wear it.
I let him dress me in tight leather trousers, black boots with jeweled straps, a fitted white tunic embroidered with gold swirls, and a long golden robe that trails behind me like some dramatic curtain.
Then, the final touch: he lifts the crown from his head and sets it on mine.
“This thing actually has some weight to it,” I mutter, adjusting the crown. “I see why you whine after wearing it all day.”
“Heavy is the crown,” Felix says with a wink. “Literal and metaphorical.”
