Chapter 31

The stone floor was cold against Kyle's cheek, a familiar discomfort that had become his alarm clock. He pushed himself up, rubbing the grit from his eyes. One hour. That was all his mind would grant him before the itch returned—the compulsive need to be doing something, refining something, progressing. The air in his makeshift laboratory was thick with the acrid scent of charred herbs and the metallic tang of failed reagents. He didn't waste time on a meal. He reached for a bundle of dried...