(A few weeks later)

“What would you say is the price of a soul?” Binge asked, his voice cutting through the heavy air in the dimly lit chamber. The question hung like a noose over the round table where Rivermirror’s most powerful warlords sat. “A soul of River dwellers, to be more specific.”

Seated around the table were Rivermirror’s elites:

Binge, the self-taught alchemist whose creation of ether—a volatile, self-destructive form of magic—had cemented his authority. His yellow, zinc-like skin bore the scars of unsanctioned experiments, a testament to the price he paid for power.

Blanc, the blind founder of the Seers, an omnipresent organization gathering intelligence. His ashen eyes faded into shadows as his every move was accompanied by a silent but watchful Seer.

Gazier, the scarred hunter-turned-magnate whose fortune grew from the dangerous trade of core hunting. His presence was as imposing as his muscular frame, a walking monument to Rivermirror’s brutality.

Evee, a living weapon whose uncontrollable explosive power rippled in faint red shockwaves with every beat of her heart. She was a disaster waiting to happen, and everyone knew it.

Lucas, the sharp-dressed international merchant whose pristine red suit and gleaming black hair hid a mind as calculating as it was ruthless.

“I didn’t come here for riddles,” Gazier growled, his voice as gruff as his appearance.

Binge rose, his discolored hand gesturing toward a glass compartment. Inside was an elegant woman, lifelessly tethered to a grotesque amalgamation of technology and alchemy. Tubes pulsing with black ichor fed into her skin, her faint breaths barely keeping pace with the machinery. The creature at the other end of the tubes seemed alive, shifting and writhing, its form warping as if reality itself rejected its existence.

“It was always my father’s dream to make Riverwater a place worth living,” Binge began, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Respectable. Safe. Educated. He passed away yesterday.”

Evee stood, her rippling aura quieting for a moment. She approached Binge and, to the shock of the others, embraced him. The alchemist froze but eventually returned the gesture. When they parted, a single tear glimmered in his eye before he wiped it away, regaining his composure.

The others rose and gathered around the glass, gazes fixed on the grotesque scene before them. Even Blanc, tapping his cane with deliberate slowness, joined the group despite Lucas’s irritated sigh.

“What are we looking at?” Gazier asked, his usual gruffness laced with unease.

“The solution,” Binge replied. “Rivermirror’s poverty has been our curse, a burden we carry because of our dependence on River. The civil war left us broken, divided. We are falling further behind with each passing day. This…” he gestured to the creature, “is the beginning of our salvation.”

As the creature pulsated, the tubes quivered violently, and the woman’s body began to convulse. Her moans turned into a strained, echoing cry that reverberated through the chamber. Blackened plants sprouted from the creature, twisting and writhing unnaturally as they bore discolored fruit. The woman’s life force visibly drained until a steady flow of ether stabilized her, leaving her shivering but alive.

“My father dreamed of ending hunger,” Binge continued, his voice rising with conviction. “But I dream bigger. I dream of ending our suffering. Together, we can rebuild Rivermirror into something greater than it’s ever been. But it will cost us. So I ask again: What would you say is the price of a Riverian soul?”

The warlords stood in silence, the weight of his question sinking in as they watched the grotesque miracle before them. The room buzzed with unspoken tension, their appalled expressions reflecting a grim realization—this was no longer a question of morality but of survival.

And for Rivermirror, survival always came at a price.