She dulled the lights in that secluded basement, an artificial twilight to shroud the actions she was about to commit, breaking unjust laws. Her hand traced over her leather-bound journal, months of alchemical research, months of hiding it, now to see if it could finally be done. She took several steps into the centre of the room, now standing at the centre of the circle that she spent what felt like an age drawing out, making sure it was perfect.

She gazed into the mirror that stood against the wall she faced from the centre of the circle, staring at an imperfect reflection, an illusion hiding the truth of the person that stood before it. She cautiously cast aside her robe, to be greeted by a nudity that indicated the very opposite of womanhood, the discomfort from that very notion constantly filling her with a great sadness, but now that would all change.

She then bent down, softly resting the palm of her hand above the chalk circle, a single thought to start the process. A pulse cascaded throughout the transmutation circle around her, a second passed before pain shot through her, forcing her down to her knees. She placed her palms onto the wooden flooring, panting heavily, it felt as if her insides were contorting under the pressure of the reaction. The moment had passed, she writhed a little in agony, she had expected that, what little information she had found on human transmutation performed on oneself, pain was to be expected. She then spat out blood onto the floor, as it spilt out against the wood, the crimson stain obscured parts of the circle and symbols etched out in the chalk.

She pulled herself up, dazed from the event, now was the time to gaze into the mirror to see if had worked. There was a rush of euphoria, a reflection representative of who she truly was, she gripped her chest, smirking as she did. She moved, grasping for the silk robe on the floor, slipping it back on before grabbing the leather journal from the desk.

As she grabbed it, she could hear the doors being kicked in upstairs. In a scramble, she took down to her knees and shifting one of the floorboards, dropping the diary under it. The taboo she had committed, it was inevitable that the agents of the Crown had been watching her all this time, protecting the research was now the priority. They could lock her up, and hide her from the world, but so long as her work remained, they would never be able to break her spirit. As those thoughts ran through her mind, she dropped down the floorboard, concealing the journal.

She took a deep-breath, as the basement door was kicked down. She stared down the various military officers as they stepped into the room. A brass ouroboros circling a crown adorned the collars of the uniform, a symbol of an Alchemist’s fealty to the monarchy, the Crown Alchemists, subsumed into the structures of the state, an organisation she technically belonged to, but her research, her goals, ran contrary to the orthodoxy that was imposed. Inevitably they would come, to bury her research, the sentence for her crimes, was at the discretion of the King.

She casually presented her wrists in surrender, the humiliation that would now occur, the name the State knew her by, repeated to her constantly throughout the subsequent arrest, trial and imprisonment. The assignment of that prisoner number, a sweet relief from that constant taunting, stepping into that cell and hearing the guard say her number “Prisoner Seven-hundred and Seventy-Nine” was a comfort.