May Your Soul Rest in Magdala

She was sleeping. Though she was usually dressed in white, she was draped in grey.

She had been tending to the fire and doing all kinds of physical work during the long, long smelting work, and once she was done, cleaned up the soot riddled furnace. At this moment, she was completely worn out, holding onto a grey rod that was used for sc.r.a.ping, and sat by the window with the vestiges of sunset still there.

She had neither the knowledge nor the physical strength, but she had the pa.s.sion.

There was a book placed on the table, and despite how busy she was, she took the time to read it. In the meantime, she ran off to check the mineral ores that were neatly arranged; such dedication was certainly not due to curiosity alone.

What is that thing? What is this? She kept questioning, chirping away like a bird in the morning.

However, Kusla could not help but grin upon seeing her hands and face covered in soot, lying by the window wearily.

Was the day he was going to call her an ‘ally’ about to come?

In any case, it was her dream, and by the definition of an Alchemist, it should be called Magdala.