Chapter One — "A Desperate Chance"

An exclusive first look at World Beyond the Unknown

Of course I didn’t get to finish my tea—I never did. Fate seemed personally offended by the idea of me enjoying a quiet moment. Just as I’d nestled into a chair by the fire ready to devour the few final chapters of The Chronicles of Basilius—with a fresh pot steeping dutifully beside me—the tranquility of the apothecary shop shattered like stones thrown into an icy lake.

The front door slammed open with a violent gust, extinguishing the warmth of the fire and sucking the air from the room. The winter chill slapped me into motion. I leapt to my feet, my book tumbling to the floor as two broad-shouldered men burst inside, their faces etched with lines of worry and haste. Roderick and Ruben. I recognized the brothers instantly—they lived just up the lane from us.

"Alora, we need Jace!" bellowed the taller of the two.

My eyes flashed from him to the other figure supported between them. Young William, barely more than a boy. His body writhed in violent spasms, his face contorted in agony. Behind them, a young woman stumbled in, her eyes wide with terror, her voice choked between sobs and frantic explanations. Bree.

"Lay him here," I directed, clearing off a table with swift, determined movements. The men gently placed William down. He clutched his stomach curling himself into a ball, a silent scream etched on his face.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"He was cooking—venison stew with mushrooms and wild garlic—then he collapsed!" Bree blurted out, her hands trembling as she clung to the doorframe.

My heart raced as I assessed William's condition. His skin looked flushed and crimson, sweat beading on his brow despite the winter’s chill. My mind raced, cataloging symptoms. This didn’t look like the sickness we’d all grown to fear.

This was something else entirely.

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over me that we weren’t up against the impossible. I just needed to figure out what was wrong and how to treat it. But even as my hands worked, I couldn’t help but think of all the others. The ones we couldn’t save.

The illness that had ravaged our little village and all the others like it, wasn’t something we could easily treat with herbs or tinctures. It crept into the body like a shadow—silent, incurable. Every day, more villagers fell ill, their coughs and fevers deepening into something far worse. Each time someone fell ill, I wondered if it was already too late. No one knew where it had come from, and none of the remedies Uncle Jace and I concocted could stop it.

But this boy—at least I could save him.

"Where’s Jace?" Ruben’s voice cut through the chaos, his eyes wide with desperation.

"He's not here," I answered as my mind raced, cataloging the symptoms and the possible causes. "Mushrooms and wild garlic," I repeated, my thoughts clicking into place. Deadly nightshade, perhaps, or autumn crocus, often mistaken for wild garlic in winter's sparse underbrush.

Moving quickly, I grabbed a jar of powdered charcoal, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Mixing it with water, I quickly created a thick, black slurry. "Hold his head back," I instructed, pouring the mixture down William’s throat, hoping the charcoal would absorb some of the toxins ravaging his body.

His writhing continued, relentless in its intensity.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I thought the words I didn’t dare say aloud. We're gonna lose him if you don't do something else.

My fingers curled around the vial of belladonna, the cold glass heavier in my palm than it had any right to be. It was a risk. I wasn’t sure if it would actually help. I’d seen my uncle use it once before with a case like this. But, one wrong dose, and I wouldn’t be saving William—I’d be killing him. My stomach twisted. My hands felt too unsteady, my breath too quick. Was I about to make a mistake I couldn’t take back? But his pulse—gods, his pulse was fading. If I didn’t act now, there wouldn’t be a mistake to make. There wouldn’t be anything left to save.

"Hold him steady," I instructed, my tone calm but firm as I administered the tincture drop by careful drop. The belladonna, a poison in itself, might counteract some of the symptoms caused by autumn crocus in small, careful doses.

His pulse fluttered weakly under my fingers. "Stay with us," I whispered. Please.

Slowly, his convulsions began to subside, his breathing steadying, though he still looked far from safe.

"We need to get him warm. Need to flush the poison," My words came out with an authority I barely felt.

"Help me move him over by the fire," I ordered the two men, still standing in the doorway of the small shop. "Bree, there are blankets on the beds upstairs. Grab them quickly, then fetch him some water."

Roderick and Ruben snapped into action, concern pulling at their features as they carefully lifted William, moving him closer to the fire’s welcoming warmth. The crackling fire, usually a comforting backdrop to the apothecary’s quiet, now felt like a beacon for the young man who sat precariously on death's doorstep.

To her credit, Bree whirled into motion. She dashed up the stairs, her footsteps a rapid drumbeat on the old wooden boards. In the space of a few heartbeats, she rushed back, clutching a pile of blankets to her chest, her eyes wide with fearful uncertainty. She knelt beside William, layering the blankets over him with trembling hands.

As she worked, Ruben returned with a pitcher of water in his grasp. I gently lifted the boy’s head, supporting it as I encouraged him to sip the water that would help flush the toxins from his system. Each sip he managed to swallow felt like a small victory against the poison coursing through his veins.

I watched him closely, my every sense attuned to his breathing, the pallor of his skin, the flutter of his eyelids. His symptoms weren’t getting worse after the belladonna tincture, but I couldn’t know for certain if the risk I took would save his life.

Bree sat by William's side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes never leaving his face. Roderick and Ruben hovered nearby, their usual banter silenced by the ordeal. We waited, tension coiled in the air like a snake, as we listened to William’s labored breathing.

It seemed his pain had lessened, but he was still far from safe. The worst might still be coming. I exhaled shakily, only then realizing how lightheaded I was. My hands were trembling. I pressed them to my lap, willing them to be still, to pretend I hadn’t nearly lost control. I could still feel the glass vial of belladonna in my grip, as if the weight of it had imprinted itself into my skin.

"Bree, you'll need to throw that stew out. I think the wild garlic William found may have been autumn crocus. They look very similar. It's an easy mistake to make. The autumn crocus is poisonous. You didn't eat any of it, did you?"

Bree shook her head, her auburn hair glimmering in the firelight. "William had been cooking when I stopped by with a loaf of fresh bread I'd made for him. He told me about his foraging only a few moments before he collapsed."

"He is very fortunate you were there," I told her. "You saved his life."

I looked up to Ruben and Roderick and added, "You all did."

William was lucky—he had a chance to recover. Not everyone did.

The illness that plagued Fenngard wasn’t like this. It took its time, devouring people from the inside out—first their strength, then their breath, and finally, their hope. I’d seen it before, in my mother’s face as she lay shivering in her bed, her once bright eyes dimming into nothingness. My father’s hand had grown slack in mine before the disease inside him finally stole his breath. My uncle had tried everything—every herb, every tincture he knew. None of it had mattered. No amount of knowledge could stop death from creeping into our home that winter.

The door to the apothecary shop creaked open with another gust of cold winter air, and in stepped my Uncle, our village’s apothecary and healer. His presence, as always, felt like the calming eye of a storm. Now flecked with snow and frost, his white beard only made his ruddy, wind-whipped cheeks seem brighter.

My uncle’s eyes, sharp and discerning, quickly took in the scene before him—the huddled figures, the makeshift bed by the fire, and young William lying there, still but stable. Concern marred his expression as he hung his cloak on the rack by the door.

"What’s happened here?" he asked, a deep, comforting rumble in his words.

Rising from William’s side, I stepped forward and felt the enormity of the ordeal lifted from my shoulders in the light of my uncle’s presence. He swept me into a suffocating embrace as I told him what had happened.

"They brought him in, writhing in pain and barely conscious. I believe he accidentally mistook autumn crocus for wild garlic. I administered charcoal, a few drops of belladonna, and water to flush out his system."

Uncle Jace’s brow furrowed as he moved closer to the hearth, kneeling beside William to assess his condition. Bree, Roderick, and Ruben gathered around, each adding pieces to the story, their voices intertwining to recount the evening’s harrowing events.

"He found them in the woods," Bree added, her lip quivering slightly. "Thought they were safe to eat. Made a stew and then—" her words trailed off, clearly still shaken by the ordeal.

"Autumn crocus is a nasty business," Uncle Jace mumbled to no one in particular. "He may not be out of the woods yet. And he’ll be off his feet for a few days. We’ll need to keep him hydrated and keep an eye on him. The worst could still come."

Uncle Jace's years as a healer took over, and his skilled hands moved with practiced ease as he checked William’s vitals. As he worked, the room settled into a quiet calm, and I made myself busy tidying the mess we’d made in the moment's chaos. My hands moved mechanically, cleaning as my mind drifted and I found myself holding the small glass vial of belladonna tincture. It still felt heavy in my hand—a cold reminder of my risky choice. One my uncle would surely be preparing to lecture me about once everyone had left.

The wrong dose of belladonna would have poisoned William further. The weight of that knowledge gnawed at me—if I had miscalculated even a drop, I could have been sealing his fate. What if I’d let my desperation cloud my judgment? I wasn’t ready for these decisions, not without Uncle Jace here to guide me. Not yet. Worse, it could have cost us not just his life but the trust of the entire village. They relied on us to save lives, not gamble with them.

The vial trembled slightly in my grip as I contemplated how close I'd come to unraveling everything. My stomach turned at the thought. Carefully, I returned the poison to its place, as I tried to quell the lingering guilt rolling in my gut.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to regret what I’d done. The thought of William dying while I stood idle was unbearable. One day—one day soon if all went according to plan—things would be different. I would be different. I wouldn’t need to doubt my instincts, wouldn’t need to second-guess every risk. I would know exactly what to do, without worrying I’d make the wrong decision. And my uncle wouldn’t need to lecture me about the dangers. I’d be ready.

My uncle found me as I finished wiping off the table and I braced for a lecture about the risks I took tonight, about needing his guidance. But to my surprise, his expression softened from the stoic face of a man who’s seen death too many times before on too many young men, just like William.

"Alora, you did well. Very well." My uncle’s hand rested firmly on my shoulder, his words steady, certain. The praise was simple, but something in my chest unraveled at hearing it. I swallowed, nodding, forcing myself not to let the weight of the night crash over me all at once. I had done well. I had saved a life.

And for once, I let myself believe it.

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💛 Up Next: Chapter Two

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