December 19th, 1894 — Ancient Studies Classroom

Whether as a last resort or a brilliant idea, Themis found herself on the second floor of the castle, not quite certain when her feet decided to lead her here. The idea had bubbled up the day after Samuel disappeared. Disappeared. It was the only word she could give to the situation. He’d taken all his conflicted feelings, hollow body, and despairing eyes with him when he exited her tower. She refused to call it ‘leaving her,’ resisted the ghosts at the fringes of her mind that mocked “this is the last time you’ll see him.” Yet, the ghosts did whisper, the nights seemed longer, and her beloved stars colder.

Her scar itched now. She told herself it was healing, that the pale pink would fade further and there would be little evidence of the actions that caused it. Themis did not regret her exploration or its evidence, she regretted not understanding what she walked into. There was no blame to assign, her curiosity had sparked, her heart decided and her mind approved. And she would do it again. Perhaps that was why she was now standing in what had once been a simple classroom. She felt the prickling of magic here as strongly as she had in Samuel’s laboratory, but the sensation was different, the magic existing on a different frequency. The magic here was fluid, liquid and vicarious. It felt closer to her own magic, nothing like the heat and weight she attributed to Samuel. But her understanding was too simplistic and lacking words, identification not complete at her current stage of knowledge. This might be what she resented most – her unknowing. She would remedy this. She went to the best source she could think of, even if it came with hesitation.

“Professor Crowley, thank you for agreeing to see me.” The woman before her was almost a paler mirror of herself. Both woman tall, angular and pale, Miss Crowley looked as if the sun had never seen her, the paleness of her striking, making Themis appear warm and vibrant by comparison, the sun consulting the moon. Themis did not know the younger witch well, was married and raising her son by the time Miss Crowley was at Hogwarts. She also came from pure blood and ancient money, things that neither impressed nor endeared anyone to Themis. But, the slender rod of a witch was eccentric, blunt and brutally honest in her assessments. More than once Themis had bit her lip to keep from laughing at Miss Crowley’s comments during staff meetings. She appeared to have no regard for convention or societal niceties and that, Themis could appreciate. Maybe that was why she was testing the waters, curious to see just how clever Professor Morrigan Crowley could be. “I would like to inquire about some magic I’ve encountered in my research. I admit, it is beyond my experience.”

---

Morrigan stood at the table in her classroom like a statue and considered something only she could see. There was fog in the room and a light above, obscured. Her long hair was tightly put up and devoid of color. It blended together with her skin as if everything about her was veiled by bone-white dust, even her dress was white like a sun-bleached carcass. She moved her head to face Professor Lyra. "Is it the search for knowledge that has you so anguished as of late, Professor Lyra?" she asked.

Professor Lyra could be thought of as resembling her in the broadest brushstrokes. Yet in all details she was beset by beauty so pleasing to the conventional eye that her life must have—couldn't have—looked anything like that of Morrigan, whom the world was unkind to on account of her lack of it. She did not resent Professor Lyra for that, for she was never personally unkind to her. Morrigan instead observed her idly whenever she saw her and built theories about her supposed mysteries in her mind. Lately, Professor Lyra was sad and unsettled. Morrigan, not usually an apt observer of social nuances, noticed. Her request to see her she let breathe on her desk for a night before she replied. Now she bade her to come in, and the door fell shut behind her colleague.

---

Themis' lip twitched, a soft grin not quite reaching her eyes. And here she was under the impression that she'd maintained her facade to the broader world. It hadn't surprised her when her son asked about her mood, but coming from a virtual stranger unsettled her. Apparently, she wasn't the only one with a habit of observation. She wasn't sure if she should be concerned, but she wouldn't take Professor Crowley's gaze for granted again. That would be folly. She considered her response as she let her eyes map her surroundings. Her host was difficult to look away from, yet somehow harder to look at. Something about the witch's mannerisms and dress brought to mind a skeleton, the line between living and dead seemingly blurred in the body of a woman very much alive. This, she thought, was what muggles and the small-minded imagined when they spoke of witches.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." She wasn't inclined to lie; it would be disrespectful to her host and a blow to her own ethical code. There were plenty of ways to tell the truth and keep her secrets safe. She disliked thinking of Samuel as a secret. It was disingenuous and gave the impression, in her mind, that there was some reason for shame. Of all the things complicating her world, shame had no part in it. She was not ashamed of the man she adored. Her only regret now, as she stood before an unlikely and unwitting judge, was that she hadn't the courage to be honest about the depths of her feelings. It was, perhaps, the worst way she had failed him. Anguish was the correct term for the turmoil in her chest; it was joined by a spark of something aggressive and defensive, the urge to bear her teeth and disguise all weakness. It was reactionary, ridiculous. She allowed the feeling to settle in amid the convoluted mess of her heart. This was not the time for impulsive words. "Perhaps it is my unknowing that troubles me so." Not a lie, but an evasion all the same.

She didn't startle when the door closed behind her, but the feeling of the walls closing in skittered up her spine. This was not her realm; this was not her sanctuary; until proven otherwise, Professor Crowley was not her ally. It was do her well to remember that.

---

"Not knowing can drive a person mad," replied Morrigan. "As can knowing," she continued, and she said it matter-of-factly. She observed Professor Lyra's tightly wound eyes in her bright and pointed face. Her smile exerted control, and there was a perceptible tension to her, as if her nerves were continually smoldering. Morrigan gestured towards the chair by her desk that was a dark grey slab of marble. The chair was angular and uncomfortable. She sat down herself in the twinned chair behind her desk, and in doing so, Morrigan folded down from her towering height that belonged to her long limbs and to her high shoes. In sitting, she looked smaller and more awkward. Her elongated hands spread out on the tabletop and twitched, as if looking for something to fidget with but there was nothing to touch. "The unknowing of what exactly brought you to me, Professor?" she asked.

---

It did not escape Themis that she had walked into a mental match of Wizard's Chess. Or perhaps, the woman across from her didn't play a game of power, grappling for the reins of control. Perhaps it was possible that the hawk-like witch thought herself outside of such machinations. Maybe it was Themis who, after a life of carefully guarded control and months beside Samuel, mistook all things for negotiations of power; that, or a hostile takeover. She could not sit in the stone slab of a seat and not think the discomfort deliberate, that keeping guests uncomfortable was a tactic. Themis knew Professor Crowley seemed to disappear into her own world, but she was not so naive as to think the other witch was blind to the workings of the world. She was a woman, whatever her physical appearance, perhaps blood and money had made her path easier, but there was no possible way Morrigan Crowley was unaware of the games one had to play for respect and dignity in their society.

Themis logged every change in mannerism and noted that the unnatural stillness the other witch exhibited disappeared when she sat, her body seeming to lose some sense of decorum as she shrank into her seat. She fidgeted with nothing and for a moment, Themis was reminded of Eleanor Griffith and the obvious discomfort in her skin. It wasn't a lack of self-worth that had her colleague twitching; that Themis wouldn't believe. Morrigan Crowley just was. There was no better word for her presence, the signals she sent were conflicting and varied. It was almost aggravating, but Themis had always enjoyed a good puzzle.

"Knowledge is also powerful, which we both know can lead to worse than madness. That doesn't mean we ignore it and leave it for the megalomaniacs to hoard." Themis opined. She, at least, was incapable of letting such people go unchecked. Or so she hoped. An unfriendly voice questioned whether it was a matter too close to her to be seen objectively. Hadn't she delighted in the feel of her power running free? She'd nearly bled out in Samuel's laboratory as she got drunk on the taste of her magic. She was in no position to preach. Did her scar itch more, or was that a trick of the mind? It took effort to keep her hands folded in her lap. "While I loved Ancient Studies in school, my professor was far more interested in teaching for exams. There was very little room for proper exploration. That, and no one seems keen to let teenagers run unchecked through magic that can bend the world." That she added with a grin. It made all the sense in the world, but it limited knowledge and understanding, left too much unsaid to encourage further exploration. Themis wondered at how the subject had changed now that Professor Crowley was at the helm. "My question, Professor, concerns the living magicks." Themis reached into her robe pocket and produced a small phial of an easily identifiable red liquid. "My research has led me to references of blood magic. I would like to better understand the art before I move toward further experimentation." She watched carefully as she spoke, looking for any tells the other women may provide. Would this shock her? Alarm her? There was only one way to know.

---

Morrigan Crowley stared at Professor Lyra and wondered about the face of the enemy she imagined, that stole and kept the knowledge of power. Her voice was very certain, as though it laid down a law. Themis Lyra grinned again, and her eyes were bright and grave. Something contracted around Morrigan in her presence, as if those eyes bade her to freeze in place.

Morrigan's face turned into half profile. While she was still looking at her guest, it also gave her the impression of being halfway to turning away. "Blood magic runs through the secret histories, sometimes as a trickle, sometimes a river," she said and glanced only briefly at the vial with blood. "Our contemporaries consider it a dark art, but that is reductive."

Morrigan stood up again and walked over to a kettle on a strange and blackened metal contraption. Enough water was left inside, and she lit the fire, perplexingly, with a banal set of matches produced from an old matchbox. "To remedy your lack of knowing, you require sources belonging to the secret histories. Secret histories belong to the invisible arts. As the name suggests, those cannot be found at the library. Unless the library is secretive in nature, or invisible," explained Morrigan while she prepared tea. She did so with no utilization of magic. As such, it took time and procedure.

Finally, a cup was set down in front of her colleague and Professor Crowley settled back behind her desk. "I could assist you with your research." Morrigan was a scholar. She was given to the hours of illumination. She did not sacrifice at the altar of the hours from blood. However, someone else residing at the school might. "Blood Alchemy is the specialty of Professor Griffith. You might want to try asking him," she said, and her pale eyes narrowed —Griffith was a disciple of the forge that got subverted by the grail; Since finding the Beheliths at his office, this theory grew towards certainty with every observation of him that she added to her net of information. Not only did he know, he practiced. Now a new seeker awakened and found her way to her door. She turned that connection of circumstances back and forth in her mind.

---

Something relaxed slightly at her colleague’s assessment of this ‘dark art’. “Reductive and arbitrary, as are most systems forced upon us.” Themis believed in absolutes, in right and wrong, but she believed them far rarer than claimed by the wider world. Magic and knowledge were inherently amoral in her understanding. It was action and intent that colored anything in ethical terms. Whatever ghosts haunted Samuel, there was no danger in Themis better understanding his cryptic work. If anything, this investigation would make her less of a liability and more of an active partner. She felt a thrill race through her veins as she thought back on their experiments, the taste she’d had of her own magic leaving her hungry.

She considered her host as she moved to make tea, Themis noting silently that she chose to work as a muggle would. Interesting detail, that. Themis barely bit back a grin as the younger witch spoke in riddles. She seemed to rush between brutal assessment and cryptic breadcrumbs, her words offering information but little actionable substance. That was the case until she offered to help with research, until she mentioned Samuel. At least Themis was expecting this. She’d had an answer prepared for their frequent companionship for months now. That should have been all the clue she needed to understand that something had changed between them. It was amazing what the mind could avoid when given the opportunity. “I intend to ask Professor Griffith when he returns, but I have no intention of putting my research aside in his absence. I would be most grateful if you would assist me, I fear my understanding is very limited.” Another fact and another maneuver. If she was less focused on analyzing her host, Themis might realize she found this game almost entertaining.

---

Professor Crowley produced a wary smile. The tea in her cup was dark and she offered neither sugar nor milk, because that was not her habit and she had taken no thought towards receiving guests.

On her desk between them lay, invisibly, the invitation to embark on a journey with her colleague. The invitation was genuine, the motivation was obscure, the intention was obfuscated. Morrigan Crowley looked onto the empty space of stone as if she could study the fine print there. She looked up at Professor Lyra's face and searched for the hidden meanings there, but could not read the language of her mind.

"Very well," she said. "I will assist you best as I can. Where shall we start?" She turned the cup in her bony hands. "If you say 'from the beginning,' I must warn you that we will be here for a while longer than you are prepared for."

---

"If I said 'from the beginning,' I wouldn't have known to bring this." Themis raised the phial in her hand with a wry little grin. Themis was eager to learn, but she had no wish to make new scars a habit. She also had no intention of surrendering her vulnerability to this woman so easily. There were too many variables Themis didn't understand, and she refused to risk her life in Morrigan Crowley's office. Her pride wouldn't allow it.

There was no question in her mind where to begin as one question continued to override most others in her head. "If we accept that magic resides in our blood, all magic becomes blood magic. Why, then, does blood alchemy seem to affect the practitioner differently than elemental alchemy? Shouldn't the physical experience of the magic be consistent for the practitioner? The references I've encountered," was a nice way to sidestep admitting to the practice directly. "Point to a difference in both the physical experience of the magic and the persistence of the effects after the ritual was complete." She'd completed the ritual. She knew she had, but the thought didn't settle easily into her head. Something seemed off. She'd dissolved her circle the way Samuel had taught her. It was the easiest of the skills he'd given her to practice; she didn't know why, but it felt natural. So her dissolving of the circle shouldn't be the reason the magic had seemed to cling to the cells of her body and the air around her. Something had been different in Samuel's Whitechapel residence, and the lack of answers was wreaking havoc in her dreams. "If magic is in our blood, we use blood in any ritual. Why is using blood as a conduit so different?" Themis wished for answers while mentally preparing for the witch across from her getting cheeky and asking to check her sources.

---

Morrigan looked up into the fog. Professor Lyra's frame of reference rooted itself in blood Alchemy. Had she tried or observed? She was lying about intending to ask Griffith upon his return, Morrigan suspected. Surely they were already in contact. "Little is proven about the nature of magic, or its origin. It is the great secret. For the sake of simplicity, I tell you what I have come to believe."

Morrigan glanced towards the woman across from her, then put one hand on her chest, on the point where the sternum ended and dipped into the stomach. "Here is The Gate. It is a place in our bodies, made up of an element that is veiled from our understanding. It is the origin of magic. The magic filters into the physical body and as such is present in the blood, but not only there. It is present all over." She pointed at the blood in the flask. "Some people have a high concentration of magic in their blood. Others do not, even though their magical abilities present normal."

Morrigan knew her magic to rest at the Place of its origin, right at the point where she rested her hand now. From there it traveled upwards into her head and pressed into her skull. It did not like to go anywhere else. Many simple spells were difficult for her to accomplish, but it did not mean she was weak—it meant her power was obscured. "So no, not all magic is blood magic. Our bodies are closed systems, more or less. Long before wands and spellbooks, we used words and movements and emotion and art to exert our powers. All of these processes are expressions. Magic has to be expressed from within. There are many ways to bring out what is inside of us. Cutting our veins to force our lifeblood out is a radical way to accomplish that," she said with a small smile. "It is a sacrifice of our wholeness and of our health and our visceral integrity. Sacrifice is a word you might want to remember, when approaching this subject, Professor Lyra. It will follow you around, whatever path you take from here. Because it is a form of sacrificial magic."

She fell into silence for a while. “Blood magic breaks the boundaries of our bodies. It allows our magic to flow out through the breaches in great force. It also opens us to being entered. Therein lies the greatest danger.”, she eventually said.

She looked at Themis Lyra from her still and white face. “Do you fear that happened to you, Professor?”

---

"The origins of magic." Themis found herself mirroring the movement, her hand resting at the center of her body. Her hand rested on fabric, but her mind settled on a prominent scar on Samuel's torso, where all his scars seemed to meet and originate. She knew the rune resting there seemed to pulse with life, that it was one of the strongest areas of magic on his body, at least as she had labeled them. Of course she had labeled them, categorized every tiny detail she knew of Samuel into an order she could manage. She knew the night in her tower when he first held her hand to this vulnerable place that her own magic responded differently there. Just days ago, when her new scar had made contact with it, she feared the collision of magic would ignite them both. Was that what happened to her? Had they changed magic moved in her somehow? Had she just woken up to knowing how it felt? The thin theory went nowhere fast enough.

Thinking of her body as a close system satisfied the scientist in her, but hearing Professor Crowley so crudely describe what she'd done, however accurate, felt like nails on blackboards. She stilled when the woman smiled, the gesture only making her next words more ominous. "A sacrifice to what, Professor Crowley?" Themis felt her spine stiffen, her body sensing something it disliked in the woman's deathly silence. Themis was ready to push the younger witch until she spoke again.

She felt the weight of the woman's words, felt the dread creeping up her spine, but as soon as the witch mentioned her greatest danger, Themis felt her face flush. She very much doubted Miss Crowley intended for Themis' mind to happily run through all the times she'd allowed a certain alchemist to do more than enter her. The idea, and her sullied brain, were ridiculous. Breathing through her nose to avoid laughing - at herself, at the situation, at the world, take your pick - Themis composed herself. Maybe humor was her way of pushing back the little edge of panic that was now assembling a list of questions. She considered her host carefully for a moment, having already weighed the possibility of this action before deciding on coming here. There was some risk to showing her hand (literally), but the possible reward seemed worth it. Unbuttoning the cuff of her dress, determined to ignore just how vulnerable a gesture it seemed now, Themis exposed her wrist and her scar. "I won't be afraid of what I don't understand. Now, what do you mean by sacrifice?"

---

"Now that is where things get complicated. There is no easy answer. Ask yourself first for what you sacrifice. What is it that you hope to gain? —and you will come closer to whom you sacrifice." Professor Crowley's gaze clung to the red scar on the white wrist. It curved down towards the thumb in a determined line. Determined was Professor Lyra, if she had done this to herself. "May I?" Morrigan asked, and her hand extended across the dark plane of marble towards the other woman's arm. Morrigan's eyes took on an eerie sheen. "Historically we sacrifice to gods," she said in a hushed voice. "If one studies the gods of old and new long enough, it becomes evident that they are images to describe patterns. Principles, if you will."

---

She did her best not to roll her eyes. Now? Now is when it gets complicated. You don't say! Her snide internal commentary paused briefly as she had to consider a very weighted question: why had she done it in the first place? The answer wasn't as simple as she'd like. She'd wanted to be closer to Samuel, that was the easiest answer, but it wasn't the only one. Themis had needed to know. She didn't want to read it, didn't want Samuel to attempt an explanation, she wanted to know for herself. She'd learned there was more to magic than she understood, ways to feel her strength that she'd never anticipated. When faced with a new way to experience her power, she had to know what she was capable of.

Themis didn't flinch when the other woman reached for her. Still, she didn't entirely feel like hiding her mark. There was a sliver of pride, a sense of accomplishment that she realized was twisted, at best. She was still impressed that she had done what was needed for the ritual; she still couldn't believe she'd done it. Themis became less comfortable with the witch's gaze as she continued. Ancient magic was expected, but the talk of the gods, of sacrifice, had Themis returning to one of the first moments Samuel truly scared her.

Themis had asked him, as she marveled at the map of magical ley lines crossing his body, if she would need scars as well. Samuel had gone cold, his voice a world away, when he intoned, "If I were to say yes, would you do it? Do you intend to die in my arms?" She wouldn't forget those words as long as she lived. She'd assured him that she was no lamb to the slaughter; she wouldn't be dying at his hands. But what if that wasn't his concern? She felt ill.

"And what sort of principles might one be worshiping if they use blood as a basis of a transmutation circle, Professor?" She was almost grateful the witch held her arm; it was the only part of her she didn't fear falling apart at the moment. And what, she wouldn't ask, did it mean if it was now a part of her?

---

"That these principles need worshipping is a misconception. They just are. It is only a matter of seeing and seeking them." Morrigan's hand reached Professor Lyra's wrist and she took it; the touch was light and the touching hand cool. Her thumb brushed across the scar, as if to ascertain by the way it stood on the skin some measure of its significance. She contemplated it for a long time. "Have you ever first recognized a pattern, Professor, to then notice it all around you? One that you can never unsee or forget. Has something ever called you—called you in sleep and waking and not let go? Then you were touched by these underlying truths. Then prayer is the devotion of hours and minutes and seconds towards seeking. It's to be changed." Morrigan let go of Lyra's wrist.

Secret history was woven underneath the history known. The principles were present in the mundane, but it was akin to standing in a shallow stream that led into an ocean, and thinking the stream to be all there was to be known about the potential of water. Her smile turned wistful and melancholic. What she saw confirmed to her that the woman across was already ways into the dark sea. She just did not know it yet. Who had taken her, while leaving her blind? The image of Griffith at the table in the great hall crept up in Morrigan's mind; A hand, raised to receive a cup from across the table and a red scar blinking at her, to disappear into the sleeve of a black robe; A face sheltering dark eyes that warped and compressed whatever had the misfortune to stay in their gaze for too long. The corners of her mouth tightened in disdain. What she just learned did not raise her opinion of that man. "Where has he gone, really?" she asked tersely. "Is he returning at all?"

Another thought; if Lyra revealed to him everything Morrigan told, she needed to protect herself. His haunted appearance in a corridor the day he took his leave took on a new quality in her mind.

---

It was pride that kept her arm in place as Professor Crowley's thumb brushed over her scar, Themis disliking this immediately. She let her focus stray from her physical body, gave her mind over to her colleague's words. It's the best way she knew to cope with how alien her skin felt at this moment. Her body was her own, but little of her physical self felt real. The unnatural temperature of the room, the light pressure of fabric, the marble chair beneath her, none of it registered over the brush of skin on skin. All Themis could feel was her scar.

"Astronomer. I look for patterns all the time." Themis added as if the younger witch had forgotten her audience. It was a silly attempt to bring them back to something she could handle, a part of the world she felt strong in. Themis sought out patterns naturally and looked for them without intention. It wasn't a part of her personality she gave much thought to until recently. Her powers of observation and the patterns they showed her were focused on one man. Everything had changed in August. Her research had shifted; her readings now focused on reviewing runic alphabets and potion theory to understand transmutation better. She'd dreamed of his eyes on her from the beginning before her brain thought the detail worth remembering. She'd dreamed of pieces of their experiments, copper and silver almost always present, often accented in gold. She thought nothing of this; of course, she would dream of her work; there needn't be any magic at play. She held on to that thought as Crowley stabbed her with her conclusion before dropping her wrist. "To be changed how? You grow as you learn, but that cannot be what you mean." If the final answer to the mystery of alchemy was 'Learning leads to growth,' she would feel horribly cheated.

Themis watched the changes happen on Crowley's face, she was lost behind what Themis considered her 'thinker' face, and then she seemed to reach a conclusion that displeased her. Her tone reflected the change. When she heard the words, Themis changed herself. There was no question who was meant by 'he', and Themis decided there was no harm in admitting to this shared understanding. By her words, Samuel was simply someone she would consult when he returned to Hogwarts. That wasn't a lie. "I know what he told us all in his letter: His father is ailing, and he's been saddled with the burden of being the responsible son. I assume that he is getting affairs in order for his father's passing." How this equated to the shadow of a man she held in her arms nights ago, Themis didn't know.
"And I, like you, assume he's returning for next term, as he told us in the letter left for the staff." A letter he dated the morning he'd woken up in her bed after a night of making love.

She had no right to the fierce wave of protectiveness she felt at the witch's questions. She couldn't defend or fight for him, but she could ask, "He makes you uneasy. Why?"

---

A spike of impatience came at her from across the table. Morrigan's pale eyes reproachfully wandered away from her colleague's tense face. She was evading Professor Lyra's question about the principle, for she resented her dishonesty. The woman came to her for answers but was unwilling to reveal her truths. Disconcertingly, it seemed predestined for Morrigan to guide her way into the world of ancient occult magic regardless—Griffith, whatever he was to her, had not done it, yet allowed Lyra to plunge into a rite like blood alchemy. Perhaps he wanted to remain the keeper of keys and kept her in the dark on purpose.

"There is no reason to feel at ease. He relies on the fact that people are too blind to see what he is doing," she said morosely. A person as possessed by the red grail as she suspected Griffith to be had a subverting influence; it was visceral and hungry. She desired to remain unsullied by its touch. Her own journey was about yearning for the light behind the world, that would lead her to leave the flesh behind. She did not want the hungers and pains of her body. To follow the grail was to surrender to all aspects of sensation, blood and pleasure; to delight in self-destruction, to birth new life in the moment of devouring another.

It was of all principles the one Morrigan feared and resented the most. With bitterness, she contemplated that she would have no choice now but to confront its presence. When she first met Professor Lyra she presumed her, as a scholar of the stars, to likewise yearn for illumination above all else. Now she had felt the red pulse under her skin. There was a hint of disappointment in her, an alienation she had no right to, since they were never close in any sense of the word.

"It is the surface to what I mean," she returned to Lyra's previous question. "The transmundane is below the mundane, so it can appear deceptively commonplace." Her gaze was still directed towards the fog. The truth, that was her purpose. So she continued: "Below the rite you came into contact with runs the principle born from blood, referred to in ancient texts as the red grail. It is linked to hunger and thirst and sensation, to death and birth and carnality. It is pleasure-seeking and self-destroying and sacrificial. Blood Alchemy contains always the components of both sacrifice and birth; It is blood that facilitates it, and it is capable in its highest form of creating life." It was not the sole principle at work, since Alchemy in its pure form belonged to a different domain. This overlap and mixing of aspects was not uncommon in complex magic.

---