The workshop was alive with soft light and movement, a sanctuary of bubbling beakers and shimmering powders. Faust moved through it like a composer conducting an orchestra, each gesture deliberate, each reaction anticipated. The air was thick with the scent of molten metals and herbs, familiar and comforting.

  Behind him, the door creaked open. Faouzia stood there, her silhouette framed by the flickering glow. She didn’t speak right away, her dark eyes taking in the intricate chaos of the room. Finally, she stepped inside, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Still here?”

  He glanced up from his workbench, startled but not displeased. “Where else would I be?” he asked lightly, turning back to his project. “The stars have their mysteries, Faouzia. So does this.”

  She crossed her arms, the edge in her tone unmistakable. “The stars don’t demand sacrifices the way this does.”

  He paused, his hands stilling over a small vial of shimmering liquid. “Don’t they?” he asked softly, turning to meet her gaze. “How many nights have you stayed up, charting constellations until dawn? How many times have you bled into the earth for your arbormancy? Don’t tell me the stars don’t ask for something in return.”

  “That’s different,” she said, her voice tightening. “Astronomy connects me to something greater. It’s about understanding the universe, not controlling it.”

  “And you think alchemy isn’t the same?” he countered, his voice rising slightly. “This isn’t about control, Faouzia. It’s about transformation. Understanding. Taking what’s broken and making it whole.”

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  She shook her head, stepping closer. “You don’t see it, do you? You’re not transforming anything, Faust. You’re hiding. Behind your tools, your formulas—your need to fix everything. Even me.”

  The words struck like a blow, and for a moment, he couldn’t respond. He turned back to the workbench, his jaw tight. “I thought you admired this about me,” he said finally, his voice low. “My dedication. My... brilliance.”

  “I admired your passion,” she said, her tone softening. “But somewhere along the way, it became obsession. And now it feels like you care more about your experiments than you do about us.”

  His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. “You think I do this for myself? Everything I’ve done—it’s been for us. For you.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You do this because you’re afraid. Afraid of uncertainty. Afraid of letting go. But love isn’t something you can refine in a flask or inscribe into a circle, Faust.”

  He turned to her, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and desperation. “And what about you? Do the stars make you less afraid? Does bleeding for your trees make you any less fragile?”

  Her breath hitched, but she held his gaze. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Because they remind me of my place in the world. They don’t ask me to be perfect. They don’t ask me to solve them. They just... are.”

  He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “So what do you want from me, Faouzia? To give this up? To abandon everything I’ve worked for?”

  “Yes,” she said, the word firm and unwavering. “If you want us to have a chance, then yes.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Faust’s eyes flicked to the array of tools and substances that had defined his life, then back to her. Slowly, he nodded, the motion jerky and heavy. “Fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what it takes.”

  He moved to the nearest table, his hands trembling as he began to dismantle the setup. Glass clinked, liquids spilled, and the soft glow of flames vanished one by one. Faouzia watched, her expression unreadable, as the room darkened with each extinguished light.

  When the last vial was emptied and the final flame snuffed out, Faust turned to her, his face pale but resolute. “It’s done,” he said simply.

  She stepped closer, her hand brushing his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft but tinged with something unreadable.

  But as her touch lingered, Faust felt a hollow ache in his chest. He had given her what she wanted—what she demanded—but as the silence stretched, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just destroyed the only thing that made him whole.