He waited several long seconds before he was satisfied no alarm had been raised.
Miro examined the vat. He wasn't interested in the lore that enabled it to extract essence from corpses, nor was he looking for the door in which they were thrown. He finally found what he was after: a thin tube that led to a small steel barrel.
The barrel was the size of a man's head. Miro wondered how many innocent people the self-styled Lord of the Night murdered to fill the vessel with essence. It must number in the thousands.
Miro took the gloves out of the satchel and put them on. They were made of cloth, which meant they would only prevent the slightest of spills from reaching Miro's skin, but they were all he could find.
He unscrewed the cap from the barrel, which allowed him to remove the glass tube.
Miro's hurt left shoulder gave a sudden spasm of pain. An infinitesimal droplet of black liquid fell from the end of the glass tube onto Miro's left hand.
Miro hurriedly pushed the tube away, letting it fall to the ground, before looking at his hand in horror. What should he do? Should he take the glove off? What if he took the glove off and made a second spill? What if he didn't take it off and the essence worked its way through the fabric, worming its way to his skin…
Miro hastily tugged the glove off his left hand, throwing it into a clump of grass.
He put his left hand behind his back to remove the temptation to use it. With his shoulder hurt, the risk was too great.
Miro turned to the barrel. He picked it up and felt its weight; perhaps half full. He took the wide-mouthed jar from his satchel and held it between his knees.
This was another dangerous moment. Miro tilted the barrel until its opening was over the mouthpiece of the jar. He tipped oily black liquid, the deadliest substance in existence, into the vessel he'd brought. He almost tipped too much, and brought the barrel back down with a quick moan of fear.
He'd filled the jar, and he was still alive.
Miro spent the next moments replacing the glass tube in the mouth of the barrel and sealing the cap. No one would know he'd come this way.
Screwing a lid on the jar, now filled with essence, Miro held it carefully as he once again crossed back over the hill, taking his belongings with him.
He continued to run, back bent to hide his form, until he found a quiet place far from the vats. A fallen log made a platform, and Miro drew his sword, placing it horizontally on the log in front of him. He placed the jar beside the sword where it wouldn't slip, and took out the quill.
Miro waited until the moon came out, and then, taking a deep breath, he unscrewed the lid of the jar. He picked up the quill in his gloved right hand and thought about what he was doing.
Miro had been a bladesinger for years. He'd studied hard and trained endlessly. He had carried his zenblade into countless battles, from one end of the Empire to the other.
His sister was an enchantress. She'd left the temple school at a young age; it was the only way she could save the gilden she needed for the fees at the Academy of Enchanters. But she'd continued learning, bringing home books about topics ranging from mathematics to the study of the weather. Most of all, she'd brought home books about enchantment.
Ella had made Miro his zenblade and armoursilk, both now resting at the bottom of the Great Western Ocean. Miro could never create a zenblade himself, but he knew the activation sequences she'd taught him, and with all his experience he knew some runes for lightness and hardness, heat and light.
Miro's hand trembled as he dipped the quill in the jar. Could he really do this?
He removed the quill from the jar and looked at the bared steel of the sword, glinting in the direct moonlight. He began to draw a rune, fighting the urge to tremble as a hissing sound came from the steel where the essence touched it. Acrid smoke rose into the air, stinging his eyes and throat, forcing him to keep his head tilted to the side. He curled the symbol at the end in the flourish he'd seen so many times. Was it correct? There was no way of knowing; he had only his memory to go on.
He moved onto the second rune: the matrix he was drawing contained six symbols. Somehow Miro was able to recall every single one.
The first matrix completed, Miro's hand moved along the blade as he started the second group of symbols. This next matrix bound twelve runes together, and was the most complex he would try. Miro wanted to give the sword the power to burn, and the power to blind. He would make it stronger and harder, sharper and lighter. He would activate it with a single spoken word.
Compared to a zenblade it would be pitiful, but these people had no lore, and an enchanted sword in the hands of a skilled swordsman would be a deadly weapon indeed. A weapon he would need, if he planned to face revenants.