Less is more.

That's what he said. He practised his alchemy in a purely minimalistic fashion, using only materials that were organic or easily scavenged. When Riza was young, it was easy for him to purchase high-end materials, his growled name "Berthold Hawkeye" unlocked more shop doors and libraries than a key would.

But as Riza grew older the name meant less as her father shrunk into a smaller man, the money meant less as it disappeared into the increasingly cold nights, his love meant less as he began to ignore her and shut himself into his smelly, cold study

Less is more.

That's what he said. He began to ration the food that she bought, and usually paid for with the scraps of change she made from tutoring the village children.

"Don't you dare tell that boy," he warned her. "He's got that rich aunt, if she finds out about us, he might take him away, and then whose money is going to fill your belly?"

Riza shut her mouth and nodded. Better her father believed that Roy was only good for the money that put food on her table and not the warmth that filled her heart.

Less is more.

That's what he said. He pulled her into his study and locked the door. Riza dug her fingernails into the flesh of her hands to disguise the way her body shook. Berthold pulled sketches from a drawer on his cabinet. The paper was as thin as butterfly wings and ripped in sever places. Even so, he made stay inside the room until the meaningless swirls that were etched into the paper were all she could see.

"This is my legacy," his voice was harsh and cold, so she made sure that he saw her look. "This is yours now."

Less is more.

That is what he said. But he wouldn't tell her anything. For weeks after her father cornered her in the study, Riza lay awake in her room and wondered what awaited her. Surely something. The crack in her wall let the draft in enough to wake her, and the fear of the unknown made sure she didn't fall back to sleep. She would walk through the village and see the other teenage girls laughing at jokes, or burying their heads in books, and the longing that tugged at her would make her whole body ache. She was bright, and loved to learn, surely she would do well in a class with other like-minded students.

Less is more.

That's what he said, not even meeting her eyes, when she asked once again, if she could seek attendance at the local school house.

"Those teachers are idiots who will only fill your brain with fluffy nonsense, " Berthold did not look up from his notes.

Roy shot up from his writing, but Riza looked away to avoid the sympathy that would surely have filled his eyes.

"I would be able to sort out right from wrong," Riza whispered.

Berthold continued writing as if she had never spoken, but Roy's eyes widened at her disobedience.

"Get out, Riza," Berthold finally instructed. "You're much cleverer than those teachers, anyway."

Less is more.

That's what he said.

"We don't need anyone else, Riza," he promised, as Roy disappeared down the road. "That boy was wanton and weak. He would only drag us down."

Riza pretended that he was right, that the hot tears that cut down her cheeks were stupid, even though they felt meaningful.

Less is more.

That is what he said as he pricked her with that fucking needle. The pain was relentless, a fire that burns its way up her back with every touch of that cold metal.

"Please," she begged, her voice thick with tears and snot. "I'm still hurting from yesterday, please no more."

"Almost done for today," Berthold murmured, and pressed down harder.

Riza began to cry again. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined someone bursting through the door to save her. In her mind her knight always looked like Roy.

Less is more.

That's what his book said.

It was too late for her father to still be awake, and too early for Roy to wake up. Riza huddled in the study surrounded by books. Her back stung horribly and she could feel liquid leaking through the bandages. She hadn't slept for two days, spending her days locked in her room with the books her father wouldn't miss, and her nights in the study with the ones he would.

A pinch in his tea or his food. Twice a day.

She had grown up around stores and suppliers that sold unlimited supplies and never asked questions.

So easy.

Less is more.

It went faster than the book suggested. Within days he was coughing up blood and struggling to breathe. It took two simple phone calls to get Roy to come back home. He looked at her strangely, but she took deep breaths and told herself that there was nothing for him to know.

Less is more.

She stood side by side with Roy at the grave site and tried to control the nausea that rose in a wave up her stomach.

I'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfine.

When the tears trickled down her cheeks they almost felt real.

She let Roy take her hand and lead her back to the house. There was something she had to tell him.

Less is more.