The first rays of dawn slipped through the crystal window as Akilliz stirred on the moss-stuffed bed, its scent of Mistwood dew wrapping him like a memory of Lumara’s fields. His eyes fluttered open, stretching as he reached for the letter he’d written to Torin—I made it, Pa—but his fingers found only smooth wood. The letter was gone.

  “I hope it finds you” he muttered, a grin tugging his lips. Sylvara must’ve sent it, her promise kept. His chest warmed at the thought of his father’s gray eyes scanning the words, hammer paused mid-swing at the forge. A chime echoed, soft as a brook’s ripple, and Sylvara’s voice danced through the nook, bright and off-key. “Rise, young light! Let us begin—thy day awaits, and a guest with it!” Her hum wove through the air, tugging him upright. A guest? His heart skipped, half-hoping for Torin, half-dreading Voryn’s sneer. “Who is it?” he called, slinging his pack over his shoulder.

  “Patience!” Sylvara teased, her moonlit hair swaying as she appeared at the stair. She spun, her robes a blur, and beckoned him down the spiral steps. Akilliz jogged after her, pack thumping, the tower’s pulse quickening his steps, its decanters humming faintly, a world beyond his ma’s mortar and pestle. What guest could draw Sylvara so early?

  The potion-making room opened before him, a haven of starlight and mint, shelves brimming with decanters that bubbled like fireflies in a summer dusk. A living vine wove through the ceiling, its glow soft and steady. But the air shifted, heavy with a presence that stilled Sylvara’s hum. Thalindra Vael’Shara stood at the room’s heart, her sunburst cloak flowing like a river’s current, her helmet glinting under the room’s ambiance. Her unseen gaze pierced him, and Akilliz froze, the memory of her blind, radiant eyes—pools of starlight—flooding back. She was kind, yet terrifying.

  “Kwe vadis, youngling of Lumara,” Thalindra said, her voice melodic, a command wrapped in grace. “Thou hast proven thy heart in the square, but thy mother’s heart demands more. Craft all recipes in her journal—prove her mastery, and thine.” She gestured to a table laden with ingredients: vials of moondew, sprigs of Vyr’elthar, but no glowpetals or starbloom, their absence a silent challenge. Akilliz swallowed, throat dry. Thirty-three recipes? He’d hoped for new lessons under Sylvara, not recrafting every page of the leatherbound journal. Was this another test? Why would Thalindra, of all elves, care about his potions? It didn’t add up.

  “All… now?” he asked, voice cracking. Sylvara chuckled, a chime brighter than the decanters’ hum, and nudged him to the table. “Begin, young light! We’ve time, and her noble gaze is patient—mostly.” Her wink eased his nerves, but Thalindra’s silence pressed, her flame flaring. “Prove thy mother’s heart, youngling,” she said, softer, almost a whisper, her flame flickering as if his presence stirred her, a warmth rare in her council’s shadow.

  He nodded, opening the journal, its worn pages steadying his trembling hands. Goat’s Grit first, for Bess’s goat—a proud concoction of oats, burdock, and glowing thyme, ground coarse in a mortar, the minty tang sharp as he stirred moondew over a low flame. His song rose, Elowen’s three-note tune weaving through the room, the mixture shimmering green, perfect as a goat’s bleat. Sylvara clapped, her hum joining his. “Well done, darling!” she sang, but Thalindra’s helmet tilted, her silence a weight.

  Next, Feverfew Kiss for Tild’s cough—feverfew and mint, steeped slow in moondew, a drop at a time. His hum deepened, the liquid glowing faint blue, like Mistwood’s mist. Thalindra stepped closer, her cloak whispering, and Akilliz’s pulse quickened, his song faltering. “Steady,” Sylvara murmured, her eyes warm, and he pressed on, the potion complete, its glow steady. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, the journal’s later pages looming—Cinder Tonic, Storm Salve—recipes he’d barely studied, their ingredients a puzzle with missing pieces.

  He tackled Cinder Tonic, meant to warm without scalding, but the lack of starbloom forced a substitute—silver-veined Vyr’elthar, its tingle familiar. His song grew louder, a melody like the forge’s clang, weaving his heart into the mix. The tonic shimmered faint red, and Thalindra’s flame flared, her voice sharp. “Thy song strengthens, youngling. Why?” Her words pricked like nettles, and Akilliz flushed, rubbing his neck. “It… feels right. Ma always sang to the plants, in the garden, mixin’ stuff.” His voice was small, but her flame flickered, as if his plain words stirred her, and Sylvara’s hum softened, her gaze knowing, hinting at a truth he couldn’t grasp.

  A shadow flickered at the corridor’s edge—Voryn, his sneer a blade’s edge, his cloak brushing the door as if spying. Akilliz tensed, heart thumping, but Thalindra’s helmet turned, her flame steadying, and Voryn vanished, his chill lingering. “Continue,” she commanded, and Akilliz nodded, throat tight, turning to the journal. Could he match his ma’s mastery under her stare? Could he ever match her skill, or would he falter? The decanters’ hum echoed his song, and he pressed on, one recipe at a time.

  “Why these potions?” Akilliz asked, breath baited, interrupting himself as Thalindra tilted her head, taken aback. “I mean… these feel simple. I can make harder ones, like Soul’s Breath. Why do you want them? Sorry.” Sylvara started, “My young apprentice, mind thy—” but Thalindra cut in, her voice soft. “It is well, Sylvara. Akilliz, I must witness thy craft’s truth. We know thy mother studied here, yet her ingredients differ, and still the result holds true. I cannot say more, lest I sway thy process, but I must see how thou dost weave her art.” Her flame warmed, as if his bold words eased her, a spark in her solitary shadow.

  Akilliz stood at the potion-making table, the sharp minty tang of Vyr’elthar filling the air, his throat raw from singing through Goat’s Grit, Feverfew Kiss, and Cinder Tonic. The vials glowed—green, blue, red—small triumphs under Thalindra’s silent scrutiny. Her sunburst cloak shimmered like a river’s current, her helmet casting a faint glow across the stone floor. Sylvara hummed at the shelves, her moonlit hair swaying as she sorted starbloom sprigs, her voice a bright chime. “Onward, young light!” she called, nudging a vial of moondew closer.

  “Next, if thou wilt,” Sylvara said, her eyes twinkling as she set a worn journal page before him, Elowen’s handwriting curling like a warm hearth. Starpetal Salve, a burn remedy, its steps a maze of precision—chopping, grinding, heating, slow mixing. “This one’s trickier,” she mused, her hum softening. “For burns, not simple aches. Show us thy craft.” Thalindra’s gaze warmed, close and kind, and Akilliz rubbed his neck, throat dry. The recipe called for starbloom, aloe, and rare ember-root, but the table lacked ember-root, a puzzle. He’d substitute red-veined nettle, its sting sharp but potent.

  He began, chopping starbloom petals with a small knife, their glow dusting his fingers like fireflies. Each cut was deliberate, the petals curling inward, releasing a sweet, fiery scent. He ground aloe in a mortar, its gel oozing thick and cool, the pestle’s rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Vyr’elthar followed, its silver veins crumbling under his blade, and he diced nettle, wincing as it pricked his thumb. “Careful,” Sylvara murmured, her hum a gentle guide, but Thalindra’s silence pressed. Akilliz lit a small burner, its blue flame low, heating a copper bowl of moondew until it simmered, steam curling in faint wisps. He added starbloom, stirring slowly, the liquid turning pale gold, then layered in aloe, its coolness tempering the heat. Nettle and Vyr’elthar went last, mixed with a wooden spoon, each turn precise to avoid curdling.

  His song rose, Elowen’s three-note tune weaving through the room, louder than for Cinder Tonic. The salve thickened, glowing a soft amber, its surface rippling like a warm ember. He stopped stirring, the burner’s flame fading, and held the bowl, heart thumping. “Done,” he said, voice hoarse, offering it to Sylvara. She clapped, her laugh bright. “Excellent, darling! Let’s test it.” She waved a hand, a spark of magic singeing her palm red and raw. Akilliz gasped, but she grinned, unbothered, and poured the salve over the burn. The amber glow sank into her skin, the redness easing slowly, not fully healed but soothed, the worst sting gone. “Not Soul’s Breath,” she said, flexing her hand, “but fine work. Useful in the forge, one would wager.”

  Thalindra stepped forward, her cloak whispering, her gaze warmed, close and kind. “Thy song doth weave its own magic,” she said, voice melodic, her gauntleted fingers tracing the bowl’s glow. “Make it again—without singing.” Akilliz blinked, throat tightening. “Without… singin’?” His voice cracked, bewildered, but Sylvara nodded, her eyes grave. “Try, my young apprentice.” He fidgeted with his pack, heart sinking, and started over, chopping starbloom, grinding aloe, dicing nettle, heating moondew. The steps were the same, his hands steady, but without the tune, the mixture dulled, curdling to a gray sludge, no glow, no warmth. He stared, sweat beading, and pushed the bowl away. “It… didn’t work,” he mumbled, fear curling in his chest. Had he failed? Why didn’t it work?

  Thalindra’s unseen gaze flickered, and she exchanged a glance with Sylvara, their murmurs low, too soft for Akilliz to catch. They stepped aside, cloaks brushing, and his stomach knotted, fingers twisting his sleeve. Were they done with him? Sylvara returned, her hum gentle, but Thalindra’s voice cut through, firm. “We’ve seen enough for now.” Akilliz froze, breath hitching, but Sylvara’s wink steadied him. “Fear not, darling. Watch—I’ll craft a potion for thee.” She moved to a workbench, her hands a blur, gathering an array of ingredients: sacred Mistwood dew, Vyr’elthar, starbloom, ember-root, glowpetal, three rare mosses, a crystal shard, dried flame-vine, and six others Akilliz couldn’t name, their scents sharp and wild.

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  Sylvara’s demonstration was a dance, intricate and slow, spanning easily over an hour. She chopped glowpetals with a silver blade, ground mosses in a stone mortar, heated ember-root in a decanter over a red flame, its smoke curling thickly. A second decanter simmered dew, bubbling green, and she stirred flame-vine with a wand, its tip sparking blue, weaving magic into the mix. Machines whirred—a spinning wheel separating liquids, a bubbling alembic layering ingredients with precision. She decanted the final mixture, dark green, into a vial, its glow pulsing steadily, and set it before Akilliz. “What potion have we crafted, young light?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

  He frowned, leaning close, the vial’s scent earthy and sharp. He rubbed a drop on his wrist—no sting, just warmth—and noticed his thumb’s cut had healed, oddly familiar. He sniffed, swirled, tasted a drop, its tang bitter yet known. “Glow Tonic?” he guessed, voice unsure. Sylvara’s hum faltered, and Thalindra’s helmet tilted. “Try again,” she said, voice soft but firm. “List its properties.” Akilliz swallowed, heart thumping, and studied it again. Warmth, healing....it contained sacred dew and vael’tharis…Suddenly his eyes widened, voice a whisper. “It’s… Soul’s Breath?” The green glow echoed his attempts, but this was heavier, denser.

  Sylvara clapped, her laugh bright. “Exactly, darling!” Thalindra’s gaze lingered, softened by his earnestness, a fleeting ease in her solitary burden. “Now, youngling, if Sylvara used your method would it yield thy Soul’s Breath?” Akilliz pondered, brow furrowing. “I… think so. I refined it over days, but it should work for anyone.” Sylvara’s expression turned bemused, grabbing a corked bottle of black sludge, like liquid rock. “My attempt was mere mud.” Thalindra laughed, a rare chime, startling them both.

  “Why, though?” Akilliz asked, confusion thick, his gaze lingering. “I don’t understand.” Thalindra’s smile widened. “Now thou perceivest our curiosity.” He fidgeted, insistent. “I made it, and I could again if you needed!” Her voice grew firm, her helmet gleaming in the morning sun. “Not until thou hast the mark. The dew is forbidden to outsiders. Thou wilt earn thy runes, Akilliz. Now, why these results?” Sylvara added, “Examine thy work, my apprentice. What succeeded, what failed, what differed?”

  Akilliz muttered, pacing. “I failed Starpetal Salve without singin’… You made Soul’s Breath, no song, but it took ages, complicated. I… ain’t got that skill.” Thalindra’s gaze bored into him, seeking more, but he faltered. “Thou hast half the truth,” she said, voice soft. “Song—what role doth it play?” He bit his thumb, eyes darting. “Song… well…why don’t elves sing for potions?” Sylvara teased, producing a book of elven recipes. “Find Feverfew Kiss. What differs?” He scanned, listing, “More time, ingredients, stuff I don’t have.” Thalindra pressed, “And what’s the same?” “The main two ingredients.” Her voice became a riddle. “What’s thine answer?” Akilliz’s eyes lit up. “It ... .must be….a substitution! I see it now, I used the main ingredients, but… song replaces the rest?” Thalindra’s beaming smile confirmed it. “Precisely. Thy mother simplified our teachings with her magic.”

  “Magic?” Akilliz asked, bewildered. “What magic?” Sylvara chimed in, as Thalindra leaned closer, her warmth unsettling yet kind. “It’s hereditary, young light. She passed her gift, her craft unto you. They work for her, for thee, but few others. She took main ingredients, catalysts, and sang the rest into being—a primal, ancient magic, tapping earth, air, thy life essence. Simple, yet complex.” Akilliz’s jaw dropped. “Then… do I relearn everythin’? How do I learn your potions if mine just need song?” Thalindra’s voice softened. “More than song—intention. When thou saved the hurt fairy, what didst thou feel?” He swallowed, voice raw. “Her pain, her tiny eyes… I wanted to save her, with all my heart.” Sylvara nodded. “Thy intention, thy song, carry vitality into potions. It’s magic, unknown to thee.” She smiled, warm but firm. “We’ll teach basics first, then… perhaps thy songs. This is why we tested thee—the harder the potion, the more thou singest. Fascinating.”

  The room glowed with Akilliz’s crafted potions, their minty air heavy with fire and earth. Eleven vials stood on the table, a third of the journal’s thirty-three recipes done, their hues—green, blue, red—testament to his toil under Thalindra’s steady gaze. She lingered close, her sunburst cloak brushing the workbench, her helmet tilted as she traced a vial’s curve with a gauntleted finger. Sylvara swept dust from the shelves, her hair swaying, her hum bright and off-key. “Rest thy mind, darling,” she said, eyes twinkling, twirling a glowpetal sprig like a harvest dancer. “We’ve a pressing task at hand.”

  Akilliz tilted his head, throat raw from singing, voice hoarse. “Task?” Thalindra leaned closer, her flame dimming briefly, as if reluctant to leave, her melodic voice warm yet noble. “Aether, youngling—Vaelrik’s forge doth crave its fire. “ She rested a hand on his shoulder, her gaze warming as his normalcy eased her unseen solitude. “Sylvara’s craft doth illumine all, mind.” Akilliz grinned, her humor a spark, but a sharp knock broke the moment, the door creaking open. Two guards flanked Voryn, his sharp glance slicing through, voice clipped. “Judiciar, the council summons thee—trade disputes, urgent.”

  Thalindra’s helmet snapped up, her temper flaring, and she waved a gauntlet, voice sharp as steel. “Canst thou not see I am occupied? Resolve it thyself and intrude no further!” Voryn’s jaw tightened, his glance colder, but she turned to Akilliz, her tone softening, kind as a hearth’s glow. “The council needeth guidance at every turn—were I not here, they’d wander lost in their own halls.” Her chuckle was a melodic chime, and Sylvara stifled a laugh, tossing her sprig. Akilliz’s heart thumped, eased by her warmth, her closeness a steady spark. She lingered, her gauntlet stilled, as if savoring his reply. “How’s it work, what exactly is Aether?” he asked, voice earnest, and her smile shifted, a rare ease in her stern demeanor.

  “Well, darling, let’s craft it,” Sylvara said, her voice playful, leading them to the tower’s apex, a circular chamber where a crystal dome caught the midday sun, its light fracturing into soft beams across the stone floor. A bronze cauldron sat at the room’s heart, its rim etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like a hearth’s heartbeat. “Aether, my young apprentice, you shall see soon enough what it is for. Let us begin the task at hand first,” Sylvara announced, her robes swishing as she spun to a shelf, gathering ingredients: moondew, glowpetal, a prism-stone shard, silver moss, vaporized flame-vine, and starbloom pollen, its scent sharp as frost. Akilliz tilted his head, eyes wide, nose stinging as he peered into the cauldron. “Looks like a puddle of light in there. Stings my nose like frost, too.” Sylvara grinned, mischievous. “Chop the moss, young light—fine as dust.”

  He diced the moss with a silver blade, its fibers crumbling like snow, while Sylvara aligned a prismatic lens beneath the dome, timing the sun’s arc to split a white-hot beam into the cauldron. The light struck, the cauldron humming, its runes glowing gold. “Stir the moondew, darling,” Sylvara called, and Akilliz leaned over, stirring with a rune-etched rod, his hands steady, focused on the glow’s pulse. Sylvara added glowpetal, its petals sparking into mist, and poured the prism-stone shard, crushed to dust, its flecks dancing in the beam. “Thicken it, slow,” she said, and Akilliz stirred, sweat beading, his heart set on the light’s steadiness. Thalindra watched intently, her flame softening, and she nodded, her voice warm. “Thy diligence honors our city, human—a rare gift.”

  Sylvara uncorked the flame-vine vial, its vapor hissing, and raised her wand, its tip flaring blue. She chanted a spell, her voice a low hum, words sharp and fleeting, like a breeze’s call, binding the light. Akilliz sprinkled starbloom pollen, its dust sinking in spirals, and Sylvara added silver moss, her fingers precise. “Well stirred, sunshine!” she said, her laugh bright. Thalindra’s gauntlet tapped the table, her chuckle regal. “Sylvara’s craft doth illumine all, youngling—yet thou keepest pace.” Akilliz grinned, he recognized that praise from Thalindra was likely rare, and he was happy she was being kind today, she had been terrifying just days earlier.

  The cauldron’s contents thickened, pooling like molten starlight, and Sylvara decanted it into three rune-etched jars, their glass humming with a radiant, white glow, stinging Akilliz’s nose like a winter’s edge. “Well crafted,” Thalindra said, her hand clapping his back. “Thou wilt become a light in our city.” Her smile vanished, suddenly she stepped back, her cloak whispering. “Apologies. Alas. Council duties summon me—these families tire the soul.” She tilted her head, her tone fond. “Sylvara, guide him true.” Sylvara nodded, her sprig still, and Thalindra swept out, her gauntlet brushing Akilliz’s arm, a gesture soft as a friend’s, her presence lingering in the room’s glow.

  Sylvara’s hum faltered, her eyes following the door, and she leaned close, voice a quiet murmur. “Rare for Thalindra to linger outside the chambers for long, young one. She’s taken a shine to thee—truly. Learn swift, perform well, keep her favor. I’ve not heard her laugh in decades, bless her. The five families and guards run her ragged, their burdens weighing heavy, yet thou bringest ease.” Akilliz swallowed, the jars’ hum tingling his palms, Thalindra’s warmth a steady spark. “She… did laugh.” He muttered to himself. He heard it for a moment, yet didn’t realize the rarity of the moment.

  Sylvara gathered the jars, her hum guiding him down the tower’s spiral steps. “Come, let us venture forth into the city!” Luminael’s market sprawled beyond the spires, stalls brimming with star-dusted fruits and rune-carved trinkets, vendors hawking charms, their calls mingling with a child’s laughter as she chased a glowing orb. Elves cast sharp glances, unspoken but heavy, and he gripped the jars tighter, following his mentor through a crowded plaza, its fountain sparkling under the sun. His ears heard it well before it came into view, but there was no mistaking it. A forge’s clang echoed faintly, a distant promise, and Sylvara’s hum brightened, pointing to a vendor’s glowing herbs. “Look—fresh Vyr’elthar! Tempted?” Akilliz grinned, the city’s pulse quickening his steps, one glowing jar at a time.