The market plaza pulsed with Luminael’s heartbeat, its fountain sparkling under the midday sun, vendors hawking elven charms as a child’s laughter echoed, chasing a glowing orb through the crowd. Akilliz gripped three Aether jars, their radiant hum tingling his palms, casting white beams across his tattered tunic. The glow felt sharper than the Starpetal Salve he’d crafted in Sylvara’s tower, even through the glass container it was still stinging his nose like frost. Sylvara led the way, her hair swaying as she danced along, her hum bright and off-key as she pointed to a stall’s pastries, their sugary scent mingling with the market’s minty air. “Tempted, young light?” she teased, eyes twinkling, her robes swishing.

  Akilliz grinned, the city’s vibrancy quickening his steps, but Thalindra’s words lingered—“Thy path doth warm our halls”—her rare chuckle a spark in his chest. Could he honor her faith, prove he belonged in Luminael, like Ma?

  “Mind thy step, darling,” Sylvara called, weaving through the crowd, their cloaks glinting with silver pins and emerald clasps, their ever present glances sharp and uncertain. Akilliz tilted his head, catching a gleam of something suspicious at a stall’s edge—Voryn, his glance cutting like a blade, his cloak brushing the shadows as if spying, echoing his tower intrusion. Akilliz’s heart thumped, tampered herbs flashing. Was Voryn following him? He gripped the jars tighter, their hum a shield, and hurried after his mentor, her hum guiding him to the forge’s clang, steady like his father’s anvil.

  The forge’s warm light spilled onto the street, its rhythm a welcome heartbeat. Sylvara paused, her hand grazing his shoulder. “Vaelrik’s domain, young sprout—mind thy manners.” He nodded, Aether’s glow reflecting in his eyes, and stepped inside, the air thick with soot and molten metal’s tang. Vaelrik, burly with a silver braid glinting, hammered a blade, his soot-streaked arms precise. His apprentice, a wiry half-elf, stoked the fire, coals hissing as flames leaped. Akilliz cleared his throat, voice earnest. “Aether, from Sylvara.”

  Vaelrik grunted, taking a jar, gray eyes squinting as he brushed soot from his braid. “Well timed, lad.” He uncorked it, Aether’s white glow spilling, and poured it into the forge’s heart. The flames roared, flaring white-hot, shaking the air like a storm. The blade glowed, radiant as dawn, sharp enough to slice light itself. Akilliz gaped, heart racing, the elven forge was immaculate. Blades lined the walls, shimmering like stars, etched with runes for the Eternal Watch—Luminael’s guards. “How’s it… do that?” he asked, awe thick, eyes tracing Vaelrik’s tools: a rune-etched hammer, handle worn; prismatic tongs catching light; a bellows humming, pulsing with flames.

  The smith’s chuckle rumbled, hammer pausing. “Aether burns true, lad—light strengthens light, crafts blades for the Watch to cut like dawn. Tools took years to master.” He tapped the hammer, runes flaring, and swung again, the blade deepening. The apprentice smirked, tossing coal, and Akilliz’s fingers itched to touch the tongs, to help out in the smithy again.

  Sylvara’s hum brightened, hand steadying him. “Thou seest its fire, young light. I shall teach thee how to craft Aether soon enough. For now, let us venture toward our next destination.” Akilliz nodded and said his parting words to the thankful smith. Now more than ever, he wanted to see his father. To show him the wonders of Aether, the elven forge, the quality of their radiant blades.

  The market’s buzz faded as Sylvara led him from the forge, its radiant memory searing his thoughts. Sylvara’s hum brightened, her robes swishing down a cobbled path, Luminael’s tall spires glinting above. “To the Vyr’aelthyn, the heart of growth,” she said, eyes twinkling, twirling a starbloom sprig from a vendor. “Thou’lt find thy potion’s needs—even more, perhaps.” Akilliz grinned, her tease catching his spark.

  The path opened to a crystal and vine dome, the Vyr’aelthyn, its walls pulsing with verdant glow, a forest caught in starlight. Akilliz froze, eyes wide, the sheer scope stealing his breath. Towering ferns swayed, fronds shimmering; glowing vines coiled trellises, dripping moondew; herbs—starbloom, Vyr’elthar, and many more, sprouted in vibrant rows, their earthy scents sharp, mingling with minty air. Dozens of elves tended the expanse, cloaks dusted with pollen, hands gentle as they pruned, their hums a soft chorus. “It’s… massive,” Akilliz said, voice raw, eyes wide, the dome’s light bathing his tunic.

  Sylvara’s laugh chimed, sprig twirling. “Luminael’s bounty, darling—for all, if used properly.” He rubbed his neck, fingers brushing his pack. “Can we… take stuff?” She nodded, hum softening. “Aye, for craft or need, with care—waste not the earth’s gifts.” She led him to starbloom, feverfew, and several herbs including Vyr’elthar, it’s silver veins cool, and they continued filling a basket. An elf, her Lyr clasp glinting, offered “Shal’vyn”, and Akilliz echoed it, earnest, earning a faint smile.

  Back In the sylvara’s alchemical workshop, minty air greeted them, decanters bubbling like summer fireflies. Akilliz set the basket down, but the table was bare—his eleven vials, green, blue, red, gone. “Where’s… my potions?” he asked, voice cracking, a pang sharp. Sylvara’s hum faltered, eyes twinkling, pulling a coin purse from her robes, gold and silver glinting. “Gone, darling! Sold—the kind folk loved them, bought the lot in moments.” She handed him the purse, heavy in his palm. “Thy share, little sprout. Craft more in thy free time.”

  Akilliz blinked, clutching the purse, coins clinking a thrill. “All of ‘em?” His grin tugged, Elowen’s memory stirring—her tonics warmed Lumara, now his warmed Luminael. Could he thrive here, like she did? Sylvara’s laugh was bright. “Aye, darling, thy Goat’s Grit was a novelty! More, and thou’lt have coin aplenty.” The purse grounded him, but Voryn’s market glance lingered, a shadow. “My letter?” Akilliz asked, shifting his stance, Torin’s thought steadying. “To Pa—did it go?”

  Sylvara’s eyes softened, nudging his shoulder. “Sent by raven, swift, sure. My birds wait for thy father’s reply, not to worry.” Akilliz’s awe crept in. “Ravens… do that?” Her chime sparkled, sprig still. “Aye, darling, my ravens know no bounds.” His chest warmed, picturing his father’s gray eyes, hammer paused, a letter forming. Would he write back soon? Sylvara’s gaze turned firm. “The Festival nears. We have much to do. Thy potion making and alchemy need improvement, and improvements thee shall make.”

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  The tower’s workshop pulsed with decanters’ soft glow, their bubbling a faint chorus in the air, as Akilliz stood at the workbench, the Vyr’aelthyn’s basket brimming with ingredients.

  Sylvara’s hum softened as she leaned against the workbench, robes swishing. Her voice grew grave. “We must speak of thy song.” Akilliz tilted his head, heart thumping. “My song?” he asked, voice earnest

  Her gaze turned firm, hand on a decanter, its glow flickering. “Thy craft is mighty, darling, thy journal’s potions, Starpetal Salve, shine because thou pourest vitality through song. But it’s perilous.” Her voice dropped, heavy. “Each song weaves thy life’s essence into plants, earth, potions, losing a fragment of thyself. Too many strong works, like Soul’s Breath, and thou mayst suffer… as thy mother might have.” Akilliz’s throat tightened, Elowen’s weary smile flashing—her hands grinding herbs, voice fading. “You think…Ma… died from singin’?” he asked, voice raw, fear curling like smoke.

  Sylvara’s eyes softened, hum faltering. “I cannot say, but it’s possible. Thou’rt young, yet thy craft, Cinder Tonic, Soul’s Breath—taxes thee, thy throat, thy strength.” She gestured to his calloused hands. “I must guard thee from exhaustion, teach the proper way, without risk. Sing with caution, until thou learnest more.” Akilliz rubbed his neck. Could he craft safely, avoiding the same fate? The purse’s coins clinked, a reminder of Luminael’s faith, but his mother’s shadow loomed.

  “Thou hast no pact, darling,” Sylvara continued, “but I see thee forging one in time.” Akilliz blinked, heart racing. “What exactly is a pact?” he asked. Sylvara’s gaze drifted, fingers tracing the decanter. “A pact… is…I have a pact with one of the Nine—I dare not name him—granting magic at will. I traded something dear, worth the risk. Gods, wizards, spirits offer such bonds—thou tradest something precious for power.” Her voice whispered, the decanter dimming. “Thou’rt not ready, young light, but thou wilt be.”

  “How could I… do that?” Akilliz asked, voice small, the idea daunting yet thrilling, like the vastness of Luminael’s gardens. Sylvara’s laugh chimed, nudging his shoulder. “In time, darling—first, we train, properly.” She turned to a dark cupboard, wood etched with runes, and drew a tiny mushroom, its cap violet—Shadowveil Cap, bitter as rain-soaked earth. “We craft a poison, young one—not all potions heal, and such skill serves in need.”

  She gestured to a decanter, glass humming blue, tubes and valves glinting. “This channels heat and vapor, precise as a blade,” she said, explaining dials: “Turn slow for vapor, sharp for heat, balance them”). Akilliz nodded, heart racing, his first time with such a tool, Sylvara’s guidance steady. He ground starbloom and Vyr’elthar, glow and silver mixing, and crumbled the Shadowveil Cap to dust, its sting sharp. The decanter whirred, moondew poured, dials twisted carefully, vapor curling like mist. He layered ingredients slowly, no song, heeding Sylvara’s caution, stirring with a glass rod as the mixture darkened, viscous, deep violet—a poison complete.

  “Well crafted, darling!” Sylvara clapped, hum bright, eyes twinkling. “Thy first decanter work—fine as Vaelrik’s craft.” Akilliz grinned, the poison vial solid, pride swelling. “It… worked?” he asked, voice earnest. Sylvara nodded, sprig still. “Aye, a safe step to mastery.” He shifted his stance, the Shadowveil Cap’s scent lingering.

  Sylvara’s voice softened. “Rest now, tomorrow, we refine, and thy must begin thinking of a worthy offer to Aurelia.” Akilliz nodded, the decanter’s hum fading, the poison a dark promise.

  The tower’s staunch air lingered as Akilliz fiddled with the coin purse, its gold and silver glinting in the soft glow, a reward for his sold potions. The Shadowveil Cap’s bitter scent clung to his fingers, the poison vial a dark weight on the workbench, but his thoughts blazed on. What could he make for Aurelia, what would be sufficient? More pressing… what would he do with his coin?

  Sylvara’s hum brightened, her hair swaying as she nudged his shoulder, sprig twirling. “Enough for today, darling—thy poison’s a fine step, but thou needest garb for the Festival.” Her eyes twinkled, voice playful. “To the market, young light—buy a cloak, boots, something fine. Thy clothes stench of long journey and livestock pastures. For Aurelia’s sake, thy need new shoes most importantly!”

  Akilliz grinned, rubbing his neck, the purse’s weight a quiet thrill. “New… clothes?” he asked, voice earnest, his Lumara boots scuffed, a faint whiff of farm clinging despite his care. Sylvara’s laugh chimed. “Aye, —thou’rt a potion-maker, not a shepherd. Before dusk, mind.”

  Akilliz nodded, clutching the purse, coins clinking as he stepped into Luminael’s market, the plaza’s fountain sparkling under dusk’s soft light. Vendors called, hawking starbloom cakes and rune-carved trinkets, their stalls glowing like the Vyr’aelthyn’s vines, the air thick with sugary scents and mint. Elves bustled, cloaks swirling, but their glances pricked, sharp as thorns, whispering outsider.

  At a tailor’s stall, Akilliz wavered between two elven shirts—one deep green with silver vine embroidery curling like forest tendrils, the other blue with golden sunburst threads echoing Thalindra’s radiant cloak—and sleek trousers, their rune-stitched seams shimmering faintly. They won’t look right on me, he thought, his tattered Lumara tunic reeking of sweat and farm, boots crusted with faint dung. The shopkeeper, an elf with a Vael pin, tapped her foot, voice sharp. “Choose quick, lad—dusk’s closing in!” Akilliz’s heart thumped, but a warm presence stilled the air—Thalindra, her sunburst cloak flowing, flame steady. “The green, youngling,” she said, voice melodic, beaming a scary smile at the shopkeeper, who paled, stuttering, “J-Judiciar!” Akilliz fumbled three silvers, but the elf waved them away. “A gift, lad—truly. It’s… been ages since a human’s graced Luminael. Feel welcome.” Akilliz blinked, coins heavy. “Really? You sure?” he asked, voice earnest. The elf nodded, flustered. “Y-Yes, take it!” Thalindra’s smile widened, eyes glinting. “How fared today’s lesson, youngling?” Akilliz shared Sylvara’s warning and poison craft, voice soft. “Thought I saw Voryn spying on me earlier..’.” She scoffed, chuckling. “He spies on me too, youngling—pay him no mind.”

  Thalindra’s flame softened, her gaze warm. “Thy heart shines, youngling—Luminael sees it.” She ruffled his hair, a playful gesture that warmed his heart, and parted with a nod, her cloak fading into dusk’s glow. Akilliz stood, heart full, the green cloak’s vine embroidery catching the starlight, new boots firm on Luminael’s stones. As he walked toward Sylvara’s tower, the market’s hum faded, stars bright above. He thought to himself, could he truly craft a place here, honor his family, and make something special for the Festival? The journal waited, its pages open, ready for his light, one step at a time.