Dawn’s molten gold bled across the emerald field, casting long shadows that danced with the sacred grass, each blade humming with the city’s magic. Akilliz stood before the gates, his stretched boots sinking into the dew-kissed earth, the Vael’kyn medallion a heavy vow against his chest. The sapphire potion, tucked beside the orange bottled fire, glinted in his pack, a fragile hope forged in the Mistwood’s embrace. He was no longer the boy banished in shame, but a potion-maker with the fae’s trust, ready to claim his place—or so he told himself, though fear coiled in his gut like a living thing.
The guards stood sentinel, their armor shimmering with glyphs that flared like captured comets, their prismatic eyes narrowed to venomous slits. The lead guard, his face sharp as a blade, stepped forward, his silver cape billowing in the dawn’s breeze, sword half-drawn, its blade humming with a faint, menacing glow. “Thou art banished, earth born filth,” he snarled, his voice a lash of contempt, each syllable dripping with the weight of Luminael’s scorn. “Kyn’thara, this is thy one warning—lethal force is encouraged against a banished on sacred ground. Turn back, or thy blood will stain the earth.” His companion, broader, with a scar slashing his cheek, spat into the grass, muttering, “Sha’vyn durath—blighted thief. Begone, lest we carve thy name from memory.”
Akilliz’s heart thundered, a drumbeat drowning the hum of the grass, but he stood firm, the memory of Soren’s grin and Lira’s bracelet steadying his spine. Show ‘em what you can do, Aki, Torin’s gruff voice echoed, a forge-hot spark in the cold. He swallowed, throat dry as ash, and raised his hands, palms open, Elowen’s lessons a quiet anchor: Kindness opens doors, Aki. “I’ve done no harm,” he said, voice trembling but clear, each word a defiance of their hate. “I seek Thalindra Vael’Shara, High Judiciar, to show my work—a potion, a gift from the Mistwood’s heart. I mean no trespass, only truth.” His fingers brushed the journal, a silent plea for strength, but the guards’ eyes glinted, unyielding as the gates behind them.
The scarred guard barked a laugh, sharp and cruel, like glass shattering on stone. “Thy work? A mud-born’s scribbles?” he sneered, stepping closer, his armor’s mystical symbols flaring. “Get lost, kyn’thara! Thy kind taints the air we breathe.” He shoved Akilliz’s shoulder, a jolt that rocked him back, but Akilliz held his ground, jaw clenched, Torin’s forge-iron will burning in his chest. “Please,” he pressed, voice steadier now, “look at my medallion—the fae’s trust, Vyn’kwe thal. It proves I’m no thief.” He lifted the Vael’kyn medallion, its rune flaring like a star in the dawn, its prism catching the light in a dance of gold and violet. For a moment, the guards froze, their prismatic eyes flickering, as if the fae’s mark stirred something even their scorn couldn’t bury.
But the lead guard’s face twisted, a snarl curling his lips, and he lunged, ripping the medallion from Akilliz’s cloak with a snap of gossamer thread. “Stolen trinket!” he roared, tossing it to the ground, the rune’s glow dimming in the dirt. “Thou darest flaunt fae lies before Luminael’s gates?” The scarred guard spat again, grinding the medallion under his boot, his voice a venomous hiss: “Sha’vyn durath, thou’rt naught but a worm in our light.” Akilliz’s breath caught, tears pricking his eyes, hot and sharp, as the medallion—the fairy’s gift, the village’s faith—lay defiled. His hands shook, grief and rage warring within, but he fought the tears, jaw trembling, Elowen’s smile flickering in his mind: Listen to the herbs, Aki. He would not break, not here, not now.
Out of options, Akilliz stared into their prismatic eyes, a tense silence stretching like a bowstring. Yet, a glint caught his eye—tall blooms at his feet, their pale gold petals glowing like the herbs he’d stolen, pulsing with Luminael’s magic. A reckless spark flared, the same defiance that drove him to climb Frosthelm, to heal the fairy. For you, Ma, he thought, kneeling slowly, as if to adjust his boot. His fingers closed around a handful of flowers and silver-veined herbs, tearing them from the earth with a soft snap, their roots trailing dirt. He stood, holding them aloft, marvel in his voice despite the tremor: “These are the earth’s heartbeat—proof I’m more than your slurs!” The blooms glowed in his hand, a rebellion, their light a mirror to the sapphire potion in his pack.
The guards’ faces darkened, a storm breaking. “Durath’kyn!” the lead guard bellowed, False soul, his sword flashing fully now, its hum a scream in the air. “Thou defilest sacred ground!” The scarred guard surged forward, slamming Akilliz to the earth, his knee crushing his chest, breath fleeing in a gasp. Icy ropes, glowing with light, bound his wrists, burning like frostbite, and the guards hauled him up, their voices a vicious chorus. “Thou’lt pay, boy!” the lead guard snarled, dragging him through the gates, the blooms scattering in the dirt. “Into the depths with thee—no light, no hope! We’ll not let this end quickly, kyn’thara. Thou’lt suffer before the Judiciar!” The scarred guard leaned close, his breath hot and sour: “Never again wilt thou see the day, mud-born. Thy name is ash.”
He stumbled, the ropes searing, his vision blurring as the gates’ starlight swallowed him. The medallion lay abandoned, its rune a faint glimmer in the grass, but the journal’s weight, the potion’s glow, and the village’s warmth—Lira’s laugh, Soren’s cheer—burned in his heart. He fought the despair clawing his throat, Torin’s voice a steady hammer: Be proud, Aki. The guards’ words echoed, but Akilliz lifted his chin, eyes fixed on the ivory corridors ahead, a potion-maker still, bound but unbroken, ready to face whatever judgment awaited.
The iron door slammed shut with a clang that echoed like a death knell, sealing him in a cell of cold stone. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and despair, and the chill seeped through his tattered cloak, gnawing at his bones. The guards’ footsteps faded, their parting insults—“Kyn’thara, rot in shadow!”—lingering in the silence, wretched as the ropes that had burned his wrists. His pack was gone, confiscated with his mothers journal, the sapphire potion, the bottle of fire, and the Vael’kyn medallion, stripped from the grass where it fell. All he had left was the memory of its glow, the fairy’s spark on his nose, and the village’s warmth—Lira’s bracelet, Soren’s cheer—now distant as a dream. He sank to the floor, the stone like ice beneath his palms, and curled his knees to his chest, the weight of his choices pressing him into the dark.
His wrists throbbed, red welts pulsing where the ropes had bitten, and he traced them with trembling fingers, each sting a reminder of the guards’ hate. “No light, no hope,” they’d promised, their eyes glinting with cruel delight. He wondered what punishment might await him, if they would even hear his story. He shivered, not just from the cold, but from the thought of losing everything: Lumara’s fields, the Mistwood’s hum, the chance to add another recipe to Elowen’s journal. Worst of all, he pictured his father, alone in the forge, hammer striking iron with the same unyielding strength that had carried them through his ma’s death. Torin’s broad shoulders never bowed, his gruff voice never faltered, even when grief carved lines deeper than any blade. “Be proud, Aki,” he’d say, ruffling Akilliz’s hair, his calloused hand a steady anchor. Now, Akilliz yearned to see him, to share the tales of the fairy’s glow, the village’s dance, the potion’s sapphire churn—or at least send word, a scrap of parchment to ease his fathers loneliness.
What if I never make it back? The thought clawed his throat, hot and sharp, and tears welled. Torin would wait, day after day, his forge fires burning, hoping for a son who might never return. Akilliz imagined him by the hearth, gray eyes searching the road, the silence louder than any hammer’s ring. He’s always strong, never falters, Akilliz whispered, voice cracking in the cell’s hush.
But the image of Torin alone, growing older, his strength unshared, was a wound deeper than the guards’ words. Akilliz wanted to tell him of the Vael’tharis, the Soul’s Breath, how he’d healed a fairy, danced under the full moon, earned Eryndor’s trust. He wanted to help in the forge again, feel the heat, hear his da’s laugh—a rare, rumbling sound, like stones shifting in a river. If he never made it out of here, or death claimed his breath, Torin would never know, and that loss hurt more than the cell’s cold.
Akilliz pressed his forehead to his knees, fighting the tears, his mothers voice rising like a tide: “Herbs are the earth’s heartbeat, Aki. Listen.” He clung to her words, to the journal’s phantom weight, its pages a map of her love. She’d trained in Luminael, walked these spires, and her legacy had carried him this far—through Frosthelm’s ice, the Mistwood’s fog, the village’s hearth. I’m still fighting, Ma, he thought, picturing her frail smile, her hands guiding his over herbs.
The village had believed in him—Soren’s wide-eyed “Fairy-friend!”, Lira’s glowing bracelet, Eryndor’s conspiratorial wink. Even Thalindra, with her cryptic bread and note, had seen something in him, a spark the guards couldn’t snuff. He couldn’t let their faith, or Torin’s strength, be for nothing. Stay strong, like Da, he told himself, clenching his fists, nails biting his palms. The welts stung, grounding him, a reminder he was still here, still Akilliz, potion-maker, not kyn’thara.
Slowly, he began composing himself. Akilliz paced, boots scuffing the stone, each step a defiance of the cell’s weight. He traced the trial in his mind—Thalindra’s sunburst helmet, her flame’s flicker, the chance to plead his case. If he could convince her, show her the potion’s truth, he might see Lumara again, hug Torin, add more than just Vael’tharis to the journal’s sacred pages. But doubt gnawed, a whisper colder than the stone: What if they imprison me forever? What if I’m nothing but a shadow to Da? He shoved it down, humming the song of the earth to himself, the fairy’s opal eyes flashed in his memory, her “Kind… trusted” a warmth that steadied his heart. He wasn’t alone, not truly—the Mistwood’s hum, the village’s faith, Elowen’s lessons were with him, even here.
Exhaustion tugged, heavy as chains, and he sank back to the floor, curling against the wall, the stone’s chill a cruel lullaby. He clutched the memory of Lira’s laugh, Soren’s vial-waving, Eryndor’s “The fae chose well.” His dreams wove them together—Torin’s forge, the fairy’s glow, the sapphire potion’s churn—until a harsh clang shattered the haze. Boots stomped closer, and a guard’s voice barked, “Rise, kyn’thara! Thou art summoned!” Rough hands yanked him up, his wrists still raw, and Akilliz stumbled, head bowed, as they dragged him through Luminael’s corridors. The ivory walls pulsed with sourceless light, their beauty mocking his fear, but he lifted his chin, Torin’s strength a fire in his chest. For you, Da. For Ma. The marble chamber loomed ahead, its lavender air waiting, and Akilliz braced himself, a potion-maker bound but unbroken, ready to face the High Judiciar’s gaze.
The marble chamber loomed like a cathedral of light, its walls aglow with sourceless radiance, the air thick with lavender and the weight of judgment. Akilliz stumbled through the threshold. The floor gleamed, veins of gold threading the stone, and high above, a dome shimmered with star-like runes, each pulse a silent verdict. Thalindra Vael’Shara presided from a raised dais, her sunburst helmet glinting, the flame on her chest flickering like a restless spirit. Flanking her were guards in exquisite armor, their glaring eyes piercing, and a stern captain, his silver braid tight as his scowl, stood ready to read Akilliz’s doom. The chamber’s vastness dwarfed him, a mud-born speck in Luminael’s splendor.
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The captain stepped forward, unrolling a parchment that glowed faintly, his voice a blade of ice cutting the silence. “Akilliz of Lumara, thou art charged with trespassing on sacred ground, destroying hallowed fauna, disobeying an order of banishment, assaulting guards of the Light, and entering the hidden village of Vyr’shaleth unbidden.” His eyes flicked to Akilliz, venomous as the gates’ sentinels. “Thy crimes carry penalties dire: erasure of memory, no fewer than one hundred years in elven prison, or death by sacred flame. How dost thou stand? Speak thy last words, kyn’thara.” The slur landed like a stone, and Akilliz’s breath hitched, the cell’s cold despair clawing back. Erasure—to lose the fairy’s glow, Soren’s cheer, Torin’s forge—felt worse than death. He clenched his fists, Torin’s “Be proud, Aki” a hammer in his chest, and met Thalindra’s gaze, her flame steady, unreadable beneath the helmet’s gleam.
“If I may… explain myself, please,” Akilliz said, voice trembling but clear, each word a step on a crumbling bridge. Thalindra tilted her head, the flame flaring briefly, and her voice rolled like distant thunder: “I will allow it. Five minutes, as the sun rises. Speak true, or silence is thy fate.” The guards shifted, their armor clinking, and Akilliz swallowed, Elowen’s lessons rising like a tide: Truth is the strongest herb, Aki. He drew a breath and began. “I meant to reach The Tipsy Turtle, to find shelter, but the Mistwood’s fog led me astray. I found a fairy, her wing torn, I thought she was dying. I healed her with herbs and dew, my mother’s craft guiding me. The fae gave me the Vael’kyn medallion, led me to Vyr’shaleth.” He paused, heart racing, and stretched the truth, voice steadying: “The elder, Eryndor, watched as my salve heal his cut, he marveled at it. I spent days there, learning their ways, refining the salve into a potion—the Soul’s Breath, Vael’tharis. It heals all wounds. He sent me here, with the medallion and bottled fire as my guide in dark places, to show you my truth.”
The captain’s scowl deepened, but Akilliz pressed on, eyes locked on Thalindra. “At the gates, I picked flowers in hopes they would arrest instead of kill me. They said they could. It was defiance—the guards tore my medallion off my chest, called me kyn’thara. They threw me to the ground. I never assaulted them. I only… I only wanted you to hear me.” His voice cracked, the memory of the medallion’s glow in the dirt stinging like a fresh wound, but he held his head high, he was on a mission . The captain spat, “Blasphemy! Accusing guards of lies? Durath’kyn! Thy tongue weaves deceit!” His hand gripped his sword, tempers flaring, but Thalindra’s voice boomed, “SILENCE!” The word was a spell, a magical hush cloaking the chamber, Akilliz’s throat tightening, unable to speak. Her flame surged, casting shadows that danced like specters, and she leaned forward, voice low, commanding. “Thy tale is bold, mud-born, but claims require proof. Tampering with sacred dew adds charges grave. We will test thy words.”
She gestured, and a guard placed Akilliz’s pack on a marble table, its contents spilling: Elowen’s journal, the sapphire potion, the bottled fire, and the Vael’kyn medallion, its rune glinting despite the dirt smudging its prism. Thalindra’s eyes narrowed, the flame flickering as she lifted the potion, its starry churn catching the light. “This… Vael’tharis? A mortal’s craft?” she murmured, almost to herself, then turned to the captain. “Summon the elder of Vyr’shaleth and our Syl’vyntha, Sylvara, to substantiate these claims. Let truth be unveiled.” A robed wizard, his staff aglow with emerald runes, stepped forward, his voice a chant like wind through reeds. He tapped the floor twice, and twin circles of light flared, columns of radiance blinding the chamber, a Knaak-like magical spectacle.
When the light faded, Eryndor stood in one circle, his silver braids beaded, eyes wide with confusion for a moment, yet resolute, and Sylvara in the other, her moonlit hair cascading, a Vael’kyn medallion glinting at her throat, her sway gentle, a soft hum escaping her lips, Rothfuss-esque and quirky. Thalindra’s flame steadied, and she addressed Eryndor first, voice sharp as a blade. “Elder, did this boy steal the medallion? Didst thou truly send him towards Luminael with thy blessing?” Eryndor’s gaze flicked to Akilliz, guarding their secret—the potion’s creation—and he spoke, voice steady but strained. “No theft, High Judiciar. He came to Vyr’shaleth, claimed to have heal a young faeling. I inquired and witnessed his salve mend a cut on my arm, a marvel indeed. Far greater potency than the parts themselves. He rested, met our folk, refined his craft. I must say his soul is honest, his skill true. I sanctioned his journey, though it risks my judgement. I say this, your majesty, you may shackle me, erase me, or throw me into the unspeakable , but if anything… believe in this young man.” His eyes met Akilliz’s, a faint wink sparking hope, a village hearth in the chamber’s cold.
Thalindra turned to Sylvara, whose hum faltered, her opalescent eyes studying the potion. “Syl’vyntha, what make is this?” Sylvara lifted the vial, her fingers tracing its glow, then drew a dagger, slicing her hand, blood pooling on the marble. She sipped the potion, and a blue light knit her flesh, her medallion flaring. “’Tis truly the Vael’tharis, the Soul’s Breath,” she said, voice crystalline, tinged with awe. “No mortal boy should craft such, unless blessed. What I have discovered from his story is remarkable, though he states he created it… I have not heard of his method before. It is true he may have some… hidden skill. Yet to prove this claim, he must recreate it before us.” Her hum resumed, a quiet Lyr’ethar vyn, and Akilliz’s heart leapt, her faith a lifeline.
Thalindra stood, flame blazing, silencing the chamber. “Very well,” she declared, voice a decree carved in stone. “Akilliz, thou wilt recreate the potion in the grand square, a public trial for all to witness. Success proves thy worth; failure will bring erasure and a century within the depths.
Syl’vyntha, guards, prepare his materials. Let Luminael see if he is a shining light or dying star.” She waved a hand, and guards seized Akilliz, dragging him back to the cell, his mind ablaze with conflicting emotions. Eryndor’s wink lingered as he vanished in light, Sylvara’s hum fading, but Thalindra’s flame burned in Akilliz’s mind, a challenge and a chance. He clutched hope, he just might have a chance after all.
The cell’s cold stone clung to Akilliz like a second skin as he paced, heart hammering, his mind tracing the recipe: Vyr’elthar, pale gold flower, dew, song, intention. Erasure loomed—a void where Torin’s forge, Elowen’s journal, and Soren’s grin would vanish—and the weight of it nearly buckled his knees. Stay strong, like Da, he whispered. Boots stomped outside, and the iron door screeched open, a guard’s voice barking, “Move, kyn’thara! Thy trial awaits!” Rough hands hauled him into Luminael’s corridors, their ivory walls pulsing with light, and he steeled himself, Elowen’s “Listen to the herbs” a quiet drumbeat as he was marched to the grand square, the city’s heart, where his fate would be forged or broken.
The square burst into view, a vast plaza of polished ivory, ringed by spires that pierced the noon sky like needles of starlight. A colossal statue of Aurelia towered behind, her radiant gaze stern, her hands cupping a flame that seemed to judge his very soul. Two spiral staircases ascended to the city’s heights, crowded with high-class elves in shimmering silks, jeering children waving glowing wands, robed wizards with staffs aglow, and mystical beings, veiled elders with rune etched masks, what appeared to be fae-kin in feathered cloaks, their eyes like molten gold. Stalls brimmed with star dusted fruits and rune carved trinkets, but the crowd’s faces twisted with scorn, their shouts a venomous chorus: “Kyn’thara! Durath’kyn!” The meaning being- False soul, he presumed. Rotten berries and glowing orbs pelted Akilliz, staining his cloak, their juice sharp as the words. His heart sank, the statue’s gaze now heavy as the cell’s stone.
A rune etched table stood at the square’s center, laden with materials: Vyr’elthar, pale gold flower, dew jar, mortar, pestle, and a wide-mouth jar. Nearby, his confiscated pack sat under a guard’s watchful eye, his sacred journal within, a taunt of what he might lose. The stern captain from the courtroom unbound his wrists, the elven voice booming over the jeers: “Here stands Akilliz, accused trespasser, claiming to bottle the Soul’s Breath with no training. He used sacred dew, stole herbs, defied banishment. Today, he supposedly recreates our treasured Vael’tharis. Success proves innocence; failure brings erasure and a century within the unspeakable. Is he fraud, trickster, thief?” The crowd roared, “Imposter! Mud born filth!” their voices a blade at Akilliz’s throat. Sylvara stood by the table, her moonlit hair cascading, her own fae medallion glinting, swaying gently, a soft hum of Lyr’ethar vyn escaping her lips. Thalindra watched from a raised dais, her sunburst helmet gleaming, flame flickering, her tilted head a silent challenge.
Akilliz approached the table, hands trembling, the crowd’s jeers—“Look at him! He falters!”—a weight heavier than Aurelia’s gaze. The materials were wrong: extra herbs mixed with the Vyr’elthar, some with red veins, others bruised or discolored, their silver veins too long or short; the dew jar held a dull, murky liquid, lacking the starry sheen of the Mistwood’s gift. Sabotage, a deliberate test, and his fingers shook, nearly spilling the dew as he lifted the jar, its murk glinting like a lie. “Fraud! Sha’vyn durath!” a child shrieked, tossing a berry that struck his cheek, its juice stinging. Tears pricked his eyes, despair clawing his chest, and he froze, legs trembling, on the verge of collapse. I can’t do this, he thought, the square blurring, the crowd’s hate a tide pulling him under. Ma, Da, I’m failing you.
But I’m his mind’s eye his mothers frail smile flickered, her voice a whisper: “Herbs are the earth’s heartbeat, Aki.” Torin’s forge roared in his mind, his gruff laugh: “Make a show of it, Aki. Show ‘em what you can do, be proud.” Akilliz’s breath hitched, his mind reeling through the chaos. They’re here, watching, hating, but maybe it’s a chance. If I show them…make them believe, maybe I won’t be judged so harshly. If it’s a show. I’ll give them a show. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, eyes lifting to meet the crowd’s anger, Thalindra’s tilted head, Sylvara’s clasped hands, swaying as if in prayer. For you, Ma. For Da. For the village. His trembling eased, resolve a fire in his veins, and he stepped to the table, heart pounding but hands steadying.
Clearing his throat, Akilliz spoke aloud, voice small but growing confident, cutting through the murmurs: “My name is Akilliz, from Lumara. I’m going to show you how I crafted a potion that can heal even fairies.” Scoffs rippled, but some elves leaned closer, eyes narrowing. He examined the herbs, their differences stark: red-veined, bruised, discolored, silver veins too long or short. Selecting two, he chopped leaves, rubbing one on each hand. The red-veined blistered his left, red and angry. “This plant’s no good,” he declared, holding it aloft, voice ringing, the crowd’s jeers quieting. The second had no effect, suspicious. He tasted it, spitting out its bitter tang, announcing, “And this one’s bitter!” Murmurs grew, curiosity replacing scorn.
He tested a third, dull-looking herb, rubbing it—tingling, familiar, like the Mistwood’s gift. Drawing his knife, he gashed his thumb, blood welling, and applied the chopped herb, the wound sealing with a spark. “This one’s right!” he said, marvel in his voice. “Harvested early, not fully silver, but the healing’s intact!” The crowd hushed, eyes wide, some children clutching wands, enthralled. Discarding the bad herbs, he kept the Vyr’elthar bundle and hummed Lyr’ethar vyn, chopping with rhythm, his tune growing louder, echoing the village’s hearth. Sylvara’s hum matched his, her medallion shining brilliantly, a quiet courage that steadied him, her sway a dance of faith.
Eyeing the dew, Akilliz frowned, voice bold: “This dew is tainted…I dare not use it.” Gasps rose as he pulled the elven cloth from his cloak, its pristine weave glinting. Pouring the dew through it into the wide-mouth jar, he caught the imperfections atop, shaking it off to reveal the cloth’s purity, showing the crowd, who murmured in awe. Mixing the purified dew with the salve, he sang, picturing the fairy’s opal eyes, but needed fire. No flame stood near, so he grabbed discarded herbs, igniting them in his palm with a spark, as he had against the wolf. His hand burned, pain sharp, but he held the jar above, singing Lyr’ethar vyn louder, joined by small voices—“Shal’ethar,” “Vael’kyn”—from scattered low-bloods in the crowd, their defiance a village echo. The potion turned sapphire, churning like stars, and with a bow, he corked it, extinguished the flame, and declared, “I present the Soul’s Breath!” He was sweating, he was nervous, but this was it, his best, and his only chance.
Sylvara glided forward, her hum a melody, examining the potion with a twirl of her dagger. “A demonstration,” she said, voice crystalline, beckoning a guard. “Thrust thy sword into my palm, that all may see if he is potion master or if I shall be maimed by his hand.” The guard, wide-eyed, hesitated, but Thalindra’s voice cut through: “Proceed.” The sword pierced her hand, blood pooling, her mangled palm shaking. Sylvara lifted her hand with a calm demeanor, daylight shone through the hole in her palm now. Stern as she was, and seemingly unfazed by the violent act, she sipped the potion, and a blue light erupted from her hand, knitting it whole, her Vael’kyn medallion blazing as if in reverence. The crowd erupted, cheering “Vael’kyn thal!”—True heart—some tossing glowing petals. But Thalindra stood, flame surging, silencing them. “The potion is true,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Yet charges remain—dew tampering, trespassing, and much more. We shall convene in private to judge his fate. I thank you for your audience.” Guards seized Akilliz, dragging him to the cell, the cheers fading, Sylvara’s hum lingering. He clutched hope, his mothers journal a steady weight in his mind, his fate a shadow yet to lift.
