The grand square’s cheers—“Vael’kyn thal!”—faded like a wind-swept echo as guards seized him, their gauntlets biting his arms, the ropes of light binding his wrists humming softly, prickling like nettles from Lumara’s fields. His heart thundered, drowning the crowd’s tossed petals and jeers, Sylvara’s hum lingering like a faint pulse as Thalindra’s “Charges remain” weighed heavy as Aurelia’s stone gaze. He stumbled, boots scuffing ivory stone, as the guards marched him through Luminael’s corridors, their walls weaving light like a river’s current, each pulse a whisper of the city’s breath. This wasn’t the cell’s dark spiral, the path to that cold stone where he’d feared erasure. Where am I being taken? The thought coiled, sharp and restless, his breath hitching as he hoped to make them see reason.

  The guards’ voices were hushed, their eyes flickering, as if the trial’s radiance had dulled their scorn. One muttered, “Kyn’thara, step lively,” his tone softened, perhaps by the crowd’s “True heart!” But another hissed, low as a blade’s edge, “Voryn will see this mud-born fall.” The name—Voryn—pricked his spine, a shadow behind the cheers, chilling as the gates’ “Sha’vyn durath.” He tensed, shoulders hunching, clinging to the hope of his confiscated pack it was everything he had, now lost to the guards’ grasp. A forge-iron spark steadied him, urging him to stand tall as the ropes’ prickling heat deepened, grazing his skin like embers.

  The path ended at a crescent door, its surface rippling like a wave caught mid-crest, kissed by the Mistwood’s sapphire fog. A guard pressed his gauntlet to it, the door exhaling a soft chime, parting to reveal Thalindra’s private office. He froze, breath catching, as the guards shoved him forward, one tightening the ropes with a tug that burned. The desk, carved from moonstone, gleamed like starlight, its edges curling like a river’s bend, stirring as if moved by an unseen tide. The walls pulsed with veins of liquid silver, a slow heartbeat casting shadows like fern fronds. A crystal tree stood in a corner, its branches woven with motes that drifted like the fairy’s stardust, whispering secrets of fae and light, their glow soft as a Lumara dawn.

  They sat him in a chair, wood smooth as river stone, and the guards adjusted the ropes, their hum sharpening before they left, the door sealing with a sigh. Alone, he faced the desk, the ropes’ prickling a steady pulse, his gaze darting to the crystal tree. Its motes seemed to watch, and helped calming his racing pulse. He wondered if his mother, had seen this place, her hands stirring potions where light lived. Am I enough? The thought ached, his fingers twitching for the journal’s weight, though the ropes held fast, their light a cruel mirror to the room’s radiance.

  Without warning, the door chimed, and Thalindra entered, her white cloak flowing like a river’s current, her sunburst helmet gleaming, the flame on her chest pulsing like a star caught in amber. He rose, heart lurching, but she waved him down, her gesture soft as a breeze, her grace blending command and calm. She paced briefly, cloak whispering against the floor, before stopping at the desk, silence stretching, heavy as the trial’s stakes. Her unseen gaze beneath the helmet pierced him and he felt it within his chest.

  With a wave, she dissolved the ropes, their hum fading, the heat lifting, a mercy that widened his eyes. He rubbed his wrists, the welts stinging.

  Her voice, melodic yet edged with thunder, broke the silence. “What is thy motivation, youngling of Lumara?” He swallowed, and spoke, voice trembling but true. “To honor my mother, Elowen. She healed with potions, healed the folk in our village. I want to learn her craft, make her proud.” Thalindra tilted her head, flame flaring. “Why risk death, defying banishment?” His throat tightened, the trial’s fire vivid. “To prove I’m more than mud-born, to keep her light alive, show what her I can do.” She stepped closer, voice softer. “Is it so vital?” He nodded, eyes stinging. “It’s everything—her legacy, my purpose.” Thalindra’s flame steadied, and she mused, like wind through Lumara’s reeds, “I struggle to understand mortal men. Elves see not as thou dost.”

  He shifted in the chair, the room’s light curling like a fern around her, and ventured, “We live for those we love, even when gone. It’s what drove me back.” Silence fell, her helmet glinting, the crystal tree’s whispers stilling, as if the walls listened. Her voice softened, a melody of starlight. “Let us speak as equals, not Judiciar and accused. Thou hast been guarded.” He gripped the chair, a forge’s spark steadying him, and blurted, “I’ll be honest, your helmet… it’s frightening, like your power. My life… it’s in your hands. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to… I don’t want my father to be alone. “ Thalindra’s flame flickered, and she paused for a moment before lifting her helmet, revealing hair white as snow with pale blue strands, a face flawless as dawn, and eyes—pure white, pupil-less, blind yet radiant, like pools of starlight.

  He was taken aback, gasped, he felt his heart leaping. Thalindra laughed, a chime-like sound, covering her mouth. “Hast thou never seen a blind soul?” she asked, voice dancing, easing his fear. He stammered, “Have you always been… blind? You move like a hawk, no missteps. I haven’t seen you bump into walls or anything..” She smiled, eyes shimmering like the desk’s light. “No… Not always. Long ago, I traded my sight for knowledge, my power, through a pact with the Lady of Light. I see souls, magic, life’s essence—clearer than thou.” His jaw slackened, awe flooding him, the room’s heartbeat echoing her words, grand as Frosthelm’s peak, soft as Lumara’s brook. “How’s it different?” he whispered.

  Thalindra’s smile deepened, her white eyes fixed, as if seeing the trial’s fire, the spires’ challenge. “I can see thy heart, youngling, its truth, its life. Everything lives.” Silence fell, the walls’ silver veins curling tighter, cradling her words. He sat, awed, the room’s radiance a new dawn, his purpose tangible, a moment of truth and wonder.

  Thalindra’s white eyes held him, their starlight glow piercing yet soft, like a Lumara dawn through fog. Her words, “Everything lives,” hung in the office’s air, the moonstone desk’s ripple catching the light, its pulse a quiet echo of her divine pact. He sat, awed, the crystal tree’s motes drifting slower in the corner, their whispers fading as if cradling the silence. He swallowed, heart thumping, unsure if his purpose—his mother’s healing craft—would sway her or seal his exile.

  She leaned forward, hair white as snow with pale blue strands catching the desk’s light, her flawless face softening, a smile tugging her lips. “Remarkable, youngling, thy risk to face our scorn. Why, truly, dost thou seek this path?” Her voice was a melody, not the marble chamber’s thunder, but a chime-like warmth, inviting truth. Akilliz shifted, the chair’s wood smooth under his palms, and rubbed his neck, voice slipping into a Lumara boy’s plain speech. “It’s… my ma, Elowen. She made medicine with the Lightspire Bloom, I think it kept her alive. But when she needed it most, I… I couldn’t make it. I used the lightspire bloom all up, and she died.” His eyes stung, words raw, tumbling fast. “I don’t want that for my da or anyone I care about, ever again. I wanna study here, like she did, be the greatest potion master in Ao.” He flushed, fidgeting, picturing her hands over herbs, a spark in his chest.

  Thalindra’s smile deepened, her blind eyes shimmering, as if seeing that spark. She rose, pacing slowly, cloak whispering against the floor, the desk’s ripple quickening. “I see thy soul, Akilliz, its truth, its fire. Blessed, perchance, by the Lady of Light—or thy mother’s spirit.” Her voice dropped, a whisper. “No untrained mortal could craft Vael’tharis, yet thou didst. A destiny I cannot withhold, but must foster.” He blinked, heart leaping, the tree’s motes flaring like fairy stardust. “You mean I won’t be erased? Or locked up?” His voice cracked, hope spilling, and he gripped the chair, barely believing.

  She laughed, a melody dancing through the room, brushing her blue-streaked hair. “Nay, youngling, no erasure.” Her smile faded, eyes steadying, weight returning. “Thy charges—trespass, tampering—are absolved, redeemed by skill. I grant thee study under Sylvara, our Syl’vyntha, to hone thy craft. But strict rules bind mortals—failure risks banishment eternal.” Akilliz’s jaw dropped, a grin breaking free. “I can stay? Really?” He leaned forward, voice bright, the tree’s glow easing his fear. Thalindra nodded, her gaze warm. “So decreed, within my domain. Yet, scorn may greet thee from those seeing only mud-born. Thy heart, thy skill, will win their hearts, as thou didst the crowd’s.”

  He slumped back, relief flooding, but a shadow stirred—Voryn’s corridor whisper, the guards’ “Kyn’thara.” Thalindra stepped closer, cloak brushing the desk, her voice low. “Speak not of my face beyond this chamber, for it is forbidden. However, It sets thee at ease, yet peril follows if known. Here, we relax; beyond, formality reigns.” He nodded, throat tight. “I won’t tell, I swear,” he mumbled, earnest as a Lumara boy, and her smile bloomed, a mother’s warmth in her blind eyes, softer than the Judiciar who’d silenced the courtroom.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “I have questions, though,” he said, scuffing his boots. “What’ll I learn with Sylvara?” Thalindra paced, cloak whispering. “Life-touched potions, alchemy of light and life.” He nodded, eyes wide. “How long can I stay?” She paused, gaze steady. “While thy heart proves true.” He swallowed. “Don’t think the Elves will keep hatin’ me?” Her smile returned, kind. “Some will, but deeds sway, as thine have.” He bit his lip, hope tangling with fear. “Can I send word to my da?” Her eyes softened, a glimmer of understanding. “Sylvara will see it done.”

  The door chimed, swinging open to reveal a silhouette framed in the corridor’s light, silver robes glinting. Akilliz flinched, heart lurching, as Thalindra’s face froze, her unmasked eyes wide with shock—no one was to see her face. Her flame flared, a burst of starlight, and she raised a hand, white eyes glowing bright as dawn. Thick light, like mist spun from the moon, enveloped the room, the crystal tree’s motes halting mid-drift, Voryn’s shadowed form stilled, his “Kyn’thara” mutter caught mid-breath. Time itself paused, the air heavy, yet Akilliz could move, his breath hitching, awe flooding him at her divine power, a pact with the Lady of Light made manifest.

  She stood, nodding to him, a flicker of warmth in her gaze, and lifted her helmet, strands of blue-streaked hair vanishing beneath its gleam. The light pulsed, mist dissolving, and time resumed as if unbroken, Voryn stepping forward, unaware, his prismatic eyes narrowing. Thalindra’s voice thundered, the Judiciar once more. “Enough, Voryn. Thy pack awaits, youngling, with journal, medallion, fire. Sylvara comes.” He rose, legs shaky, grabbing his pack from a guard, the journal’s weight grounding him as Sylvara’s hum neared, though her steps were light.

  Thalindra gestured, stern. “Go, Syl’vyntha, guide him to thy tower. He is thine to mold.” Akilliz followed Sylvara, her hum a soft Lyr’ethar vyn, like a Lumara breeze. Stepping into the corridor, he glanced back, catching Thalindra’s soft smile, her helmeted face warmed by a fleeting glow, like the fairy’s stardust. He smiled back, heart lit, and continued, boots echoing, ready for the tower, for potions, for his mother’s path.

  He trailed Sylvara through strange corridors, his eyes catching the walls’ liquid light like a star in glass. Her hum, a soft Lyr’ethar vyn, wove through the air, a breeze-like echo of Lumara’s fields, dulling the sting of Voryn’s glare still searing his mind. He clutched his pack, the journal’s weight steady, leather brushing his fingers as he matched her light, skipping steps. Thalindra’s “A destiny I foster” warmed his heart, but her “harsh words” warning pricked his spine, colder than the cell’s stone. His boots echoed on ivory, the spires’ promise ahead, yet his stomach knotted, a sixteen-year-old mud-born wondering if he could walk his ma’s path in a city spitting “Kyn’thara.”

  Sylvara glanced back, moonlit hair swaying, opalescent eyes twinkling like fairy stardust. “Hurry, young light!” she called, voice a melody of excitement, like a Lumara elder spinning a tale. He smiled, her warmth loosening his knot, and jogged closer, pack thumping. The corridor opened to a spiral stair, its steps laced with vines that rustled like whispered secrets, their glow soft as dawn’s breath. He paused, breath catching, vines’ light dancing in his eyes, beyond his ma’s brewing pots. Sylvara spun, laughing, and grabbed his hands, twirling him like a kid at a harvest dance. “Feel the tower’s pulse, Akilliz! It lives, as thou dost!”

  She tugged him up, the stair curling like a moonlit vine, into her alchemical haven, a chamber that stole his voice. Decanters lined shelves, humming with liquid starlight, bubbles flitting like fireflies in a summer dusk. A living vine wove through the ceiling, its leaves exhaling light like Mistwood dew, scattering prisms across the floor, like petals on a Lumara stream. The air sparked with mint, sharp and alive, easing his awe as he turned, boots scuffing stone, taking in the elven craft, a world past his mortar and pestle. Sylvara skipped to a shelf and plucked a glowing root. “Lyr’elthar, my shy one,” she murmured, voice a sing-song whisper, “She’ll teach thee, young light.”

  He tilted his head, eyes wide. “You… talk to herbs?” His voice, plain as Lumara dirt, carried a curiosity steadied by purpose. She laughed, a chime brighter than Thalindra’s, tossing the root. He fumbled, catching it, its glow warm in his palms. “Herbs live, Akilliz! They sing, if thou listenest.” She leaned close, eyes glinting, tapping his pack. “Thy fae medallion’s there—wear it proud, young light.” His heart skipped, the medallion’s weight a reminder of the fairy’s “Kind… trusted.” “I…I will,” he said softly.

  Sylvara gestured to the decanters, hum off-key. “Potions brew here, but the sun sets soon, and I’ve work to prepare for an apprentice—first in decades!” She spun, arms wide, as if embracing the tower. He shifted, trying to take it all in. “Decades? And don’t you need sleep too?” His voice, simple but curious. She laughed, a big, rolling chime. “Oh, child! In the city of light, elves never sleep. We meditate, but beds are for illness or weakness.” His jaw dropped, eyes widening. “Never sleep? That’s… somethin’ else.” He grinned, leaning forward. “Can I do that too?” She laughed harder, clutching her sides. “Mortal hearts need rest, young light! Off with thee!”

  She nudged him toward a stair, vines rustling. “Rest now, the tower waits.” He rubbed his neck, pack thumping. “Can I get some ink and a feather? Gotta write to my da.” His voice, boyish yet grounded, carried hope, the journal’s weight steady. Sylvara’s eyes twinkled, tossing him a quill, its ink shimmering like dew, and parchment. “Write thy heart, Akilliz. I’ll send thy letters to thy father.” He nodded, gripping the quill, its glow warm as her hum.

  She led him up, the stair’s light a starlit path, to a small nook, normal yet elegant, its moss-stuffed bed exhaling Mistwood’s scent. A crystal window framed Luminael’s spires, glowing over the emerald field and silver gates where he’d faced scorn. Plants curled along the walls, whispering like a Lumara brook, and a vine-carved desk stood ready, its grain rippling like a tide. “Rest, young light,” Sylvara said, hum softening. “Food comes soon.” She turned, descending with an off-key hum, leaving him alone.

  He sat at the desk, setting the pack down. Outside, the spires gleamed, a challenge and home, his heart lit by his new path, Sylvara’s faith, and a dawn brighter than Voryn’s shadow. He gripped the quill, ink shimmering, ready to write, to dream, to rise beyond mud-born.

  Akilliz sat at the desk, its grain reminiscent of a brook, the quill’s ink shimmering faintly in his hand. The crystal window framed Luminael’s skyline, spires piercing the twilight, their silver glow spilling over the emerald field and gates where he’d faced scorn weeks ago. The Vael’kyn medallion, pulled from his pack, rested beside the parchment, its prism catching the desk’s light, a starlit vow of the fairy’s trust. He gripped the quill, heart swelling, the weight of his journey pressing as he began to write, words for Torin, who hadn’t heard from him in too long.

  Dear Pa,

  I made it to Luminael, it was no easy road and I nearly lost everything, but I’m writing to you from inside the walls of the city of light! Im training with a real elven alchemist, and I’m so happy to finally be here. Hope you are too. How’s Lumara holdin’ up? Is old Cobb still barkin’ at the forge? How’s the anvil, the fields? Miss the village’s dirt under my boots.

  He paused, quill hovering, picturing Torin’s broad shoulders by the forge, hammer striking iron, gray eyes scanning the road. His throat tightened, he had never missed home more than right now.

  He looked out and beyond the window, elves moved through the streets, their cloaks catching the spires’ glow, while children laughed in a flowery plaza, weaving through starbloom patches, their games a dance like Vyr’shaleth’s feast. He wondered what those spires held—libraries, potion halls?—and wrote on, words earnest, a boy’s heart bared.

  The road was long pa, I met a traveling merchant and solved a riddle for some new boots. Found an inn to stay at called the tipsy turtle and a theif robbed me blind in my sleep, but I got most of it back the next day. I travelled the road through the Mistwood. It’s an incredible forest! Trees as tall as the sky, and as wide as several wagons! It’s full of this blue haze, a mist that clings to everything. I got lost-

  The door chimed, a guard setting a tray on the desk, steam rising from a thick steak, its char savory, ringed by glowing greens—starbloom petals and fernleaf, crisp and bright. A violet root sparkled, its flesh tingling his tongue like a fizzing spark, strange but warm. He chuckled, biting the steak, hot and rich, the elven food a quiet comfort, like Lumara’s suppers. He scribbled on, the skyline softening as the sun dipped.

  I got lost and found an injured fairy, a real fae! She was about as big as your thumb, and I was able to make a salve that healed her. It was a long road to Luminael, but eventually I was able to show them my worth and I’m finally here.

  Just a minute ago Sylvara said elves don’t sleep, just meditate—somethin’ else, right? I’m gonna learn everything I can. I want to make potions to heal everything, like Ma. I miss you, the forge’s clang, your laugh. Write back, yeah? I ain’t sure how this letter’ll find you, or if you can write back. I’ll figure it out, but if you can, write, and we’ll see if it makes its way to me. I miss you, I miss the forge. After I’ve learned enough, I’ll visit, hopefully before winter. Tomorrow’s my first trainin’ day, so I’m off to bed. I love you, Pa. Thanks for believin’ in me.”

  He folded the parchment, sealing it with wax from Sylvara’s quill. Standing, he stepped to the window, the sunset painting the spires in gold and rose, the field a sea of emerald under fading light. Elves drifted below, children’s laughter rising from the flowery plaza, a glow like Vyr’shaleth’s feast. His breath caught, heart full, the gates’ scorn dwarfed by Luminael’s promise. He pressed a hand to the crystal, voice soft, a whisper for Torin across the miles.

  “I did it, Pa,” he said, eyes tracing the spires’ glow. “I’m here, where she walked. I’m gonna make you proud, I swear.” The words mingled with the plants’ whisper.

  He turned, boots scuffing, and sank onto the bed, its moss cushioning so comfortable it pulled him in. Exhaustion tugged, heavy as Mistwood fog, his journey—banishment, fairy, trial—melting into the bed’s embrace. He clutched the medallion, its glow warm, and drifted to sleep fast, the spires’ light fading into dreams of forges, potions, and a father’s proud smile