The silver gates of Luminael loomed like the jaws of some ancient beast, their silver spires pulsing faintly, as if whispering secrets Akilliz could never hope to unravel. The massive gate swung shut with a soundless finality, sealing him out, a mud-born speck banished from the city of light. Dawn’s first rays bled across the sky, bruised with clouds, casting the vast emerald field before him in a half-light that felt too cruel for hope. The elves’ gazes burned into his back—prismatic eyes, sharp as shattered glass, glinting with disdain. Their whispers slithered through the air, soft and venomous: “Sha’vyn thal’ethar.” Mud-born blight. The words stung deeper than the chill biting his fingers, deeper than the hunger clawing his stomach. He was nothing to them, a stain on their radiant world, and the weight of that truth pressed him toward the earth.
Akilliz shuffled forward, his stretched boots—still reeking of Garvox’s sweat—sinking into the dew-kissed grass. Each step was a labor, his tattered cloak dragging like a chain. The loss of the Lightspire Bloom gnawed at him, a fresh wound beside the older, sharper ache of his mother’s absence. Her journal, tucked against his heart, was all he had left of her now—her neat handwriting, her recipes, her voice woven into every page. He’d climbed Frosthelm, faced a wolf, bled for her, and still failed. And now Luminael, the city of his dreams, had spat him out. His hands clenched, nails biting his palms, and he fought the urge to scream, to pound the earth until it answered why. To his dismay, he had yet to add a new worthy recipe to her sacred pages.
Yet, amidst the grief, a spark flickered—Thalindra’s words, spoken in that marble hall, soft as a breeze but heavy as stone: “Thou’rt on the right road, yet the wrong path was taken.” A riddle, a taunt, or perhaps a promise. It stirred something in him, a defiance that curled like smoke in his chest. The elves thought him worthless, but he was Elowen’s son, heir to her herbs and heart. He would not slink back to Lumara empty-handed, a boy broken by their scorn. He would find a way, for her, for himself.
The field stretched endless, its grass a carpet of emerald, each blade trimmed to unnatural perfection, humming faintly with Luminael’s magic. Scattered among them, flowers bloomed like tiny stars—pale gold petals, glowing softly, their radiance a silent dare. Akilliz’s fingers itched, his potion-maker’s instinct whispering of salves and draughts. He glanced back, the gates now a distant shimmer, the elves’ eyes no longer on him. Heart pounding, he knelt as if to adjust his boots, the leather creaking under his touch. His hand darted out, swift as a thief’s, plucking a gold flower, its stem cool and pulsing. He tucked it into his cloak, then snagged a handful of herbs—emerald leaves veined with silver, violet buds that hummed like trapped bees. Each was a treasure of Luminael’s sacred soil, forbidden to a mud-born like him. His breath hitched, the thrill of rebellion surging through him, a quiet vow: I’ll show you what I can do.
He rose, dusting his knees, and trudged toward the Mistwood’s dark tree line, its shadows beckoning like an old friend. But the field was not done with him. A gnarled root, hidden beneath the grass, snagged his boot, and he pitched forward, crashing to the earth with a grunt. Pain flared as he bit his lip, the coppery tang of blood flooding his mouth. He spat, red staining the grass, and panic clawed his chest. “Stupid,” he muttered, scrambling to his knees, his hands shaking as he wiped his mouth. The blood kept coming, warm and relentless, and he fumbled for the herbs in his cloak, Elowen’s lessons echoing: Test before you trust, Aki. Skin first, then tongue.
He rubbed an emerald leaf on his wrist, wincing as it burned, a red welt rising. He tossed it aside, cursing under his breath, and tried a mint-scented sprig, its texture soft as velvet. No sting this time—only a cool tingle. Hesitant, he chewed a tiny piece, the flavor sharp and green, like frost on a spring morning. A warmth spread, tingling across his tongue, and the bleeding stopped, his lip knitting whole as if by magic. He blinked, touching it gingerly, and a faint buzz danced in his mouth, like a spark of starlight. “By the Nine,” he breathed, awe washing over him. He gathered more of the herb, its silver veins glinting, and reached for a vial in his pack to bottle it.
His fingers brushed something unexpected—a loaf of fabled elven bread, nestled in his pack, wrapped in cloth so white it seemed to glow. He froze, heart thudding. The cloth was pristine, untouched by the grime of his pack, its weave fine as moonlight. He hadn’t packed this. Unfolding it, he found the bread—small, golden, its surface dusted with seeds that smelled of nuts and honey. Tucked inside was a slip of parchment, its script flowing like a river: Walk with light. No signature, but he knew—Thalindra, the High Judiciar, her stern voice softened by this act. A mercy, or a test? He nibbled a corner, the bread melting on his tongue, warm and rich, filling him with a steadiness he hadn’t felt since Lumara. “I’m still fighting, Ma,” he whispered, tucking the cloth and remaining bread away, the journal’s weight a steady pulse against his chest.
The tall trees loomed closer now, its trees towering like silent giants, their silver bark catching the dawn’s last light. Akilliz straightened, the stolen herbs and flower heavy in his cloak, the healing herb’s tingle lingering in his mouth. The elves had cast him out, but he carried their secrets now, and Thalindra’s note was a spark in the dark. He was no longer just a boy grieving by a hearth. He was a potion-maker, Elowen’s son, and the road ahead, however shadowed, was his to claim.
The Mistwood swallowed Akilliz like a dream, its towering trees rising like the bones of some ancient world, their silver bark shimmering under a canopy that wove twilight from dawn. Each trunk was wide as a cottage, etched with whorls that seemed to pulse faintly, as if the forest breathed. Sapphire mist curled through the air, thick and luminous, swirling like liquid stars caught in a current. The scent of dew and ancient wood wrapped him, sharp and sweet, stirring a wonder that battled the hunger gnawing his bones. His stretched boots crunched on a carpet of moss, soft as velvet, untouched by decay, and every step sent ripples of unease through him. The Mistwood was alive, its beauty a siren’s call, promising answers and peril in equal measure.
Cold bit his fingers, seeping through his tattered cloak, and the elven bread’s warmth had faded, leaving his stomach a hollow ache. The journal pressed against his heart, Elowen’s words a quiet anchor, but the path ahead was a riddle without a key. He’d planned to reach The Tipsy Turtle, to beg Halvox for a night’s shelter, but the Mistwood’s maze mocked such plans. Shadows shifted in the fog, and the air hummed, a low thrum that vibrated in his chest, like a song he could almost name. Then he saw them—small lights, no bigger than fireflies, darting through the mist. Gold, violet, emerald, they wove patterns that teased his eyes, now here, now gone, whispering promises of secrets unveiled. His feet moved before his mind caught up, drawn deeper into the forest’s heart.
The mist thickened, cloaking the world in blue, and evening fell with unnatural haste, as if the sun had fled. The trees loomed taller, their branches clawing at a sky he could no longer see. Spooky sounds crept through the fog—rustling leaves, a distant howl that prickled his neck, the snap of a twig too close. Akilliz’s hand found his knife, its hilt cold and small in his grip, a frail shield against the unknown. A shadow lunged from the mist, and he froze, heart hammering, the blade half-drawn. But it was only a fox, its red fur shimmering with faint light, eyes glinting like embers before it vanished into the fog. He laughed, a shaky huff that broke the silence, and sheathed the knife, his palms slick with sweat. “Just a fox, Aki,” he muttered, but the forest’s pulse seemed to mock his bravado.
He pressed on, the strange lights his only guide, their fleeting glows a lure he couldn’t resist. A tree caught his eye, its bark rippling like a pond struck by rain, pulsing green as he neared. He reached out, hesitant, and felt a faint heartbeat under his fingers, warm and steady. “You’re more than wood,” he whispered, awe tangling with unease. The glow faded as he stepped back, the tree silent once more, and he shivered, the Mistwood’s secrets pressing closer. Then a chime rang out, clear as glass on crystal, echoing through the fog. He followed it, boots sinking into moss, but found only a leaf, heavy with luminous dew. The drop fell, singing a single, haunting note as it struck the ground, and Akilliz stood transfixed, the sound lingering like a memory of his mother’s long gone lullabies.
The mist grew denser, the air colder, and exhaustion tugged his limbs, each step a battle against hunger and fear. The lights vanished, leaving him adrift in a sea of blue. He leaned against a tree, its bark cool under his palm, and closed his eyes, Elowen’s face flickering in his mind—her smile, her frail hand tousling his hair. “I’m trying, Ma,” he said, voice small against the forest’s hum.
A single elusive light darted away but was nearby, it was erratic and weaving through the mist. Akilliz chased it, boots pounding into velvet moss, branches snagging his tattered cloak. What could it be? Why were these lights in the mistwood, and what secrets did they hold? He wanted to know now more than anything. His heart beating fast he continued to follow as It vanished behind a silver-barked tree, only to reappear, bobbing as if fleeing, a frightened star in the blue. He quickened his pace, breath hitching, driven by a need to know, to touch the magic he’d only dreamed of. The light ducked behind a gnarled root, and he lunged, palms scraping moss as he rounded the tree. There, curled against the roots, was a fairy, no bigger than his thumb, its glow flickering like a dying ember. Its left wing was torn, a jagged wound glistening with prismatic tears, each drop a tiny rainbow that scattered light across the moss. Its face, delicate as a dew-kissed petal, was tear-streaked, eyes like twin opals wide with terror, darting to hide behind a curling leaf, trembling as if he were a wolf, not a boy.
Akilliz froze, heart clenching, the fairy’s fear echoing his own losses—Elowen’s fading breath, Luminael’s scorn. He knelt, cloak brushing the earth, and softened his voice to a whisper, as if coaxing a wounded bird. “Can… can I help you? I mean no harm.” His words felt clumsy, but he kept his hands open, palms up, a gesture of peace. The fairy peeked from the leaf, its glow pulsing faintly, and a voice brushed his mind—melodic, fragmented, like wind chimes in a storm. “Wing… hurts.. hurts…” The ache in its words pierced him, raw and familiar, and he swallowed, Elowen’s lessons rising like a tide: Heal where you can, Aki. The world’s full of hurt.
He sat cross-legged, the moss cushioning his knees, and unslung his pack, its weight heavy with possibility. Around him, the Mistwood offered its own gifts: strange plants, unlike any he’d seen, sprouted in clusters, their long, fine threads rising like a cone, each strand shimmering with dew that pooled in beads, suspended like a necklace of liquid stars. At the plant’s center, a single drop, the size of his thumbnail, rested like a jewel in a verdant cup, glinting with sapphire light. Akilliz’s breath caught, the dew’s radiance stirring memories of the mana surge from his healed lip. “This… this could work,” he murmured, plucking three plants gently, their threads quivering. He tilted them, pouring the central drops into his mortar, the beads along the threads following like a cascade, each drip singing a soft, crystalline note as it fell, the sound weaving into the Mistwood’s hum.
He opened his pack, fingers brushing Elowen’s journal, its leather worn but warm, before finding the stolen herbs and pale gold flower. The mint-scented herb, with its silver-veined leaves, hummed faintly, its healing tingle etched in his memory. The flower pulsed, its petals glowing like moonlight. He hesitated, glancing at the fairy, still trembling behind its leaf. “I’ve never seen your kind,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “You’re… like a star come to earth.” The fairy’s opals met his, its glow steadying, and it nodded, a tiny gesture of trust that warmed his chest.
Akilliz ground the herb and flower with a smooth stone, their scent sharp and green, mingling with the dew’s sweet tang. He added the dew, its sapphire sheen catching the fairy’s light, and a tune came unbidden, soft and natural, rising from his throat—a melody like Lumara’s dawn, gentle and hopeful. He hummed, pouring his will into the mixture, his grief for Elowen, his defiance of Luminael, his need to mend this small, fragile life. The paste began to glow, a radiant blue that pulsed with each note, and he sang softly, words forming from the Mistwood’s hum: “Light to light, heart to flight…” The fairy’s glow brightened, its leaf dropping as it watched, transfixed.
It looked promising, but there was a concerning imperfection. Using his various plants, some dirt had gotten in his concoction. He needed to get it out, but with limited resources he had to think hard. He didn’t want any sickness getting inside the wound, and who knew what creatures lurked on the mistwood floor. There had to be no chance his unlikely friend would get even worse from his efforts, he needed a way to clean it.
Rummaging through his pack only one pristine item stuck out to him, the elven cloth. He unwrapped the bread and expected the cloth to be filthy from the pack, and crumby from the bread. To his surprise, he held it and it was pristine. Testing his assumption, he wiped his dirty hands on it, and saw dirt upon the cloth. A frown broke upon his face, and he gathered it in his hands staring at it with focus. “Hold on..” he lifted it by both ends and shook i gently as a breeze, and bewildering as it was, all the dirt from his hands simply shed off and fell onto the forest floor. It was true, the cloth had an unnatural ability to remain clean. “Hang on little one, I have an idea!”
He quickly placed the cloth over and into a wide mouth jar, and poured is glowing liquid into it. With a small breath in, he watched as it drained through, leaving a small pile of dirt and nothing more left inside his cloth.
He paused, reaching into the jar and testing the sanitized salve on a small cut across his palm, a lingering sting from his fall. The blue paste tingled, sealing the wound in a heartbeat, a mana spark dancing through him—clarity, strength, a whisper of joy. Confident, he turned to the fairy, who flinched, its wing trembling. “It’s safe,” he whispered, dipping a finger in the salve. “I promise.” The fairy hesitated, then stretched its torn wing, delicate as gossamer, its opals never leaving his face. Akilliz dabbed the salve gently, his touch feather-light, and held his breath, fearing he’d hurt it. The fairy winced, and he paled, heart lurching—but then its glow erupted, a starburst of gold and violet, its wing knitting whole in a shimmer of light. It floated, spinning like a tiny comet, trilling a laugh that echoed like bells, its telepathic voice clear: “Kind…trusted!”
The fairy hovered, and suddenly snapped its tiny fingers. Within a moment it was struggling to lift a crystal medallion, nearly as large as itself, strung with a gossamer thread. She sunk in the air and heated her wings rapidly to stay afloat “take..friend..!”
Akilliz, confused yet understanding beaming into him examined it as he placed it in his palm. The crystal medallion, Its surface was etched with a rune—Vael’kyn, though he didn’t know it—catching the mist’s light like a prism. He took it gently, its weight heavy with meaning, and pinned it to his cloak, awe washing over him. The fairy darted forward, brushing his nose with a spark of magic, a tingling warmth that made him grin. “Thank you,” he said, voice thick with wonder. “Can you show me the way?” The fairy nodded, its glow a beacon, and zoomed into the fog, leaving a trail of stardust. Akilliz followed, the Mistwood’s hum softening, as if it bowed to this moment, the promise of answers burning brighter than his fear.
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The fairy’s light wove through the sapphire fog, a guiding star until the trees parted like a curtain, revealing a clearing that stole his breath. A hidden village nestled under a starlit sky, its edges ringed by towering giants, their silver bark forming a wall of night. The air shimmered, time faltering, as if the village existed in eternity. Houses of curved wood, smooth as river stones, glowed with luminescent moss, their roofs blooming with flowers pulsing like fireflies. Stone structures, etched with elven runes, stood alongside, their arches blending earth and sky. The scent of spiced stew and warm bread curled through the air, a balm to Akilliz’s hunger, and for the first time since Lumara, he felt a flicker of home.
The fairy’s stardust trail wove through the Mistwood’s sapphire fog, a guiding beacon that tugged Akilliz forward, his boots sinking into moss as the medallion’s weight steadied his heart. The trees parted like a curtain, revealing a clearing that stole his breath—a hidden village nestled under a starlit sky, its edges ringed by towering giants, their silver bark forming a wall of eternal night. The air shimmered, time itself faltering, as if the village dwelt in a pocket of eternity. Houses of curved wood, smooth as river stones, glowed with luminescent moss, their roofs blooming with flowers that pulsed like fireflies. Stone arches, etched with runes that whispered of ancient elven songs, blended earth and sky, their curves catching the moonlight. The scent of spiced stew and warm bread curled through the air, a balm to Akilliz’s hunger, yet the silence was profound, broken only by the Mistwood’s distant hum.
Figures emerged from the shadows, their movements wary, eyes glinting in the soft light. Elves with silver-streaked hair, humans with weathered faces, and half-breeds blending both stood frozen, their gazes a mix of shock and suspicion, as if a ghost had stumbled into their midst. Akilliz halted, heart pounding, the fairy’s glow fading into the fog behind him. These were no Luminael nobles—their clothes were simple, patched with care, their faces etched with lives of toil and defiance. A murmur rippled through them, low and tense, words like “Outsider” and “Mistwood’s veil” catching his ears. He raised his hands, palms open, Elowen’s lessons echoing: Kindness opens doors, Aki. But before he could speak, a child—a half-elf boy with tousled curls and wide amber eyes—darted from the crowd, fearless where the adults hesitated.
“You!” the boy gasped, pointing at the crystal medallion on Akilliz’s cloak, its Vael’kyn rune flaring in the starlight. “A friend of the fae! You’re welcome indeed!” His voice was a burst of joy, shattering the tension, and he bounced on his toes, barely containing himself. “How did you do it? How did you get it? I’ve wanted one as long as I’ve lived! Da tells tales, but I’ve never seen a fairy with my own eyes!” The crowd stirred, heads turning, and Akilliz flushed, the medallion’s weight suddenly heavier, a badge he barely understood. The boy’s father, a burly human with a scarred cheek, stepped forward, pulling the child back, his eyes narrowing. “Soren, hush,” he muttered, but his gaze lingered on the medallion, curiosity warring with caution.
An older elf emerged from the throng, his silver hair braided with beads of amber and bone, his face a map of lines carved by time and wisdom. His presence stilled the murmurs, his deep voice resonant, carrying the cadence of ancient songs. “I am Eryndor, elder of this village,” he said, eyes piercing yet not unkind, studying Akilliz like a scroll yet to be read. “The fae’s trust, the Vyn’kwe thal, is a mark of a heart without guile, a rarity in this shadowed world. Yet strangers do not find us, for the Mistwood guards its own. Speak, traveler—who are you, and how came you by such a gift? Is it earned, or stolen?” The question hung heavy, the villagers’ gazes sharpening, hands tightening on tools and staffs, their isolation a shield now tested.
Akilliz swallowed, his throat dry, but the boy’s—Soren’s—bright eyes gave him courage. “I’m Akilliz, a potion maker from Lumara,” he said, voice steady despite the weight of their stares. “I was banished from Luminael for daring their sacred grounds, seeking herbs to honor my mother’s craft. I got lost in the Mistwood, chased fairy lights, and found… her.” He touched the medallion, its rune warm under his fingers. “She was hurt, her wing torn. I made a salve, healed her, and she gave me this. I swear it’s mine by her grace.” His words spilled out, raw and honest, Elowen’s memory fueling his truth. The crowd murmured, some softening, others skeptical, but Soren’s grin widened, tugging his father’s sleeve. “See, Da? He’s a fairy-friend!”
Eryndor’s gaze softened, though caution lingered. He stepped closer, tracing the medallion’s rune with a weathered finger, his voice low. “The fae do not gift lightly. If your tale is true, you are no thief, but a soul of heart, as Soren claims.” He paused, then offered a faint smile, the first crack in the village’s guard. “Well, traveler, we are banished too. Here, we are half-breed or low-blood, cast out by Luminael’s pride. This village, built by primal elves before their spires rose, is our sanctuary, hidden from those who scorn us. We live free, bound by heart, not blood.” The crowd nodded, some faces warming, others still wary, but the tension eased, like a held breath released.
Eryndor gestured toward a wooden hall, its doors carved with vines that seemed to sway in the moonlight. “Come, Akilliz of Lumara. It is the night of the full moon, a time of festivities under the stars. Join us, share our hearth, and tell us more. For now, be our guest, and let us learn if your heart matches their gift. Shal’ethar—be at peace.” The phrase settled in Akilliz’s chest, a quiet hope, and he nodded, following Eryndor as the crowd parted, their curiosity now outweighing their fear.
A young half-elf girl, her auburn braid swinging, bounded to his side, her grin as bright as the fairy’s glow. “Kwe vadis!” she chirped, the elven phrase lilting like a song. “I’m Lira. You’re new, aren’t you? Soren’s right—that medallion’s amazing! Did you really meet a fairy?” Her questions tumbled out, a stream of warmth that eased the ache of Luminael’s scorn, and Akilliz managed a smile, her chatter a bridge to this hidden world. The hall loomed ahead, a marvel of arched wood and glowing orbs, its promise of stew and song pulling him forward, the medallion a steady weight against his heart.
The wooden hall glowed under the full moon’s silver light, its arched ceiling a mimicry of the Mistwood’s canopy, woven with vines that seemed to pulse with starlight. Glowing orbs drifted above, casting a radiance soft as a lullaby, illuminating long tables laden with bounty: steaming root stew flecked with spices that twinkled like stars, loaves of bread shimmering with a faint golden sheen, and bowls of luminescent berries, their juice sweet as a summer dusk. Villagers filled the benches, their faces—elven, human, half-breed—alight with laughter, a chorus that wrapped Akilliz like a hearth’s embrace. The air thrummed with the night’s promise, for it was the full moon, a time of celebration in this hidden village, a sanctuary untouched by Luminael’s cold spires.
Lira, the auburn-braided half-elf, tugged Akilliz to a bench, her grin as bright as the fairy’s glow. “Kwe vadis! Sit, eat!” she chirped, shoving a bowl of stew into his hands, its warmth seeping through his fingers, chasing away the Mistwood’s chill. Soren, the curly-haired boy who’d hailed him a fairy-friend, plopped beside him, eyes wide with questions. “Tell us about the fairy! Did she sing? Was she shiny?” Akilliz laughed, a sound he hadn’t heard in weeks, and shared the tale—her torn wing, the glowing salve, the medallion’s weight. The villagers leaned in, their chatter a mix of awe and disbelief, and for the first time since Elowen’s passing, Akilliz felt not an outcast, but a guest, his hunger sated by stew and stories.
Eryndor, the elder, raised a hand, and the hall fell silent, the orbs dimming as if in reverence. He led a three-note hymn, “Lyr’ethar vyn”—Song of the Earth—its melody weaving through the air, the food brightening under its touch, as if the earth itself blessed the feast. Akilliz tried to join, his voice a croak, and Lira giggled, nudging him. “Like this, new boy! Vael’kyn—step lightly!” She hummed the notes, her voice clear as a bell, and he tried again, earning chuckles and a clap from Soren’s father, a burly human named Gavren. The phrase stuck, a small gift, and Akilliz whispered it to himself, savoring its rhythm, the medallion warm against his chest.
As night deepened, the villagers spilled into a clearing, the full moon a radiant orb above, its light bathing the moss in silver. The ritual dance, “Sha’vyn thal”—Light’s Grace—began, villagers twirling staffs that glowed like captured stars, their movements a hypnotic weave of arcs and spins. Lira pulled Akilliz in, her staff a blur. “Try it!” she urged, and he fumbled, his spins toppling him into soft moss, the crowd roaring with laughter. “Shal’ethar!” he called, grinning, and Lira tossed him her staff, teaching a simple twirl. His clumsy arc sparked cheers, and for a moment, he was no outcast, just a boy among friends, the moon’s glow and the village’s warmth filling the hollow left by Luminael’s scorn. Soren danced nearby, mimicking Akilliz’s steps, shouting, “Fairy-friend dances best!”
The festivities stretched late, the air alive with song and starlight, and Akilliz’s belly was full, his heart fuller. Lira led him to a small hut, its walls curved like a seashell, a moss-stuffed pallet waiting within. “Sleep well, fairy-friend,” she teased, her braid swinging as she left. Akilliz sank into the bed, Elowen’s journal clutched close, the medallion a steady weight. The Mistwood’s hum lulled him, and for the first time since Lumara, he slept without fear, dreams woven with fairy light and Lira’s laugh.
Dawn crept through the hut’s woven shutters, soft and golden, stirring Akilliz awake. The scent of herbal tea filled the air, and he blinked to find Eryndor seated on a stool, his silver braids glinting, a steaming cup in his hands. “Kwe vadis, young traveler,” he said, voice warm but probing, offering the tea. “You’ve slept well, I trust?” Akilliz nodded, taking the cup, its minty warmth waking his senses. The elder’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, studied him, and Akilliz sensed a conversation deeper than pleasantries. “Tell me of Luminael,” he said, voice soft. “What drove you to their gates, and what cast you out?”
Akilliz sipped, the tea grounding him, and poured out his tale: Elowen’s death, her potion-making legacy, his climb up Frosthelm for the Lightspire Bloom, trading it for freedom, and his banishment for daring the sacred grounds. “She trained there, in Luminael,” he said, voice thick. “I wanted to learn, to save people like she did. That’s what drives me—to make potions that heal, to keep her light alive.” Eryndor’s gaze softened, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Your mother’s heart shines in you,” he said. “The fae saw it, and I see it now. A pure heart, rare and true.”
The elder leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Mistwood dew you used… it is forbidden, save for sacred rites I cannot teach an outsider. It is alive, in its own way, and tampering wrongly can kill, bring disease, or worse. That you crafted a salve to heal a fairy’s wing is no small feat, Akilliz. Here, in this room, I sanction you to recreate that salve. Show me what you’ve done, and let none beyond these walls know.” Akilliz’s heart raced, the medallion warming, and he nodded, the elder’s trust a spark in the dark.
Eryndor opened a carved cabinet, its shelves brimming with vials, roots, and glowing orbs, his fingers lingering over mysteries before selecting a sprig of silver-veined mint, the same as Akilliz’s healing herb. “Vyr’elthar,” he called it, voice reverent. “We use it for ailments, fevers, wounds, but never have I heard of it mending a fairy’s wing. A special feat, indeed.” Akilliz gathered his remaining herbs and flower, the dew-soaked elven cloth, and set to work, grinding the Vyr’elthar and flower. His first attempt bubbled into sludge, the second a dull paste, and frustration gnawed at him, the elder’s patient gaze a quiet pressure.
“Tell me exactly how you healed the fairy,” Eryndor said, voice wise and calm. “Every detail.” Akilliz recounted the dew, the plants, the salve, and the song—a tune that came unbidden, like Lumara’s dawn. “My mother sang to her plants,” he added, voice soft. “They grew better for it.” Eryndor’s eyes gleamed, a knowing glance that spoke volumes. “It’s not the song, lad, but the magic within—the intention behind it. Picture your fairy friend, feel the urge to heal her. Sing, and make the brew once more.”
Akilliz closed his eyes, the fairy’s opal gaze vivid in his mind, her pain a mirror to his own. He hummed, the tune rising naturally, and ground the herbs, pouring his will—grief, hope, love—into the mix. The salve glowed blue, radiant as the Mistwood’s mist, pulsing with his song. Eryndor leaned close, his eye inches from the glow, and without warning, drew a paring knife, slicing his arm. Blood welled, and he scooped the salve, slapping it on with a flourish. The wound sealed, the glow fading into healed skin, and he gasped, voice booming with an old man’s fervor: “Lyr’kwe vadis! Oh, my young man, you’ve touched the beginning of the end, the way secret things work!” He clutched Akilliz’s shoulders, eyes alight. “Practices… no, no, I dare not say.”
Akilliz pressed for more, but Eryndor evaded, his smile cryptic. “Practice here for three days, you are welcome. Brew this into a potion, not a salve. You’ll need fresh Vyr’elthar and dew—plenty of it. If you succeed, take it to Luminael’s gates, demand Thalindra Vael’Shara. Her gift of bread was no small thing; she sees your heart. Show her this potion, the fae’s trust, and they’ll have no choice but to deem you worthy.” He handed Akilliz a vial of orange liquid, warm as a coal. “Bottled fire, for your journey. The fae chose well.”
Over a few days, he worked with Eryndor, gathering dew from thread-like plants, their beads cascading like stars. His first potion attempts failed—bubbling messes, gray sludges—but Eryndor’s wisdom guided him, urging intention, song, and heart. Between efforts, Akilliz wandered the village, breaking to chat with locals. At the market, a vendor traded a pulsing pebble for a Lumara tale, winking, “Thal’vyn shal”—Heart’s gift. Soren pickpocketed it, returning it with a grin, whispering, “Herb’vyn”—Earth’s breath. A gardener taught him “Lyr’kwe”—Grow strong—correcting his herb guesses, tucking glowing thyme into his cloak. Each moment wove him deeper into the village’s heart, a family he hadn’t known he needed.
But on the third day, Akilliz stood in Eryndor’s hut, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and Mistwood dew. His hands trembled, not with doubt but with purpose, as he ground the Vyr’elthar and pale gold flower, their silver veins and glowing petals humming under his touch. He poured the dew from the thread-like plants, its beads cascading like liquid stars, and hummed the dawn-like tune, his heart alight with the fairy’s opal gaze, Elowen’s frail smile, and the village’s warmth. The mixture churned, glowing sapphire, a radiant potion that seemed to pulse with its own life, a whisper of Vael’tharis—the Soul’s Breath. Akilliz took a sip, the smallest drop, and a surge of life flooded him, healing a fresh cut on his thumb from a jagged root, sparking clarity and a joy that danced in his chest. He grinned, the vial glinting like a captured star, and looked to Eryndor, whose eyes shone with pride.
The elder leapt from his stool, spry as a much younger man, and snatched the vial, holding it to the light with a gleeful chuckle. “Lyr’kwe vadis!” he crowed, shaking his head as if the potion might vanish. He peered at it, squinting like a jeweler with a gem, then set it down, fixing Akilliz with a twinkling gaze. “No elven training, and here you are, lad! Blessed by the Light herself, you must be! This is no small task, no small task indeed.” His voice dropped, conspiratorial, a playful grin creasing his weathered face. “Would you mind if I take a wee sample for myself? Just a drop, mind you, for the village. You’ve crafted the breath of life, and it might save one of us in hard times. I’ve taken notes, but me making such a thing? Oh, no, no, the council would have my braids!” He winked, tapping his temple. “I pray to the Nine they see reason and let you study in Luminael. To think the things you could create, my my!”
Akilliz laughed, a sound bright with relief and pride, and nodded. “Take it, Elder. It’s yours.” Eryndor, with the glee of a child sneaking a sweet, filled a tiny vial, no bigger than a thimble, the sapphire potion swirling within like a starry sky. Akilliz marveled at his own work, holding the larger vial aloft, its glow churning slowly, glinting like the heavens above the Mistwood. “It’s… alive,” he whispered, awe threading his voice, and Eryndor clapped his shoulder, chuckling. “That it is, lad. That it is.”
The village gathered to bid him farewell, their faces a tapestry of elven grace and human grit, their warmth a hearth Akilliz carried within. Lira bounded forward, her auburn braid swinging, and thrust a woven bracelet into his hand, its threads glowing faintly. “For luck, fairy-friend!” she teased, nudging him. Soren, eyes wide, mimicked Akilliz’s potion-making stance, waving an imaginary vial and nearly toppling into Gavren, who ruffled his curls with a laugh. “Shal’ethar, Akilliz,” Gavren said, voice gruff but kind. “Show those spire-snobs what a Lumara lad can do.” The crowd cheered, some tossing luminescent petals that drifted like fireflies, and Akilliz’s heart swelled, the medallion and journal steady against his chest, Elowen’s legacy burning bright.
He set out, the vial of sapphire potion tucked safely with the orange bottled fire, his head held high as dawn broke, painting the field in molten gold. Three days in the hidden village had forged him anew, not in iron but in heart. Lira’s laughter, Soren’s antics, and Eryndor’s wisdom burned within, a fire brighter than any flame. The sacred grass swayed, as if bowing to his resolve, and Luminael’s distant spires shimmered, no longer a dream but a challenge. Elowen’s journal pressed against his heart, its pages a map to his destiny, and he whispered her words: “Herbs are the earth’s heartbeat, Aki. Listen.” He was listening now, to her, to the fae, to the spark of defiance that refused to die.
He practiced the elven phrases, their cadence a song on his tongue. “Kwe vadis,” he murmured—Well met—imagining Thalindra’s masked face. “Vael’kyn”—Step lightly—steadied his stride, a reminder of Lira’s dance. The field stretched endless, its flowers glowing like scattered embers, and the Mistwood’s dark edge faded behind, a memory of sanctuary. The medallion warmed faintly, urging him forward. He was no longer the boy banished in shame, but Elowen’s son, a potion-maker with a fae’s trust, ready to claim his place. The spires grew closer, their ivory and gold piercing the sky, and Akilliz felt like he had finally chosen the right path.
Luminael’s silver gates loomed, towering and rune-etched, their surfaces rippling like liquid starlight. Two guards stood sentinel, their armor shimmering with glyphs, prismatic eyes narrowing to venomous slits. Yet to Akilliz, it mattered not, for he finally had a recipe added to the sacred pages held next to his heart. He had the secret, even if he did not yet understand it.
