The alchemical tower basked in dawn’s gentle glow, crystal panes scattering golden flecks across the stone floor like spilled coins. Akilliz stirred on a cot near the workbench, his throat tender beneath the bandage, the cloaked figure’s hiss from the plaza lingering in his mind: Mud Born filth. The dragons breath potion shimmered in a copper bowl, its crimson pulse a faint promise of his Festival ambitions, three days away. His new satchel, impossibly light, rested against the wall, a boon from the market’s sharp witted vendor. The air carried a scorched herbal tang, mingling with the tower’s warmth, but his thoughts drifted to Lumara, to the garden’s thyme and his father’s forge.

  He traced the leather cover of his mother’s journal, her neat script faded but alive under his fingers. He’d finally decided to begin adding notes to it, things he had learned, plants he had identified. His mind was occupied. Weeks ago, he’d penned a letter to his father, promising to visit before winter’s chill. The memory stung: sitting under a spire’s glow, quill scratching, the air heavy with promise. Now, the tower felt foreign, its radiance a cage. He longed for the brook’s silver glint, the creak of his father’s anvil. Had he forgotten Lumara in his chase for potions?

  A soft knock broke his reverie. A guard stepped in, armor glinting, a parchment clutched in his gloved hand. “A message from Lumara, for you,” he said, voice crisp, handing over a scroll sealed with a wax hammer sigil. Akilliz’s heart thumped, fingers trembling as he broke the seal. Torin’s writing spilled across the page, warm yet weathered, like embers in a dying hearth.

  He read, breath catching: “Spring’s bloomed again, son, flowers poking through the forge’s ash. Winter passed months ago. Your letter spoke of visiting before it, but time’s slipped us by. I’m so glad to hear from you, thought the worst. I felt in my heart you were fine. So, you reached Luminael? Tell me all about it. Still got that hammer charm I gave you? Keep it close, Aki, my heart is with you. The forge’s cold without you, but I’m proud. You’re crafting wonders like your ma. Come visit soon, even if only for a bit. Write back, your old man’s waiting. Love, Pa.”

  Spring? Akilliz’s breath hitched. He counted months on shaking fingers, tracing back to when he’d penned his letter. Weeks at most, not a year. Had Luminael stolen seasons? His chest tightened, picturing his father’s graying hair, his broad shoulders hunched over a colder forge. He clutched the journal, eyes stinging, and rummaged through his old pack, its sock scented canvas a relic of home. His fingers found the hammer charm, its iron cool and heavy. He tied it to the journal’s cover with a cord, vowing never to lose it again.

  Sylvara lounged nearby, “Sylvara,” he rasped, voice hoarse, “Pa says it’s spring. I wrote to him in summer, weeks ago.” She paused, eyes softening with a centuries heavy gaze. “Time dances oddly here, darling. Luminael’s spires stretch days into months beyond our glow. I lost a decade once, young light. It’s a mystery of Luminael’s magic.” Her voice was a gentle hearth, but his stomach knotted. A year gone, and the Festival loomed. He’d write back soon, promising a visit, carrying tales of potions and dangers. Right now though, a challenge beckoned him.

  He stood over the copper bowl, its crimson contents a stubborn flame that refused to bend.

  First, he tested a drop, dipping a glass rod with care. It sizzled through the workbench, leaving a blackened scar, then melted a steel scrap into ash with a hiss. His heart sank, the potion’s fury far from his dream of a drinkable elixir. “Too fierce,” he rasped, glancing at Sylvara, who leaned against a shelf, her figure swaying to an invisible tune, twirling her hair, yet she was aware of his plight. “Bold, darling, yet untenable,” she said, voice warm but sharp. “Drinkable, you say? Possible, if your will holds. Try with a water base, moonbloom to cool, starpetal to bind. Layer the fire slow, like a hearth’s glow.”

  Akilliz nodded, her words a spark of hope, though frustration gnawed at him. He’d tried moonbloom sap before, sparking a crimson flare that scorched the bowl’s edge; starpetal dust had dulled the glow to a lifeless red. Each failure carved a scar on his confidence. He mixed a clear base, water and starpetal dust, stirring slowly, the liquid cool and faintly sweet, a canvas for the dragons breath. A pinch of crimson powder followed, his wrist steady, the mixture warming but not sparking, a faint glow stirring.

  Sylvara gestured to towering cubbies stuffed with leather-bound tomes, their spines etched with wisdom. “If you wish to study further, Flora Ignis holds some dragons breath secrets, young light. Read carefully.” Wasting no time, he climbed a creaky ladder, pulling the heavy volume, its pages crackling with age.

  The heavy Flora Ignis tome cradled in his arms. He settled at the workbench, He opened it, pages crackling with age, and read aloud: “Dragons Breath: crimson petals, molten pulse, grows in volcanic crevices, finger sized, serrated edges, glows like embers. Salve: blend with ashroot and nettle oil; burns skin on contact, used to cauterize wounds.” His brow furrowed, the burning salve useless for his Festival ambitions, but he flipped further, desperate for answers.

  The next entry offered little hope. “Mist of Pyridion: grind dragons breath with saltpeter, ignite to summon a choking cloud of crimson smoke, blinds foes in battle.” Akilliz’s lips twisted, picturing a battlefield shrouded in haze, but a cloud was no elixir to breathe flame. Another page described a “Crimson Dye: steep dragon's breath in willow sap and dawnwater; stains hair or cloth a vibrant red, safe for skin, fades in weeks.” He paused, quill hovering over the journal, the clue sparking interest. Safe for skin? The willow sap and dawnwater might temper the petals’ fire, a hint for his potion. He scribed: “Crimson Dye: willow sap, dawnwater, skin-safe. Could tame dragons breath? Festival in three days, must be perfect for Aurelia.”

  He studied on, reading for what felt like an hour, yet another concoction disappointed: “Ember Polish: mix with flint dust and wax; shines armor but blisters hands if mishandled.” He slumped, the tome’s wisdom a tangle of dead ends.

  Sylvara leaned nearby, voice warm but teasing. “Any such luck yet, my apprentice?”

  Akilliz rasped, “Nothing drinkable, but the dye’s safe for skin. Maybe willow sap cools the fire.” Her eyes gleamed, a nod of approval. “Clever, darling. Seek the ingredients’ heart, remember to layer them slow.” He turned back to the tome, and continued to read confusing instructions that often seemed more harmful than helpful.

  A sharp knock shattered the tower’s quiet, and a guard burst in, armor clinking, a scroll clutched in his gloved hand. “A message from Thalindra, High Judiciar, who arrives soon,” he said, eyes hard as flint. “One of the Eternal Watch, a sacred guard, lies dead. Poisoned, by your vine-etched bottle found beside the corpse.” Akilliz’s stomach lurched, his breath catching as if the air had turned to ice. The memory of crafting that poison with Sylvara flashed in his mind, its violet shimmer, the workbench’s hum. Now, it was a murderer’s tool. His hands trembled, the journal slipping in his grip. “Stolen,” he rasped, voice barely a whisper, his throat raw beneath the bandage. “We left it here, that day our salt was tainted.” His mind raced, a storm of fear and questions. Was he accused? Would Thalindra, who’d given him an apprenticeship and passage into Lumainel, believe his innocence, or see him as a reckless boy who’d armed a killer? Who had stolen it? If the council doubted him, would he face a trial, his dreams crushed under Luminael’s spires?

  Sylvara stilled, her hum faltering, eyes narrowing to slits. “One of the Kyn’s work, mark my words,” she muttered, her voice a low growl, wand tapping the workbench like a restless drum. The guard nodded, voice crisp. “The High Judiciar investigates, but urges thee to stay vigilant. Her wrath is kindled.” He turned, the door’s thud heavy, leaving a chill that seeped into the tower’s warmth. Akilliz’s chest pounded, his gaze darting to the dragons breath potion, its crimson pulse now a taunt. What if Thalindra thought him complicit, her crystal a trap rather than a shield? He pictured the council’s golden chamber, elven eyes judging him, a human outsider who’d brought death to their sacred guard. Voryn’s smirk flashed in his mind, his lies a noose tightening. “I didn’t… I’d never,” he whispered, more to himself than Sylvara.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Without notice, the door swung wide again, shattering the silence, and Thalindra stormed in, pure white cloak billowing, its radiant design marking her royal Thal lineage. Two guards flanked her, armor clinking, faces stern under helms. His head beamed with sweat. “Akilliz,” she said, voice melodic yet firm, “Thy craft honors your mother’s spark. I know you’re no traitor, yet a guard lies dead by your poison.” Her eyes snapped to Sylvara, flashing with fury. “Why, alchemist, did you teach a boy such deadly arts and leave them unguarded?”

  Sylvara bristled, turning rigid, her tongue sharp as a blade. “To know danger, not wield it, Thalindra. He’s no schemer, a Kyn stole it!” One guard stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “You will address the High Judiciar by her title and lineage, alchemist. Do not forget yourself.” Sylvara’s eyes flared, but she bit back a retort, her wand trembling. Thalindra’s gauntlet slammed the workbench, vials rattling. “Your lapse armed a murderer, Sylvara! Spark-vine powder in your salt, a bottle vanished under your watch. Do you endanger Luminael’s heart with your recklessness?” Akilliz’s stomach knotted, his voice hoarse. “It was Voryn,” he pleaded, stepping forward, gripping the journal. “He tampered our supplies, spread lies in the market. I’d never sell poison, and it wasn’t Sylvara’s fault, I swear it!” His breath hitched, the council’s golden chamber looming in his mind, elven eyes ready to condemn an outsider.

  Thalindra’s gaze returned to him, a faint smile breaking through her ire. “I believe you. Thy heart is true, but Voryn sways the council, painting you a threat to our sacred spires.” Her voice hardened, turning back to his mentor. “You, alchemist, have stoked their doubts with your carelessness. How many more must fall before you leash your chaos?” Sylvara’s lips tightened, her hum a defiant spark. “I train him to heal, not harm. Blame Kyn’s shadows, not my craft!” The air crackled, Thalindra’s noble calm fraying, Sylvara’s defiance a storm barely contained. “Secure your arts,” Thalindra said, voice low, “or Kyn’s shadow will taint us all.” She reached into her cloak, producing a spare crystal like the one she had given him earlier. “Watch,” she said, crushing it in her gauntlet. Light flared, a soft chime echoing, as if summoning unseen guards. “Yours calls my aid, Akilliz. Use it wisely, and now all here have seen that you are protected.”

  She turned to leave, her cloak sweeping, but cast a final glare at Sylvara. “Guard your apprentice better, or answer to me.” The guards followed, weapons clinking at their side, the door’s thud echoing like a gavel. Sylvara’s hum faded, her eyes distant, Thalindra’s rebuke a wound. She clutched her wand still, lips trembling, then turned to the workbench, busying herself with vials in silence.

  The alchemy tower’s air grew heavy, Sylvara’s silence a storm brewing after Thalindra’s departure. The dragons breath potion’s glow flickered on the workbench, a fragile spark against Kyn’s shadow, but Akilliz’s mind was tormented with the weight of a murdered guard and Voryn’s schemes. Sylvara turned cold, her figure rigid. “Enough tinkering” she snapped, voice laced with a bitter edge. “You’ll master the craft’s roots or ruin us all. Sweep the floor, scrub the cauldrons, clean the shelves, sort the herb stores. Perhaps discipline will curb your recklessness.” Her eyes flashed, a jab that cut deeper than her usual chaos.

  Akilliz’s anger flared, this was clearly a retaliation because she had been scorned. “But I need to tame the potion for the festival,” he rasped, hands clenching the broom she thrust at him, its worn handle splintering his palm. Elowen’s patient lessons in Lumara’s garden felt like a lost dream, drowned by Sylvara’s sudden distrust. “I spoke up for you, I said it wasn’t your fault,” he muttered, voice low,. Sylvara’s wand tapped a dusty shelf, her hum a sharp, mocking trill. “And yet a guard lies dead, thanks to our carelessness. Basics, boy, or you’ll burn more than cloaks.” Her words dripped with disdain, each syllable a barb stoking his frustration. “The Festival’s in three days,” he said, voice raw with urgency, the potion’s glow taunting him. She stood unyielding, her gaze hard. “Then prove you’re not a liability.”

  He swept the floor with fury, dust swirling like his simmering rage, the tower’s warmth now stifling. Scrubbing cauldrons, their grime clinging stubbornly, felt like a punishment, each scrape echoing Thalindra’s accusations. Sorting the cluttered herb stores, jars of wilted thyme, tangled nettle, unlabeled vials, gnawed at his patience, his hands itching to stir the potion, to add more, to try again. He muttered under his breath, resenting Sylvara’s coldness, fearing he’d fail Aurelia with these pointless tasks. The council’s golden chamber loomed in his mind, Voryn’s lies a noose tightening. “Fine,” he rasped, complying through gritted teeth, “but I’ll prove myself.” Sylvara’s lips curled, a faint, bitter smile. “See that you do, young light, before we both pay for your creations.”

  A soft knock broke the tension, and Lirien appeared, a basket of starbloom cakes in hand, hazel eyes soft with concern. “I heard of the guard’s death,” she said, voice gentle, blonde hair tucked behind her ears. Akilliz brightened, his heart lifting. “Lirien, good to see you.” Sylvara barely glanced up, her wand tapping restlessly, her mood a dark cloud. Lirien offered a cake, its sweetness cutting the dust’s tang. “Aloe helps burns,” she said, her healer’s smile shy. “It might soothe your potion’s fire.” Akilliz nodded, grateful, her warmth a spark against the tower’s gloom.

  A cryptic chant echoed outside, rattling the stone: “In shadows deep, where flames abide, Zolam treads where truths reside!” Sylvara groaned, muttering, “By the Nine, not this fool!” She flung open the door, revealing Master Zolam, a disheveled wizard with tangled gray hair, patched robes smeared with ash, and twinkling blue eyes beneath a crooked hat. Kael trailed behind, red hair tousled, green eyes wide with mortification, clutching a massive journal, quill scratching furiously as Zolam moved. Zolam glided past Sylvara, undeterred by her scowl, and faced Akilliz, staff tapping rhythmically. “A mortal weaving fire’s breath? A spark to stir the stars!” He leaned over the dragonsbreath potion, its crimson glow dancing in his eyes, and dipped a gnarled finger into the bowl, tasting it with a nonchalant lick. A faint sizzle hissed, a wisp of smoke curling, yet his tongue remained unscathed. “Needs more salt!” Zolam cackled, wiping his finger on his robe, continuing as if nothing had happened. Akilliz gaped, rasping, “How—?” but Zolam waved a dismissive hand, tossing a sack of gold coins to Sylvara, who caught it with a scowl, tossing it aside with a clatter.

  “Vials to quicken mind and bone, to chase the winds where thoughts have flown,” Zolam intoned, his voice a cryptic lilt, eyes gleaming with secrets. He paused, breaking character to glance at Kael, voice suddenly plain. “Boy, are you writing this down? Every word, now!” Kael nodded frantically, quill racing across the journal, ink smudging as he struggled to keep up. Zolam resumed his chant, grinning. “Very well, wizard,” Sylvara snapped, her voice sharp with irritation, “now everyone leave. We have work to do, and my young apprentice needs to learn the value of his craft.” Her eyes flicked to Akilliz, a passive-aggressive barb that stung. Zolam, unfazed, raised his staff, singing a goodbye riddle: “By flame and star, where shadows roam, seek the spark to guide thee home!” He spun, robes billowing, and strode out, voice fading.

  Lirien waved softly, her basket lighter. “Come see us soon, Akilliz, in the library, Kael and I study there daily,” she said, her smile warm before slipping through the door. Kael, still scribbling, paused to wave. “Try an elven potion bottle, Akilliz, one with a cooling rune inscribed, might balance the flame,” he said, green eyes glinting, then scrambled after Zolam, journal sagging. Akilliz stood, Zolam’s salt hint and cryptic riddles swirling in his mind, a mysterious spark against Sylvara’s coldness. How had the wizard tasted a potion that burned metal, unscathed? Lirien’s aloe and Kael’s rune bottle sparked hope, but Sylvara’s bitter words, echoing Thalindra’s rebuke, gnawed at him. Her hum returned, sharp and biting, as she gestured to the cluttered stores. “Back to work, young light,” she muttered, her sprig twirling slowly.

  He gripped the broom, dust swirling, vowing to tame the potion, to breathe fire for Aurelia, to forge his place against Voryn’s lies and the gathering dark. He had new ideas now, some from the tome, from Lirien, Zolam and even Kael. Which one would work he did not know, but he spent every minute thinking about it. Today wasn’t a setback, it was a stepping stone.