The first light of spring crept over Lumara’s rooftops, brushing the vilge with a tender glow. Akilliz stood in the garden, his breath clouding in the crisp dawn air, the scent of thawing earth and budding thyme tickling his nose. The herbs hummed faintly under his boots—feverfew and sage stretching toward the sun, their glow a quiet farewell. Two years had sharpened him here, from a grieving boy to a young man of fifteen, but today the garden felt too small, its edges pressing against a restlessness he couldn’t shake. He adjusted the stag-csp cloak over his shoulders, its deep green wool warm against the morning chill, and patted the pack slung across his back. Elowen’s journal was tucked close to his heart, vine-etched bottles clinked softly, and a smoked sausage from Mara was nestled beside his new leather boots. The road to Luminael waited, and with it, answers he’d chased since the night his mother slipped away.
Inside the cottage, the hearth crackled low, casting shadows over Torin’s broad frame. The big man hunched over the table, slicing a crusty loaf of bread. A pot of sage tea steamed between them, its earthy tang curling into the air, a ritual they’d shared since her passing. Torin slid a thick slice toward him, his hazel eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Last meal ‘fore ye go, d,” he said, voice gruff as gravel. “Eat up, roads don’t feed ye.”
Akilliz grinned, though his chest tightened. “Only if ye stop hogging the butter, Pa.” He smeared a dollop on the bread, the warmth melting it into the crust, and took a bite, savoring the comfort of home one st time. Torin chuckled and reached into his apron pocket, pulling out a small forged trinket. It was a tiny hammer charm, its head etched with a rune that flickered blue when he pressed it into Akilliz’s palm. “Made it st night,” he said, clearing his throat. “Keep it close and if ye can, send word when ye reach Luminael, eh? Visit when yer able. Don’t leave an old fool guessing if his boy’s alive.”
The weight of the charm settled in his hand, heavy with more than metal. He swallowed hard, the bread sticking in his throat, and lunged forward, wrapping his father in a fierce hug. The bcksmith’s arms engulfed him, soot-streaked and strong, and for a moment, neither spoke—just held on, the hearth’s glow warming the silence. “I’ll come back, Pa,” Akilliz whispered, voice cracking. “I swear it. Ye won’t be alone forever.” Torin nodded, a sob shaking his frame, and tousled his boy’s sandy hair one st time before pulling away, wiping his eyes with a rag.
“Get on, then,” Torin said, turning to stoke the fire, his back a shield against more tears. “Check on the folk, they’ll be missing ye too, Aki. Make her proud.”
Akilliz shouldered his pack and stepped into the yard, the brook glinting like liquid gold under the rising sun. He made his rounds quick but careful, each stop a thread tying him to Lumara. At Widow Bess’s gate, her scrawny goat bleated, nosing his leg. “Here, ye old nuisance,” he said, pulling a vial of Goat’s Grit from his pack—oats and burdock, shimmering green. Bess beamed, her gray eyes crinkling. “Yer a wonder, d. Take this.” She pressed a skein of scratchy wool into his hands, a lumpy scarf she’d knit, and he slung it around his neck with a grin. Next, Mara’s squat stone house, where she fretted over Tild’s snores. He handed her a Dusk Draught made with chamomile and honey, it was violet-glowing. Made for sleepless nights, and she traded him a smoked sausage, pinching his cheek. “Safe travels, Aki. Elowen’s watching.” Last, Tild himself, leaning on his butcher’s block, still raspy from winter. Akilliz gave him a Feverfew Kiss, its faint blue glow easing his cough, and Tild cpped his shoulder, gruffly muttering, “Good d.”
The vilge stirred as he finished. Children scampered by the well, nterns flickered out, the forge’s distant cng echoing Torin’s return to work. Akilliz lingered at the garden’s edge, the thyme’s scent sharp in his lungs, then turned north. One st stop—Aurelia’s shrine on Frosthelm. The climb was easier now, his boots crunching a path he’d carved over years, the snowy cap catching the te afternoon light. Dusk settled as he reached the shrine, Aurelia’s stone form serene, her hands outstretched over the mountain. He knelt, breath clouding, and checked the crevice between the boulders. Three Lightspire Blooms glowed there, their petals pulsing white. It was a miracle, a gift. “For you, Ma,” he whispered, humming the Song of Dawn and cutting them with his knife, steady at the base. Their light held as he tucked them into a bottle, a spark of hope fring in his chest. He traced the statue’s base, the cryptic inscription reading once more “She who lights the peaks sees all” and stood, his resolve hardening like ice.
Back in Lumara, night crept in, stars pricking the sky. Akilliz took one st look. The cottage’s warm glow, the garden’s faint hum, his father’s silhouette at the forge. His throat tightened, but he squared his shoulders and stepped onto the single road south, a winding trail down the mountain. The vilge faded behind him, its lights swallowed by pine shadows, and the world stretched wide and unknown ahead. “Luminael,” he muttered, gripping the hammer charm. “I’m coming.” His boots thudded against the frost-dusted path, each step a promise to Torin, to Elowen, to himself.
The mountain trail wound south from Lumara, a ribbon of dirt and stone threading through towering pines, their needles whispering in the evening breeze. Akilliz trudged onward, the cloak tugged tight against a chill that deepened as the sun dipped below the peaks. His new boots snug as a promise, crunched over frost-dusted pebbles, a steady rhythm that matched the thump of his pack against his back. The hammer charm from Torin swung at his neck, a small comfort as the vilge’s glow vanished behind a ridge, leaving him alone with the vastness of Ao. “Just a road,” he muttered, kicking a pinecone that skittered ahead. “Easy enough. Down the mountain, through the pins, find Luminael. Ma walked it once, so can I.” But the sky bruised purple, heavy with clouds, and a distant rumble made his stomach twist. Rain. He hated rain more than a goat’s sneeze. It was wet, cold, and clingy, turning every step into a slog.
The first drops spttered his nose as dusk thickened, fat and icy, drumming against his hood. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, squinting up at the heavens. “Not even a day out?” The drizzle sharpened into a downpour, a relentless curtain that soaked through his cloak, chilling his skin and pstering his sandy hair to his forehead. The trail turned to mud, slick and greedy, sucking at his boots with every step. He cursed, yanking his left foot free, but the right boot stuck fast, swallowed by a puddle with a wet schlup. He stumbled, arms filing, and nded knee-deep in muck, his pack thudding beside him. “I HATE THE RAIN!” he spat, fishing for the boot, but it was gone, lost to the mountain’s spite. Barefoot on one side, he hobbled forward, the rain stinging his cheeks like tiny needles, his sock squelching miserably.
Night fell, bck and wet, the pines blurring into shadows. Akilliz shivered, teeth chattering, his breath a faint cloud in the deluge. He needed shelter—fire, anything to dry out, but the wood was soaked, his “Up!” sparking uselessly against damp twigs, fizzling out with a hiss. “Stupid magic,” he growled, kicking a branch that spshed back at him. Ahead, a darker shape loomed through the torrent. A shallow cave, its mouth a jagged yawn in the hillside. He staggered inside, dripping and miserable, the rain’s roar softening to a muffled patter. The air smelled of damp stone and moss, cool but dry, and he slumped against the wall, peeling off his sodden cloak. “I absolutely hate wet feet, wet boots, and cold rain.,” he muttered, wringing it out, water pooling at his feet.
His pack clinked as he unpacked his things; his mother’s journal, dry in its oilskin wrap; the vine-etched bottles; Mara’s sausage, still intact. He fumbled with a flint, hands numb, but the cave’s gloom deepened, and his stomach growled louder than the storm. Then, a flicker. A faint orange glow danced deeper in, casting shadows that jigged across the stone. Akilliz froze, heart thumping, his knife half-drawn. Wolves? Bandits? He crept forward, barefoot toes curling against the cold floor, and peeked around a bend. There, hunched by a sputtering fire, sat a wiry figure, a man, all angles and elbows, muttering to a donkey den with oddities: bent spoons, cracked mirrors, a lute with three strings. A traveling merchant, not a beast.
“Oi, Herman, ye daft lump,” the man grumbled, poking the fire with a stick. “Rain’s no excuse to sulk—ye’re not the one lugging ye about.” The donkey flicked an ear, chewing a tuft of moss with regal disdain. The merchant’s voice was high and chatty, like a bird caught indoors, and Akilliz couldn’t help a snort. The man’s head snapped up, gray eyes glinting beneath a floppy hat. “Who’s that skulking about? Show yerself, or Herman’ll kick ye into next week!”
Akilliz stepped into the light, hands raised, his bare foot squishing awkwardly. “Just a traveler,” he said, voice hoarse from the cold. “Lost a boot to the mud—thought I’d dry out here.” The merchant squinted, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Well, ye’re a soggy sight! Fenwick’s me name—peddler of wonders, schor of none. Sit, sit—fire’s small, but it’s honest.” He waved Akilliz over, tossing him a threadbare bnket that smelled of hay and old sweat. Grateful, Akilliz wrapped it around his shoulders, sinking beside the fmes, their warmth seeping into his bones.
The old man rummaged in a sack, pulling out a dented tin mug and a lump of hard cheese. “Trade ye a bite for a tale, where’s a d like ye headed in this sorry muck?” Akilliz hesitated, then fished out Mara’s sausage, slicing it with his knife. “Luminael,” he said, handing over a chunk. “To learn potions. Me ma said the Elves know more’n anyone.” Fenwick’s eyes widened, chewing noisily. “Elves, eh? Sharp lot, saw one once, trading glowy bits in the Mistwood. Had a shiny whizzer with ‘em, fast as a blink. Ye’ll need wits for that city, d.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Heard they brew in a blue bottle—restores life itself. Ever hear of that?”
Akilliz’s pulse quickened, but he shrugged, pying it cool. “Sounds like a tall tale. Ma’d say it’s just herbs and luck.” He dug into his pack, pulling a sprig of sage and a vial of moondew from the journal’s stash. “Speaking of—mind if I brew something? Keeps the chill off.” Fenwick waved a hand. “Go on, potion boy—Herman’ll judge ye.” Smirking, Akilliz sparked the fire higher with a shaky “Up!”, the fmes catching this time, and set a small pot to boil. He hummed Elowen’s three-note tune—soft, pure—crushing the sage into the water, adding a drop of moondew. The mix shimmered faintly, a warm green, and he poured it into Fenwick’s mug. “Sage Snap,” he said, sipping his own from a bottle. “Warms ye without burning.”
The old merchant slurped it down, smacking his lips. “By the Nine, that’s a trick! Ye’ve got a gift, d—my daft companion agrees.” The donkey snorted, nosing closer, and Akilliz ughed, the sound echoing in the cave. They traded stories, Fenwick’s wild cims of selling a bent spoon to a king, Akilliz’s tale of the Lightspire Bloom, until the fire dwindled and the rain softened outside. Exhaustion tugged at him, the bnket a cocoon, and he curled up near the embers, the sausage’s smoky taste lingering on his tongue. “Night, Fenwick,” he mumbled, eyes drooping. “Herman too.”
He woke to silence, the cave dim and cold, the fire ash. Fenwick and Herman were gone, hoofprints fading into the mud outside. A bent spoon y by his pack, a “trade” for the tea, no note. He chuckled, tucking it away, and repacked, journal, bottles, the sausage half-eaten. His cloak was damp but wearable, the bnket too ragged to keep. One boot on, one sock soaked, he stepped into the gray dawn, the storm’s st drips pattering from the pines. “Shiny whizzer, huh?” he mused, gripping the hammer charm. “Let’s see what Luminael’s got.” The trail stretched ahead, muddy but passable, and he limped onward, the cave’s warmth a fleeting memory driving him south.
The sun climbed high as he limped down the mountain’s final slopes, the trail spilling into a sea of wildflower-dotted pins. The storm’s gray shroud had burned away, leaving a sky so blue it stung his eyes, the air thick with the sweet tang of grass and clover. His cloak steamed faintly, drying in the warmth, but his left foot was bare save for a soggy sock and it ached with every step, pebbles jabbing his sole like spiteful little teeth. The right boot thudded loyally, a lopsided rhythm that matched his grumbling. “One day out, and I’m half-shod,” he muttered, kicking a stone that skittered into the brush. “Ma’d ugh herself silly, ‘Aki, ye’ve got the luck of a drowned goat.’” He smirked despite himself, the hammer charm at his neck glinting as he adjusted his pack, her journal safe, the Blooms were still glowing faintly in their bottle.
The pins stretched wide, Lumara’s snowy peaks shrinking behind him, a distant memory against the horizon. His stomach growled, the sausage from the cave a fading comfort, and he scanned the road for a stream or a berry bush, something to quiet the ache. Instead, a creak of wheels caught his ear, and a cart rolled into view, pulled by a swaybacked mule with a limp that mirrored his own. The driver was a woman, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, perched atop a pile of trinkets that gleamed in the sun, brass rings, gss beads, a pair of boots dangling from a hook. Akilliz’s gaze locked on those boots, sturdy, brown leather, stitched with green thread, perfect to repce his lost one. His pace quickened, sock squelching, hope fring in his chest.
“Ho there, traveler!” the woman called, her voice a dry rasp, like wind over parchment. She reined the mule to a halt, squinting down at him with a crooked smile. “Ye look like ye’ve wrestled a river and lost. What’s a barefoot d want with Melinda the Trader?” Her cart cttered as she shifted, trinkets jangling—some glowing faintly, others bent or cracked, a peddler’s hoard of odds and ends.
He wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a grin. “Those boots,” he said, nodding at them. “Lost one to the mud st night, rain’s a beast. I’ve got coin, herbs, whatever ye need.” He patted his pack, the vine-etched bottles clinking, but Melinda’s ugh cut him off, sharp and barking.
“Coin’s dull, and herbs I’ve got aplenty,” she said, leaning forward, her silver braid swinging. “I trade for wits, boy, something to spark the mind. Solve me a riddle, and the boots are yers. Fail, and ye limp on wherever ye’re bound.” Her eyes glinted, sly and challenging, and his stomach sank. Riddles? He’d rather brew a potion blind than tangle with words. He’d botched enough of his father’s forge jests to know his tongue wasn’t quick. But those boots… he couldn’t hobble into an elven city like a beggar.
“Fine,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s hear it.”
Melinda’s grin widened, and she tapped her chin, reciting slow and deliberate: “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I’m caught but never held. What am I?” She leaned back, arms crossed, the mule snorting as if it, too, awaited his answer.
Akilliz blinked, the words tumbling in his head like spilled herbs. He paced a tight circle, sock fpping, muttering under his breath. “Speak without a mouth… wind, maybe? No, wind don’t hear—blows too loud for that.” He gnced at the sky, then the cart, grasping for clues. “A song? Nah, songs’re held in yer throat, sung out proper.” His fingers brushed the journal in his pack, Elowen’s lessons flickering through his mind, her voice, soft as the brook, saying herbs whispered to the gods, their secrets bouncing back from stone and sky. He froze, eyes widening. “Whispered… bouncing…” He turned to her, heart thumping. “An echo,” he said, voice steady. “It speaks what ye say, hears without ears, and ye can’t grab it…just chase it ‘round a cave.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy, the pins’ breeze rustling the grass. Then she cpped, a single sharp crack, her ugh softer this time. “Clever d! Aye, an echo it is! Ye’ve got a head on ye, even if yer feet’re a mess.” She unhooked the boots, tossing them down with a thud. “Take ‘em, earned fair. Ye find they be light as air, tough as stone. Might serve ye where ye’re going.”
He caught them, the leather smooth under his fingers. He yanked off the soggy sock, wiggling his toes in relief, and slid the boots on—perfect fit, like they’d been waiting for him. “I thank you kindly, Melinda. Say, ye happen to know the road to Luminael?” he asked, standing taller, the ache in his foot fading. “I’m headed there, not real sure where to go.”
Melinda’s smile tightened, eyes narrowing. “I been there once, long ago. Golden spires, stingy folk, good luck cracking their secrets, sunshine. They don’t take kindly to muddy boots, even fine ones. Ye keep following this here path till the Mistwood, somewhere after, ye might find the city. But first…” She rummaged in her cart, pulling out a small vial of yellow liquid, shimmering like sunlight. “Here, sunroot oil. Rub it on yer hands, keeps the chill off. Call it a bonus for making me think.” She tossed it over, and Akilliz snatched it mid-air, grinning.
“Thanks, Melinda, i'll look for the Mistwood.” he said, tucking the vial into his pack. “An’ maybe I’ll trade ye a potion next time, something to warm that mule of yers.” She snorted, flicking the reins, and the cart creaked forward, her voice drifting back: “Keep yer wits sharp, young traveler, those Elves’ll test ‘em worse’n me!”
He watched her roll away, the boots a steady anchor beneath him, confidence sparking in his chest. The riddle had been a tangle, but he’d unraveled it, proof he wasn’t just a garden d anymore. He uncorked the sunroot oil, dabbing a drop on his hands; a faint heat bloomed, chasing off the st of the storm’s chill, its scent sharp and citrusy. “I might be able to make this sometime..interesting. Well, Luminael’s next,” he murmured, gripping the hammer charm. The pins stretched ahead, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, and he strode on, the road firm under his new boots, each step a promise to prove himself, to his ma’, to the elves, to the world beyond.
The sun dipped low as he trudged into the forest’s edge, the pins giving way to a tangle of oaks and birches, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze. His new elven boots, light as Melinda promised, carried him steady over roots and stones, the sunroot oil still warming his hands with a faint citrus hum. The road widened, and a vilge flickered into view, squat stone cottages, smoke curling from chimneys, the distant bleat of a goat mingling with the scent of woodfire and stew. At its heart stood an inn, its sign swaying crookedly: The Tipsy Frog. Lanterns glowed through smudged windows, ughter spilling out, and Akilliz’s stomach growled, the sausage from the cave a distant memory. “A bed, a meal, sounds like heaven,” he muttered, adjusting his pack, the hammer charm cool against his chest. Two days on the road, and he ached for something soft to flop onto.
He pushed through the heavy oak door, a wave of heat and noise washing over him, ale-soaked chatter, the clink of mugs, a fire crackling in a soot-stained hearth. The innkeeper, a wiry man with a mop of gray hair, darted between tables, bancing a tray of steaming bowls. His apron was spttered with grease, his eyes sunken and frantic. Akilliz caught his arm as he passed. “Room for the night?” he asked, raising his voice over the din. The man, Halvox, his name stitched on the apron, grimaced, wiping sweat from his brow. “Clean ones’re full, d. Rest ain’t fit, me wife’s sick, fever’s got her down, and I’ve not cleaned a thing in days. Try the barn if ye’re desperate.”
Akilliz frowned, the ache in his legs protesting. “Fever? I might help—know a bit about potions. Say, let me brew something for her, and ye give me a room?” Halvox’s gaze sharpened, hope flickering. “Ye’re serious? Aye, fine, if ye fix her up, ye’ve got a bed. She’s upstairs, burning hot. Better be no funny business d, and I mean it.” He jerked a thumb toward a narrow staircase, then hustled off to a shouting table. Akilliz nodded, resolve settling in, he’d done this for Tild, could do it again. He slipped upstairs, the noise fading to a muffled hum, and found Serna in a small room, her face flushed, breath rattling like dry leaves. A quick touch to her brow confirmed it, cmmy, fever-high. “Feverfew Kiss it is,” he murmured, unpacking his kit, feverfew from the journal’s stash, a drop of moondew, a pinch of mint for cooling. He hummed a tune over a borrowed candle, the mix glowing faint blue in a tin cup. Serna sipped it, grimacing, and within minutes her flush eased, her breathing steadying. She managed a weak smile. “Bless ye, d, feels like a breeze blew through me.”
Back downstairs, Halvox cpped his shoulder, relief softening his harried face. “Ye’re a gods-send, boy! Room’s yers, second door left. Broth’s on me too.” He slid a bowl across the bar, steaming with carrots and herbs, and Akilliz sank onto a stool, spooning it up gratefully, the warmth seeping into his bones. The inn buzzed around him, farmers swapping tales, a bard strumming a lute off-key, but a sharper ctter drew his eye. At a corner table, two burly travelers in patched cloaks rolled dice with a young farmer, his freckled face tight with worry. Coins piled unevenly, the travelers smirking as the farmer’s stack dwindled. Akilliz squinted, something off about the dice, the way they nded too neatly. Cheaters.
He sipped his broth, debating. “Not my mess,” he muttered, but the farmer’s slumped shoulders tugged at him, reminded him of Torin losing a forge bet once, all pride and no coin. The bigger traveler, a bearded brute, ughed too loud, palming a die. “Luck’s dry, d. Pay up or clear out.” The farmer stammered, “One more roll, I’ve got a youngin to feed,” and Akilliz’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t brew a fix for this, but maybe… He fished in his pack, fingers brushing a vial, Lightfoot Brew, rosemary and glowpetal, lightening steps. A pn sparked. He uncorked it under the bar, dabbing a drop on his boots, the faint shimmer fading fast. “Here goes,” he breathed, sliding off the stool.
He sauntered over, casual as a breeze, and leaned on the table. “Fair game, eh?” he said, voice light but eyes sharp. The bearded one sneered. “Shove off, kid, grown folk pying.” Akilliz grinned, snatching the dice mid-roll, his boots hummed, steps feather-quick, and held them up to the firelight. A murmur rippled through the crowd; the dice glinted, weighted with lead on one side. “Fair’s fair,” he said, tossing them back. “Unless ye like cheating kids out of supper.” The room erupted, ughter, jeers, and the travelers flushed, grabbing their cloaks. “Keep yer dice, runt,” the second growled, but they slunk out, the door smming behind them.
The farmer blinked, then thrust a mug of ale at Akilliz, grinning. “Ye’re a sly one! Name’s Tobin, owe ye a drink.” Akilliz took it, the foam bitter but welcome, and clinked mugs. “Akilliz aye? I just hate rigged games. Keep yer coin for that kid.” Tobin nodded, gratitude shining, and the crowd settled, the bard striking up a livelier tune. Halvox shuffled over, smirking. “Trouble and a cure in one night, ye’re a rare sort. Serna’s knitting ye a sock, mismatched, mind, but warm.” Akilliz ughed, the ale warming his throat, and sank back onto the stool, savoring the moment, broth, a bed, a small win. The inn’s cmor wrapped around him like a bnket, cozy despite the fray.
Later, he climbed to his room, second door left, a cramped nook with a straw mattress and a chipped basin. He kicked off his boots, the Lightfoot Brew’s hum fading, and flopped down, pack beside him. The journal peeked out, Elowen’s handwriting a quiet comfort, and he traced the hammer charm, whispering, “Day two, Pa… I’m still kicking.” Sleep tugged, the inn’s hum lulling him under, the road to Luminael a dream just out of reach.
