His nose was tempted by the herbal scent of aged wood around him, the stone walls within the alchemic workship were bearing the quiet weight of craft, as Akilliz hung his new green cloak over a chair. Its hem catching the flicker of a nearby lamp, his fae medallion proudly displayed in the front. The coin purse, lighter after buying sturdy boots and the cloak in Luminael’s vibrant market, held a few silvers, a testament to his sold potions and the city’s trust. His thoughts flickered to a lingering idea. A Dragon’s Breath Potion, a Festival offering to blaze like Vaelrik’s bottled fire, his rune-etched vial steady in memory. Could he craft such a potion safely, honor Thalindra’s trust in him, and dazzle Aurelia without pushing it too far? Sylvara had said she would need to show him how to collect the plant properly, as one wrong move could end in a disaster of flame. He would ask her soon, because he might need some time to test his concoction. The bounty from the Elven garden waited in a woven basket, He pondered what today’s lessons might bring.

  Sylvara glided to the workbench, robes swishing as she laid out a vial of pale blue vitriol salt, a pouch of gray nettle ash, and a jar of shimmering copper filings, all gleaned from Luminael’s caves and wilds. “Onward, Akilliz,” she said, her voice warm yet firm, eyes twinkling with a mentor’s pride. “Today, we craft an acid—one that dissolves all it touches, a fierce art of elven alchemy.” She pointed to the materials, twirling a sprig with playful grace, its faint pulse a reminder of yesterday’s herbs. “Mind thy hands, darling—this bites sharper than forge flames.” Akilliz tilted his head, heart thumping, the journal’s blank pages rustling in his pack, no acid potion among his familiar recipes. “Dissolves… everything?” he asked, voice earnest, the idea bold as Vaelrik’s radiant blades.

  Sylvara’s laugh chimed, “Aye, metal, stone, even rune-forged steel, after a demonstration we’ll tame it with nettle ash to temper it’s thirst.” She guided him, voice steady as a hearth’s warmth. “Grind vitriol salt fine, like frost on a blade, to unleash its corrosive heart. Heat copper filings in a copper bowl, let them fizz like embers. Add nettle ash last, stirring slow to spark the acid’s bite.” Akilliz nodded, grinding vitriol salt in a silver mortar, its blue crystals crumbling into a shimmering dust that stung his nose. He tipped copper filings into a copper bowl, setting a burner’s blue flame low, the flakes hissing as they warmed, a faint green vapor curling upward. The room’s quiet hum steadied his hands, but curiosity tugged, bold as the silvers he’d spent. “Sylvara… how’d you learn so much? When did you become an alchemist?” he asked, voice soft, the question spilling like salt from the mortar.

  Her sprig paused, eyes drifting to a starlit past, a stillness settling. “A long tale, darling,” she said, voice soft, weaving centuries. “Long ago, I roamed Luminael’s wilds, a young elf enchanted by herbs under moonlight, my craft raw and yearning. I sought mastery, but my potions faltered. BY chance I stumbled upon a rare meeting… a servant of the Nine whom I made an acquaintance of. Sometime after I made a pact, trading what I treasured most, for alchemical mastery, a choice that forged my future. The pact gave me power to craft potions that mend or unmake, but taught me to guard my heart, as I guard thee now.” Her smile was bittersweet, ages heavy in her gaze, and Akilliz’s heart thumped. Could he wield such power, or find a safer way?

  He stirred the copper filings, green vapor fogging his vision now, and sifted nettle ash, the mixture glowing a vibrant, biting green, its surface bubbling with a sharp, acrid tang. But as he added the vitriol salt, its grains oddly coarse, the potion fizzed violently, a splash of acid leaping from the bowl, sizzling as it carved a shallow groove into the workbench’s edge. Akilliz yelped, dropping the rod, his heart pounding like a forge’s hammer. “What’s—!” Sylvara’s hum sharpened, her hand swift as she sprinkled nettle ash from a pouch, the powder settling over the spill, its green hue fading to a harmless clear. “Someone’s been meddling with our supplies,” she said, eyes narrowing, sifting the salt to find flecks of spark-vine powder, a volatile herb that ignited on contact. “Laced to ruin thy work, spark a blaze.” Akilliz’s stomach knotted, who would want to tamper with his training with Sylvara’s work? It must be…Voryn. He thought to himself through gritted teeth, he’d been lurking at the market and outside their tower recently. It had to be him.

  Sylvara’s gaze softened, her voice steady as a hearth’s glow. “Fresh vitriol salt, Akilliz—grind it fine, stir slow, and layer the filings and ash.” Akilliz obeyed, selecting untainted salt, grinding it with care, the crystals shimmering true. He reheated copper filings, their green fizz rising gently, and added nettle ash, then vitriol salt, stirring with a glass rod until the potion glowed a vibrant, biting green, its surface bubbling with a sharp tang. “Well done” Sylvara said, humming bright with pride. “Now, try its bite—test its heart!” She gestured to a pile of items: a smooth stone, a dry leaf, a rusty dagger. Akilliz tossed the stone into the vial, watching it hiss and dissolve in a swirling mist. The leaf followed, crumbling to nothing, then the dagger, simply melting away. His eyes widened, heart thumping at the potion’s power. Sylvara sprinkled nettle ash, the green fading to clear. “Safe now,” she said, dipping her finger in, her grin manic. “See? Harmless.”

  Sylvara paced, her hum a wild trill. “Thy potion’s precision is a fine start, darling—now, let’s spark life with magic!” She plucked a dry thornveil sprig from a shelf, its brittle leaves lifeless. “Take this—thy will can weave its heart.” Akilliz’s heart raced, the vial’s success still vivid, Thalindra’s faith—“Thy craft doth grow”—a warmth in his chest. The acid’s power, tamed by his hand, echoed in the sprig’s challenge—could he master such magic? Sylvara’s eyes gleamed, her wand tapping the workbench like a restless drum.

  Akilliz set the neutralized acid potion’s vial down, Sylvara twirled her sprig, her eyes twinkling with glee as she tossed it mid-sentence to catch it with a flourish. “Now, spark life from death, like catching a breeze in a bottle!” Akilliz tilted his head, her words swirling like a riddle, the sprig heavy in his palm as she handed it to him. She leaned close, whispering “Vyr’shal eth”—“grow anew”—her fingers tracing a swirling arc, as if coaxing moonlight. The sprig quivered, its leaves unfurling faintly green, a pulse of life blooming. “How’d you… do that?” he asked, voice earnest, leaning closer, the workbench’s herbal warmth grounding him.

  Sylvara’s laugh was a wild cackle, her sprig twirling as she paced, her gestures chaotic, nearly toppling a vial. “Intention, Akilliz—words channel thy will, but strain thy body. Magic’s a dance, not a brawl!” Her words spun, confusing yet bright, and Akilliz’s brow furrowed. She drew a slender wand from her sleeve, its ashwood handle laden with an intricate pattern, glowing softly blue. “Wands catch the breeze, ease the strain—a tool, shinier than thy mortar.” She handed him a practice wand, its wood warm, light yet heavy with promise. “Stir this jar,” she said, pointing to a glass vessel filled with clear water, still as ice. “Flick thy wrist, focus thy heart—will the water to dance.” Akilliz gripped the wand, its warmth tingling. “Just… think it?” he asked, voice curious, the sprig’s faint green a spark in his vision.

  Sylvara nodded, her hum bursting into a trill, as if chasing a tune only she heard. “Aye, darling—think soft, like a whisper to the moon!” Akilliz flicked the wand, heart pounding, willing the water to swirl. The jar shattered, water splashing across the workbench, glass shards glinting like frost. He flinched, “Sorry!” Sylvara’s laugh was a chime, her wand waving the mess away with a spark. “Too much, my apprentice! Thy heart’s a storm!” His next flick sparked wildly, blue flashes crackling, singeing the air with a burnt whiff. His cheeks burned, but Sylvara tapped her wand rhythmically, eyes gleaming. “Gentler, moon-chaser—feel the pull, like a tide, not a gale.” He toned it down, focusing on the water’s surface, flicking softly. The liquid splashed out, then wiggled, until, on his fourth try, it stirred in a steady swirl, a faint hum rising from his core, magic pulling like a gentle breath. “It’s… workin’!” he said, grinning, the wand’s glow steady.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Brilliant, darling!” Sylvara clapped, “A fine spark—wands guard thy strength, unlike raw will.” Akilliz grinned, sweat beading on his brow, the wand’s pull thrilling as the water swirled steadily in the jar, a triumph after shattered glass and sparks. His chest heaved, the shelves’ cluttered hum a quiet anchor. “Let’s pause, moon-chaser—magic’s a fickle breeze,” Sylvara said, her laugh a bright burst, plopping onto a stool with a playful slump. Akilliz leaned against the workbench, wiping sweat’s faint sting, heart thumping from success. Curiosity tugged, bold as the silvers he’d spent. “Sylvara… I’ve been wanting to ask… does Thalindra rule the city?” he asked, voice soft, her sunburst cloak flashing in his mind.

  Sylvara’s sprig paused mid-twirl, her voice steadying. “No, she’s no queen—Thalindra’s daughter to King Elythar and Queen Lysmera, our royal line.” She wove Luminael’s tapestry, eyes gleaming. “Her family’s ruled near a century now, mending our spires after the war with our shadowed kin, a blight that scarred us. Thalindra, Judiciar, wields great and terrible power for war and disputes, her will a flame. But the five families—Vael, Lyr, Myr, Kyn, and Thal—vie for council sway, their voices sharp, weary of royal reign.” Akilliz’s heart thumped, Luminael’s vastness daunting yet thrilling. “So… she’s a warrior, not just a judge?” he asked, picturing her steady gaze. “Aye—a mage of fire and steel, guarding our heart,” Sylvara nodded, her hum soft. The wand’s weight lingered, urging him to the next lesson, his craft ready to deepen.

  Sylvara spun to the workbench, moving gracefully as she scattered a handful of ingredients—thornveil nettle powder, shimmering quartz dust, and a vial of distilled sap, all gleaned from Luminael’s wilds. “Thy wand’s a fine spark,” she said, eyes twinkling with a grin. “Now, a potion to glow like Luminael’s spires—a luminescent brew to hone thy will for the Festival!” Her voice danced, half-riddle, half-command. Akilliz rubbed his neck, “Glow… like a lantern?” he asked, voice earnest, picturing a potion to rival bottled fire.

  Sylvara’s laugh was a wild cackle, her wand flicking a spark that singed the air. “Aye, Akilliz—like a star caught in glass, but softer, like thy heart!” Her hum burst into an off-key trill, guiding him. “Grind quartz dust fine, like frost on a blade, to hold the light. Heat sap slow, let it hum like a hearth. Add nettle powder last, stir steady to weave the glow.” Akilliz nodded, grinding quartz dust in his silver mortar, its crystalline flecks shimmering like snow. He poured distilled sap into a copper bowl, setting a burner’s blue flame low, the liquid hissing as it warmed, a faint golden vapor rising. The workbench’s herbal tang steadied his hands, but the wand’s pull lingered, a spark of magic he barely grasped. “This’ll help… for the Festival?” he asked, voice soft, the vial’s promise heavy.

  Sylvara’s eyes gleamed, her hands dancing as she paced, nearly knocking a vial. “Aye, —thy will shapes thy offering, a symphony of light!” Her words spun, confusing yet bright, and Akilliz’s focused. He stirred the sap, adding nettle powder, the mixture glowing a soft, radiant gold, its surface pulsing like a star’s heartbeat. The potion steadied, light pooling in the vial, and Sylvara clapped, her wand tracing a loop. “Brilliant, darling—a fine glow, like thy spirit!” Akilliz grinned, pride swelling, but a whisper drifted from the corridor outside—“His magic taints Luminael”—carried by two apprentices, Voryn’s whispers spreading among their ranks. His heart sank, the vial’s glow dimming in his hand. “What’s… that mean?” he asked, voice soft, the rumors a sting.

  Sylvara’s hum faltered, she paused mid-step. “Just whispers, Akilliz—Voryn’s words among Kyn apprentices, nothing thy craft cannot outshine.” Her voice steadied, eyes flickering with concern beneath her chaos. Akilliz shifted his stance, the wand heavy, the rumors a chill against the lamplight’s hum. A figure appeared at the doorway—Thalindra, in flowing green robes, the everpresent flame on her chest a steady ember. Akilliz froze, heart racing, her presence was like Vaelrik’s forge. She stepped inside, helmet tilting, voice melodic yet warm. “Good day young Akilliz— Aurelia’s blessing be upon thee. Tell, how doth thy craft bear fruit on this day?” Her hand clapped his back, her flame softening as his “Just tryin’ to learn” drew a chuckle, a balm to her unseen solitude, her council’s weight easing in his plain words.

  Akilliz swallowed, the vial’s glow steadying. “I’ll think of something good for the festival. I want to show you, and Aurelia… what I’m capable of” Thalindra’s voice brightened, “Thy heart shall guide it. One has no doubt of thy success.” She turned, her gauntlet brushing his arm, a gesture soft as a friend’s, her presence lingering as she left. Sylvara’s hum returned, soft and warm. “A fine spark, darling—the Judiciar sees it, as I do.” Akilliz’s mind wandered, the vial heavy, the tower’s warmth a hearth against the rumors. Could he really craft a potion worthy of Thalindra’s- no - Aurelia’s praise?

  Their alchemic workshop basked in the warm flicker of a single lamp, as evening began to fall. A long day full of breakthroughs for him, he’d used his first wand, crafted an acid as strong as demons blood, and he’d even crafted a bottle of something akin to starlight. He stood at the workbench, the luminescent potion’s vial catching the lamp’s glow, its golden radiance a testament to his latest efforts.

  Sylvara spun to the workbench, her hum a wild, off-key burst. “Thy potion’s a fine thread” she said, as if speaking to the air. “But the Festival nears, and thy craft must dazzle—time to know its soul!” She tapped the workbench like a maestro, her wand grazing a vial with a clink, her grin unapologetic. Akilliz shifted his stance “Hey.. the Festival… what’s it really about?” he asked, voice soft, cheeks warming at his ignorance, the question slipping like dust from his mortar.

  Sylvara’s joy was infectious, her wand sparking a faint blue flash that singed the air, her hum swirling into a melody. “It is Luminael’s heartbeat, a weave of light and stone!” Her voice leaped, half-riddle, as she leaned close, eyes gleaming with reverence, her wand still. “Legends tell, long ago, Aurelia, radiant as dawn, reclaimed Frosthelm Mountain from Pyridion, the fire titan, and Nox, god of shadows. With her human vanguard, bold and vigilant, she fought through flame and darkness, her will a beacon. From the earth, she raised Luminael’s spires, its walls of towering stone, a haven against despair. With her own essence, she transformed her followers into elves—us—blessing them with long life, wisdom, beauty, and grace. We prospered, our kin grew, and we celebrate that rebirth, offering our finest creations to her. She descends from the heavens, speaking to those whose gifts burn brightest, granting another year’s blessing to Luminael and her children.” Her words painted a mythic tapestry, her voice a quiet flame.

  His jaw dropped, heart racing, the lamp’s flicker dimming against Aurelia’s legend. “Is that… real? Did it really happen?” he asked, voice earnest, the story vast as the Vyr’aelthyn’s dome. His mentor’s eyes steadied, her hum softening, no chaos now, only truth. “Though none today lived then, it is so. Passed from generation to generation, we feel her blessing, hear her voice in our hearts. Beneath the city, vanguard tombs stand, honored as heroes. It is from these heroes that Luminael’s five families grow. One such being that of Thalindra’s.” Her voice was a gentle hearth, and his breath caught, picturing stone crypts, Aurelia’s light carved in shadow. Could he offer a potion worthy of such a tale?

  Sylvara whirled, humming as she paced, knocking a vial with a clatter, catching it with a grin. “I’ve business to tend, darling—today was a fine weave!” she said,“Thou’rt free, but ponder thy Festival offering—craft potions, earn coin for clothes, and tools. Mercy me, a new pack that doth not reek of old socks! Dance with Luminael’s heart!” Akilliz’s cheeks warmed, the purse’s weight tempting. “You think my pack smells like socks?” he asked, voice soft, the market’s hum calling. Sylvara’s laugh chimed, her wand tapping a frantic rhythm. “Aye, Akilliz—make thy mark, but wisely! Elven noses are sensitive to thy scent and mortal sweat!” She shooed him, her hum trailing like a gust.

  Akilliz stepped into the plaza, its fountain sparkling under dusk, vendors hawking pastries and trinkets, their sugary tang mingling with the city’s pulse. His heart lifted, Luminael’s vibrancy urging him to craft, to belong. Thalindra’s faith, Sylvara’s wild wisdom, and Aurelia’s tale wove a fragile hope, his heart was set on proving his place in the city’s story.