The Heart Garden would teach him humility. He just didn't know it yet.

  Dawn filtered through the crystal window in soft golds, same as yesterday, but the tower's hum felt different. Familiar now. The moss pallet shifted beneath him as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hand reached instinctively for the fae ring, fingers tracing its warm surface.

  Aura.

  He hadn't seen her since that first night. The ring pulsed faint beneath his touch, distant, but present. She was out there. Mistwood, probably, where the dew hung thick and the twilight never fully lifted. Recharging in the forest's heart, wings drinking in the magic that sustained her kind.

  Hope you're alright, little one. I miss your light.

  The thought brought a faint smile. She'd saved him in more ways than one. Proven his worth when even he'd doubted. Given him the ring that had made guards pause, made Thalindra see him as more than just trash.

  I want to see you again. Cute thing.

  He dressed in the green tunic, Lira's careful stitching still holding strong despite yesterday's forge heat. The elven primer sat on his desk where he'd left it, half-read. He'd managed three pages before exhaustion claimed him. Progress, even if slow.

  Boots laced, pack settled, he descended the spiral stairs. The workshop was empty, Sylvara still asleep, or already gone to prepare for her own students. A note rested on the low table, script flowing in silver ink.

  Refectory. Eat properly today. Garden after first bell. —S

  His stomach knotted. The Refectory. Yesterday's humiliation was still fresh in his memory. The half-elves rising and leaving, one by one, as if he carried plague. Sitting alone at a table meant for six, forcing down bites that tasted like ash.

  But Sylvara expected him to go. And he was hungry, even if his pride wasn't.

  He stepped into the corridor, following the path he'd learned yesterday. Main passage east, through the plaza where the fountain's impossible water spiraled upward. The dome rose ahead, crystal catching morning sun and scattering it in soft rainbows across the stones.

  Elves streamed toward the entrance. Fewer than yesterday, early risers, probably, the dedicated students who ate quickly and left for libraries or workshops. He joined the flow, keeping his eyes down, trying to look like he belonged.

  The Refectory's interior was quieter this morning. Maybe half the tables occupied, conversations subdued, the clink of utensils on plates a gentle rhythm. The scent of roasted meat and herbs still rich, still foreign, still mouth-watering despite everything.

  He joined the serving line. Three elves ahead of him, receiving their plates with murmured thanks and graceful nods. When he reached the front, the cook from yesterday looked up.

  Silver-streaked hair, dark eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes fixed on Akilliz, and something cold flickered in them.

  "Back again." Not a question. Flat statement.

  "Yes, sir. Same as yesterday, please."

  The cook didn't move to prepare a plate. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, voice low enough that others wouldn't hear but hard enough to leave marks.

  "I saw you yesterday. Took a full plate. Barely touched it. Threw half away like it was slop for pigs."

  Heat flooded Akilliz's face. "I'm sorry, I—"

  "Food is sacred here, boy. Every herb, every cut of meat, every root pulled from earth—someone labored for it. Waste is disrespectful. Not just to me, but to the land, the gardeners, the hunters." The cook's jaw tightened. "Elves don't waste. Even the least of us knows better."

  "I wasn't trying to—"

  "Eat what you take today. All of it. Or don't come back."

  The words landed like stones. Akilliz nodded, throat tight. "Yes, sir. I will."

  The cook held his gaze a moment longer, weathered eyes measuring, then began loading a plate. Smaller portions this time, just enough. Venison, roots, greens, tea. He set it in Akilliz's hands without ceremony.

  "Elun'dei," Akilliz managed, touching his forehead the way he'd seen others do.

  The cook's expression didn't soften. He simply turned to the next person in line, dismissing Akilliz entirely.

  Akilliz turned, clutching the plate, and faced the hall.

  Fewer students meant fewer places to hide. The inner rings still sat occupied by high-elves, their silks catching morning light, faces serene and untouchable. Mid-rings had scattered scholars, already reading while they ate, books floating beside their plates.

  The outer ring (his only option) had three tables with open seats.

  He approached the nearest. Four half-elves, two humans, all absorbed in quiet conversation. He stopped at the table's edge, plate in hand, trying to project something other than desperation.

  "Morning," he said, keeping his voice even. "Mind if I sit?"

  One of the half-elves glanced up. Young, maybe his age, with sharp features and auburn hair tied back. Their eyes met for a heartbeat.

  Then the half-elf looked away. Deliberately. Returned to his conversation as if Akilliz hadn't spoken at all.

  The others followed suit. Not hostile. Not angry. Just... nothing. He didn't exist. A ghost they could see through, unworthy of acknowledgment.

  Akilliz stood there a moment longer, heat crawling up his neck, before moving to the next table.

  Same thing. Eye contact, then away. Conversations continuing without pause, without space for him.

  The third table didn't even look up.

  He found an empty table at the very edge, near the doors where servers passed with trays. Sat alone again, the chair opposite him vacant, the space around him a buffer no one crossed.

  The venison tasted better today. He forced himself to notice that. Seasoned with something sharp —juniper, maybe— and cooked perfect. The roots were sweet, almost honey-like. The greens were bitter in a way that cut the richness.

  He ate every bite. Slowly, deliberately, even as his throat tried to close around each swallow. Even as he felt eyes on him, not direct stares, just peripheral awareness. The mud-born boy. The trial freak. The one who somehow brewed what he shouldn't.

  The tea helped. Sharp mint cutting through the weight in his chest.

  When his plate was empty, he returned it to the serving area. The cook watched him approach, noting the clean plate, the emptiness. A slight nod. Not approval, exactly. Just acknowledgement that the lesson had been received.

  Akilliz walked out, morning sun harsh after the dome's filtered light, and made his way back to the tower.

  Sylvara was waiting in the workshop, already dressed in her emerald robes, hair braided tight. She looked up as he entered, hum pausing.

  "How was breakfast?"

  "Fine," he said. Not quite a lie. He'd eaten. That was something.

  She studied him a moment, opalescent eyes seeing more than he wanted to show. But she didn't press. Just gestured to the low table where tea steamed in clay cups.

  "Come. We have work before the garden."

  He settled across from her, wrapping his hands around the cup's warmth. She sipped her own tea, watching him over the rim.

  "Today, the Heart Garden. You'll gather ingredients for tomorrow's lesson, a Wound Knit Salve. Yarrow, comfrey root, calendula, lavender. Those are essential." She set her cup down. "You may gather extras for trade if you wish. The market values fresh herbs, and you'll need coin eventually."

  "For what?"

  "Better bottles. Rare ingredients I don't stock. Supplies. Books, if you're wise." Her smile turned knowing. "Perhaps a gift for your father? I hear the market has smithing tools that would make a Lumara blacksmith weep."

  His chest tightened at the thought. Pa, receiving something forged in Luminael. Proof his son had made it. "I'd like that."

  "Then gather well. But carefully." Her tone sharpened slightly. "The Heart Garden is sacred. The plants give freely, but they remember disrespect. Treat them as you would any living thing that offers you its life."

  He nodded, the cook's words about waste still echoing. "I will."

  "Good." She rose, hum returning. "Finish your tea. First bell rings soon."

  The Heart Garden's dome rose ahead like a jewel caught in midday sun, crystal walls amplifying light until the whole structure seemed to breathe with green-gold radiance. Towering ferns swayed in an unfelt breeze, fronds wide as cart wheels. The air tasted sweet and sharp at once—mint mixing with something floral, underlaid with rich turned earth.

  Sylvara paused at the entrance, voice dropping to reverence. "The Heart Garden. Where all our healing begins. Tread with respect, young light. These plants give freely, but only to those who honor the gift."

  Akilliz took it in. Rows upon rows of herbs stretched before him, some familiar from Ma's garden, others utterly foreign. Elves moved among the beds with silk-gloved hands, movements deliberate and unhurried. No one spoke above a whisper. The quiet pressed like a library's hush, but warmer, alive with rustling leaves and soft water dripping from irrigation channels.

  "Shoes," Sylvara reminded gently, already unlacing her boots.

  He nodded, setting his pack down and working his laces free. The stone beneath his socks was cool, slightly damp from the garden's perpetual moisture. He tied his boots together and hung them over his shoulder, following Sylvara's lead to a wooden rack where other visitors had left footwear.

  Once barefoot, she led him down the central path, crushed white stone crunching soft underfoot. "Tomorrow's lesson, the Wound Knit Salve," she said, voice low. "Good for deep cuts, prevents festering. Don't forget, you need yarrow, comfrey root, calendula flowers, and lavender. Those are your essentials. Anything extra you gather, you can trade at the market. Many shopkeepers pay well for fresh herbs."

  Akilliz nodded, committing the names to memory. Yarrow and lavender he knew from home. Comfrey too, though Ma had called it knitbone. Calendula was new.

  "I'll show you where each grows." She led him off the main path into a section thick with feathery green plants. "Yarrow first. See the flat white flower clusters? Smell."

  He leaned close, breathing in. Sharp, almost peppery, with a green bite underneath.

  "Good for bleeding," Sylvara said, already pinching stems at the base and laying them in her basket. "Cut clean at the joint, never tear. Thank the plant. Doesn't have to be aloud, but it matters."

  Akilliz knelt, selecting a healthy stalk. His fingers found the joint, and he pinched firm. The stem separated clean with a soft snap. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling foolish but meaning it.

  The yarrow seemed to lean toward him after, or maybe that was just the breeze.

  They moved through the garden methodically. Comfrey grew in a shadier section, broad leaves rough as sandpaper, roots thick and pale when Sylvara demonstrated digging one up. "Only take roots from mature plants. See how thick the base is? Young ones need time."

  Calendula blazed orange and gold in a sunny patch, petals soft as silk. Lavender filled an entire corner, purple spikes swaying in rows so uniform they looked painted. The scent was overwhelming, sweet and clean, making his head feel light.

  "Take your time with lavender," Sylvara cautioned. "Cut the stems long. They'll dry better. And watch for bees—they love it here."

  She knelt beside him, voice dropping quiet. "Akilliz. If you harm a bee, even by accident, the garden will know. The elves will know. Never, ever hurt one."

  The gravity in her words made him still. "I understand."

  He nodded, noting her serious expression.

  He worked carefully, gathering bundles and laying them in his basket. The repetitive motion soothed him, hands remembering Ma's garden even in this foreign place.

  His basket filled steadily. Yarrow, comfrey, calendula, lavender for tomorrow's salve. But there was room for more, and Sylvara had mentioned trade. He spotted Saint John's wort, tiny yellow flowers Ma had used for melancholy. He gathered some and eyed the Mullein with its fuzzy silver leaves, it was good for coughs. Nearby he saw Chamomile, thyme, and sage.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The basket grew heavy, a satisfying weight against his arm. He was doing well. Better than yesterday's fumbling with tools. This, he understood. Plants and hands and gentle respect.

  Pride crept in, warm and quiet. Maybe he could master this place after all. Learn their precision, combine it with his gift, become what Ma had been.

  He added rosemary last—fragrant, hardy, growing in a well-tended plot. The stems were thick, perfect for trade. He cut generous bundles, already imagining the coin they'd bring.

  "Ready for the drying chamber?" Sylvara asked, her own basket overflowing with specimens for her students.

  He nodded, grinning despite himself. "Ready."

  The drying chamber was dim and warm, air moving in gentle currents that smelled of a hundred herbs at once. Wooden racks lined the walls, each holding bundles in various stages of drying. Some still green and plump, others shriveled to half their size, leaves crisp.

  "Each rack is labeled with the harvester's name," Sylvara explained, pointing to small wooden tags. "You hang your herbs, mark them, and return in two days. The air does the rest."

  Akilliz studied the setup. Copper pipes ran along the ceiling, warm to the touch, and air flowed from vents near the floor. Clever. Much faster than sun-drying back home.

  He found an empty rack and began hanging his lavender in loose bundles, tying them with twine from a spool on the wall. Yarrow next, then mullein leaves spread flat so they wouldn't bunch.

  His basket was still half-full—calendula, the extra herbs for trade. The workspace was getting crowded. Other elves worked nearby, their movements practiced and efficient. He tried to match their grace, but his elbows felt too wide, his hands too clumsy in the confined space.

  He reached for another bundle, Saint John's wort, and his elbow caught the edge of a neighboring bundle.

  Rosemary. Half-dried, belonging to someone named Ellisar according to the tag.

  The bundle swung wild.

  Time slowed.

  He lunged to catch it, fingers brushing twine but missing. The rosemary hit the bundle beside it (thyme) which knocked into the next. Evening primrose, the tag read. All three cascaded down in a fragrant, crackling avalanche.

  The sound was deafening in the chamber's quiet. Dried herbs hitting stone, stems snapping, the rustle and crunch of days of work scattering like leaves in wind.

  The scent exploded, rosemary sharp and piney, thyme earthy, primrose sweet. It filled the chamber, overwhelming, beautiful and terrible at once.

  Akilliz dropped to his knees, gathering frantically as he accidentally smashed one with his knee. He started to sweat as he noticed some stems had snapped clean through. Others were just disheveled, salvageable maybe. His hands shook as he tried to bundle them back together, retie the twine, hang them again.

  But his knots were clumsy. One bundle slipped free immediately, hitting the floor again with a dry crackle.

  "What in the—"

  He looked up.

  An elf woman stood in the doorway. Tall, silver hair braided tight, pollen dusting her apron. Her eyes went to the scattered herbs, then to Akilliz kneeling guilty among them, then to the tag that read Ellisar.

  "That's mine," she said. Voice flat. Cold as winter stone.

  "I'm so sorry," Akilliz stammered, holding out a mangled bundle of rosemary. "I didn't mean to. I knocked it by accident."

  Her jaw tightened. She crossed the chamber in three strides, kneeling to assess the damage. Picked up stems, examined them with clinical precision. Each broken piece seemed to deepen the line between her brows.

  "Three days of work," she said quietly. Too quietly. "Rosemary for the healers' hall, thyme for the kitchens, evening primrose for the apothecary. All of it timed to dry together, ready by tonight."

  She took the bundle from his hands, examining it. "Half of this is ruined. Stems broken, oils lost. Do you have any idea how long it takes to gather evening primrose? It only blooms at dusk. I spent hours in the garden, waiting for the flowers to open, cutting each one at the perfect moment."

  "I'll replace it," he said quickly, desperately. "I can gather more. I'll—"

  "Rosemary takes a full day to properly harvest," she cut in, each word precise as a blade. "And evening primrose only blooms at dusk, like I said. You've cost me time I don't have."

  She stood, gathering what could be saved, cradling the bundles like injured birds. Her eyes met his, and there was no anger there. Just... weariness. Disappointment so deep it cut worse than rage.

  "Mind where you swing those mud-born elbows, boy. Not everything here bends for you."

  She swept out, door closing firm behind her.

  Silence fell like ash.

  Akilliz stayed kneeling, the remaining scattered herbs around him a testament to his carelessness. Other elves in the chamber had paused their work, watching. One shook his head slowly. Another made a soft sound of disapproval before returning to his task.

  Sylvara appeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. She took in the scene—the scattered herbs, Akilliz's stricken face, the other elves' judgment.

  She didn't say anything at first. Just knelt beside him and began gathering the truly ruined pieces, stems too broken to salvage, leaves crushed to powder.

  "Help me clean this up," she said quietly. "Then we're gathering replacement rosemary."

  "Sylvara, I—"

  "Later." Not unkind, but firm. "Clean first. Talk after."

  They worked in silence, sweeping scattered leaves into a bin, salvaging what little could be saved. When the floor was clear, Sylvara led him back out into the garden proper.

  The afternoon sun slanted gold through the dome. Other elves still tended their plots, heads down, pretending not to notice the boy who'd just destroyed someone's work.

  Sylvara brought him to a wild patch at the garden's edge, where rosemary grew untended, older and more fragrant. "Gather enough to replace what Ellisar lost. Two full bundles, at least. And do it right this time."

  She left him there.

  Alone, Akilliz knelt in the wild rosemary, hands shaking as he selected the first stem. He cut at the joint, clean and careful. Laid it in his basket with reverence.

  "Thank you," he whispered. "I'm sorry. For being careless. For not respecting this enough."

  The plant didn't answer, but the act of gathering slow, deliberate, and mindful—settled something in his chest.

  He'd been overconfident. Proud of his competence, forgetting that competence meant nothing without care. Ma had taught him that. Test before you trust, Aki. Measure twice. Every ingredient, every cut, every step matters.

  He'd forgotten. Gotten caught up in his own success and yesterday's hybrid brew, Vaelrik's approval, the feeling that maybe he could do this.

  And in his pride, he'd cost someone three days of work.

  The rosemary filled his basket slowly. Each stem a small penance. Each whispered thanks was a promise to do better.

  By the time he finished, the sun had shifted lower. His knees ached from kneeling. His hands smelled like pine and earth.

  But the bundles were perfect. Generous, carefully gathered, tied with proper knots.

  Sylvara returned as he was finishing. She inspected his work without comment, then nodded once.

  "Leave them at Ellisar's workstation in the drying chamber. With a note. Apologize properly."

  "What do I say?"

  "The truth. That you were careless. That you're sorry. That this doesn't make it right, but you hope it helps."

  He found parchment in his pack, wrote quickly in the dying light.

  Ellisar,

  I'm sorry for ruining your work. I was careless and disrespectful. This rosemary doesn't replace what you lost, but I hope it helps.

  —Akilliz

  He left the bundles and note at her station, the rosemary's scent rising like an offering.

  When he emerged from the drying chamber, Sylvara was waiting.

  "Come," she said, hum returning faint. "The market. You've earned coin today, even if you've also earned a lesson."

  The market sprawled beyond the garden's arch, afternoon sun warming cobblestones until they shimmered. Fountains splashed in the square's center, their spray catching light in brief rainbows. Stalls lined the perimeter, some selling herbs and roots, others displaying glassware, still others hawking breads that smelled of honey and seeds.

  Akilliz's basket held the herbs he'd gathered for trade, Saint John's wort, mullein, chamomile, thyme. Not as much as he'd hoped, but something.

  And in his pack, carefully wrapped, were the last two vials of Ma's work. A cough syrup she'd brewed before she got too sick, and a burn salve he'd made himself using her techniques.

  His chest tightened at the thought of selling them. Last pieces of home. But he needed coin. For bottles, for ingredients, for that smithing hammer he'd promised himself to send Pa.

  Sylvara drifted ahead, examining a display of copper vessels. "Look around, young light. Get a feel for prices. You'll be coming here often."

  He nodded, approaching a stall draped in blue cloth. Glass vials lined the shelves, filled with liquids in different hues. An elderly elven woman stood behind the counter, silver-blonde hair, gnarled hands sorting empty bottles.

  "Potions?" he asked cautiously.

  She glanced up, eyes sharp. "Tinctures, salves, draughts. What do you need, human?"

  "I'm learning. Under Sylvara." He gestured toward his teacher. "Thought maybe I could trade? Got a cough syrup and burn salve from home."

  Her eyebrows rose. "From home? Not elvish craft?"

  "No ma'am. Lumara. My ma made the cough syrup. I made the salve."

  Skepticism flickered. "Let me see."

  He pulled the vials from his pack, setting them on the counter. The cough syrup was dark amber, thick with honey. The burn salve pale green, flecked with aloe.

  She uncorked the cough syrup, sniffing carefully. Her nose wrinkled. "Thyme, licorice root, honey. Standard. Potent enough, I suppose." The burn salve got the same treatment. "Aloe, plantain, lavender. Serviceable."

  Serviceable. The word stung different now, after the garden. Not insulting, just... honest. His work was competent, but nothing special. Not yet.

  "What would you trade for them?"

  She considered, tapping one gnarled finger on the counter. "Two silvers for the pair. They'll sell to travelers who don't want elvish prices."

  Two silvers. Barely anything. But it was coin in hand, and he had nothing else.

  "Deal."

  She counted out the coins, dropping them into his palm with a clink. They were warm, heavier than expected, stamped with symbols he didn't recognize.

  "You're the trial boy, aren't you?" she asked, studying him. "The one who brewed Soul's Breath in the square?"

  Heat crept up his neck. "Yes ma'am."

  "Hmm." She studied him with those sharp eyes. "Keep learning. Elvish craft has depth your human recipes don't. But don't lose what makes yours breathe. We've lost that, most of us."

  The words landed strange. Half compliment, half warning. He pocketed the coins and nodded thanks, retreating before she could say more.

  As he turned from the stall, a voice called out. Young, female, lilting with curiosity.

  "You're the human, aren't you?"

  Akilliz looked up. Two elves stood near the fountain, both younger than most he'd seen in the city. The girl had auburn hair braided down her back, silver eyes bright with interest. She wore practical robes in deep blue, stained faint at the cuffs—a worker's clothes, not nobility. The boy beside her was slighter, dark-haired, with an impish grin and robes of gray that shimmered when he moved. A large leather satchel hung at his side, bulging with too many books.

  "Uh, yeah," Akilliz said, suddenly aware of how plain his clothes were despite Lira's fine stitching. "Akilliz. From Lumara."

  The girl stepped closer, smile widening. "I'm Lirien. Training at the Sanitarium, healing halls, you'd call them. And this is Kael." She gestured to the boy, who gave a theatrical half-bow.

  "Wizard-in-training," Kael added, grin flashing. "Though mostly I set things on fire by accident and get yelled at."

  Lirien rolled her eyes fondly. "He's being modest. He's brilliant, just reckless."

  "Brilliantly reckless," Kael corrected.

  Despite everything, the Refectory's coldness, the garden's humiliationz Akilliz felt tension ease. Their banter reminded him of village friends back home. Easy, unguarded.

  "Nice to meet you both."

  "We saw your trial," Lirien said, leaning against the fountain's edge. "The whole city watched. That potion you made, the way it glowed, the stars inside. I've never seen anything like it."

  "Neither have our teachers," Kael added, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Word is you brewed it without half the equipment Sylvara uses. Just song and intent. That true?"

  Akilliz shifted, unsure how much to say. "Sort of. My ma taught me different. Simpler, I guess."

  "Simpler?" Kael laughed, not unkindly. "That potion healed a sword wound in seconds. There's nothing simple about that."

  Lirien elbowed him. "Don't interrogate the poor boy. We just wanted to say hello. It's not every day a human walks into Luminael and doesn't get thrown out on his ear." Her smile softened. "Especially one who can do what you did."

  "Thanks," Akilliz said, meaning it. "It's been... a lot."

  "I bet." Lirien glanced at the basket on his arm, catching on the bundles of herbs. "Fresh from the Heart Garden?"

  "Yeah. Tomorrow's lesson." He hesitated, then added, "Knocked over someone's drying herbs by accident. Had to gather extra rosemary as an apology."

  Kael winced. "Ellisar?"

  "How'd you know?"

  "She's got a reputation," Lirien said diplomatically. "Brilliant herbalist, but... exacting."

  "Terrifying, you mean," Kael cut in. "I spilled ink on one of her manuscripts once. Thought she'd turn me into a toad."

  "Can she do that?" Akilliz asked, alarmed.

  "No," Lirien said firmly. "But she'll make you *wish* she had."

  The three of them laughed, the sound bright against the market's hum. For the first time since arriving in Luminael, Akilliz felt something loosen in his chest. Not quite belonging, but the first hint that it might be possible.

  "You should come by the Sanitarium sometime," Lirien said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "If you're studying healing, we've got libraries full of texts. And patients who could use someone with your... gift."

  "I'd like that," Akilliz said, surprised by how much he meant it.

  "And if you ever want to see real magic," Kael added with a wink, "find me at the Arcanum. I'll show you how to make fire dance." He paused, grin turning sheepish. "Or how *not* to, depending on the day."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  Sylvara's hum drifted closer, and she appeared at Akilliz's side, eyes twinkling as she took in the three of them. "Making friends already, young light? Good. You'll need them."

  Lirien and Kael both straightened slightly. Not quite deference, but recognition of Sylvara's authority. "Syl'vyntha," they said in near-unison, nodding respectfully.

  "Lirien, Kael." Sylvara's smile was warm. "Keeping my apprentice out of trouble, I hope?"

  "Trying to," Kael said solemnly, then ruined it with a grin.

  Sylvara laughed, tugging Akilliz's sleeve. "Come, young light. The tower calls, and you've rosemary to prepare. Tomorrow starts early."

  Akilliz nodded, glancing back at Lirien and Kael. "See you around?"

  "Count on it," Lirien said.

  "Bring stories," Kael added. "We'll trade you for gossip and spell mishaps."

  As they walked back through the plaza, Sylvara hummed softly. "Good choice of friends, those two. Lirien's one of the brightest healers in her cohort. And Kael..." She chuckled. "Well, he'll either be legendary or blow up half the Arcanum. Possibly both."

  Akilliz smiled, tucking the encounter away like a coin earned. Two silvers in his pocket, two potential friends in a city that had felt impossibly lonely just hours ago.

  Small wins. But they added up.

  Evening settled over the tower as Akilliz climbed the spiral stairs, legs heavy from the day's work. The workshop was dim, vines along the walls pulsing soft light. Sylvara had left him with instructions, prepare tomorrow's ingredients, study the elven primer, rest.

  He settled at his desk, the crystal window framing twilight spires against a darkening sky. The market's noise had faded to distant murmur. Somewhere out there, Ellisar was discovering his rosemary and note. Lirien and Kael were probably studying, laughing over shared jokes he didn't understand yet.

  And Aura, he touched the ring, was in the Mistwood, wings drinking starlight, waiting for the day they'd meet again.

  He pulled the journal close, leather warm under his palm, and began writing.

  Day Two.

  Breakfast was worse in a different way. The cook saw I threw food away yesterday. Called me wasteful and disrespectful. He's right. I ate everything today, even though no one would sit with me. They didn't insult me. Just pretended I didn't exist. Not sure which is worse.

  The Heart Garden is beautiful. Sacred. I gathered herbs for tomorrow's salve…yarrow, comfrey, calendula, lavender. Felt competent. Proud, even.

  Then I ruined it. Knocked over Ellisar's drying herbs. Three days of her work, destroyed in a second because I was careless. She was disappointed more than angry, and that was worse. Sylvara made me gather replacement rosemary. Every stem felt like penance.

  I was overconfident. Forgot that skill means nothing without care. Ma taught me that. I should've remembered.

  But then the market. Met Lirien and Kael. Real, genuine warmth after the garden's coldness. They invited me to the Sanitarium, the Arcanum. First friends here. First people who saw me and didn't look away.

  Sold Ma's last potions. Two silvers. Not much, but it's a start. The merchant called them "serviceable." After today, I understand that's not an insult. It's just truth. I'm competent, but I'm not there yet.

  Tomorrow we will make a Wound Knit Salve. And I owe Ellisar more than rosemary. I owe her respect I didn't show today.

  Grace first. Always grace first.

  But grace has to be earned.

  He set the quill down, ink drying slow. The elven primer waited beside the journal. He opened it, sounding out words in the quiet.

  Elun'dei - gratitude, thanks.

  Vael'ethar - sacred state, healing presence.

  Shal'kyn - peaceful one, friend of stillness.

  The words blurred as exhaustion pulled at him. Tomorrow would bring new lessons. A salve to brew. An apology to make. Friends to maybe see again.

  But tonight, he'd learned something harder than any potion recipe.

  Respect wasn't given. It was earned. Through care, through humility, through picking up the pieces when you broke something and making it right.

  The garden had taught him that.

  And he wouldn't forget again.

  He closed the primer, rose from the desk, and moved to the moss pallet. Sleep came slower tonight, his mind replaying the cascade, Ellisar's cold disappointment, the rosemary gathered in penance.

  But also Lirien's smile. Kael's easy laugh. The promise that maybe, just maybe, he could find his place here.