Morning light filtered through the crystal window in soft golds and blues, the tower humming its familiar song as Akilliz stirred awake. He'd slept deeply, no dreams he could remember, just the heavy pull of exhaustion finally catching up after yesterday's whirlwind.

  Except that was a lie.

  He'd barely slept two hours. The rest of the night had been spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the tower's eternal hum, replaying the memory of chalk scraping stone and footsteps in the corridor. And, the feeling of waking up standing with symbols drawn beneath his bed.

  He dragged himself upright, every muscle protested as he did so. The mirror showed dark circles under his eyes, skin paler than usual, hair sticking up in directions that defied all logic. His hands shook slightly as he splashed water on his face from the basin.

  Pull it together. Just get through today.

  The window drew him. He crossed the room and looked out over Luminael's waking streets, searching the sky for ravens. Messengers with black wings carrying letters between the city and the world beyond its walls.

  Nothing.

  Just empty sky and the eternal glow of the vines carrying light through living stone.

  Day three. Still no word from Pa.

  He turned to his desk, pulled out his journal, and recorded the thought in careful script. *Day 3. How long do ravens take?*

  The ancient elvish page sat tucked between his other notes where he'd hidden it last night. He pulled it free, unfolding the parchment with trembling fingers. Formal script in a language he could barely sound out stared back at him, mocking his ignorance.

  He traced the words with one finger, trying to remember anything from the elvish primer Sylvara had given him. The one he'd been ignoring because everything else felt more urgent recently.

  "Sal... veth... no, salvith? Sal-vithren?"

  The phonetics felt wrong in his mouth.

  Some words he recognized: “binding”, maybe “blood”, possibly “contract”—but the grammar structure was completely foreign. The symbols twisted and reformed when he looked at them too long, making his eyes water.

  He needed help. Real help. Someone who spoke elvish fluently.

  But showing these pages to anyone meant admitting he'd stolen them from the restricted archives. Meant questions he couldn't answer. Meant risking everything.

  His eyes drifted to the primer sitting untouched on his desk. When was the last time he'd even opened it? Three days in Luminael and he'd barely learned ten words.

  Pathetic.

  He tucked the page back into his journal, guilt settling heavy in his chest. Tonight.

  He'd ask for help tonight. After he figured out how to do it without revealing too much.

  His stomach growled, loud enough to echo in the quiet room. The Refectory would be serving breakfast soon.

  Time to face another day.

  The Refectory buzzed with morning energy when he arrived. Apprentices filled long tables in loose clusters organized by rank and discipline. The serving counter steamed with a hearty vegetable soup, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, and boiled eggs.

  He grabbed a tray and loaded it carefully—soup, two pieces of bread, three eggs. His hands were shakier today than yesterday, but not by much.

  Then came the hard part.

  Where to sit?

  He scanned the room. The high-born section near the windows was obviously out, he'd learned that lesson on day one. The back corner held a few solitary students hunched over their trays, and sitting alone felt like admitting defeat. But the middle tables...

  There. Auburn hair catching the morning light. Lirien sat at the same table as yesterday, laughing at something Kael was saying. Several large books surrounded the wizard-in-training despite it being breakfast . And beside them sat the same two students from before, the silver-haired girl with the dozens of tiny braids and the broader male elf whose robes shimmered with runic stitching.

  Somewhat less than strangers this time. He at least recognized them now.

  Relief flooded through him. He crossed the Refectory with more confidence than he felt and approached their table.

  "Morning," he said, setting his tray down across from Lirien. "Mind if I join you?"

  "Please do," Lirien said warmly, gesturing to the empty seat.

  Then she actually looked at him. Her smile faltered slightly, concern creeping into her silver eyes. "Akilliz... are you alright? You look exhausted."

  Kael glanced up from his book, studying him. "You do look pretty rough, mate. Rough night?"

  Heat crept up his neck. "Just didn't sleep well. Still adjusting, I guess."

  The silver-haired girl (gods, he really needed to learn her name) leaned forward with sympathy. "The tower rooms can be unsettling at first. All that humming. It kept me up for weeks when I first arrived."

  "It's not the tower," Akilliz said, managing a weak smile. "Just... a lot on my mind."

  "Well, you're in good company then," the male elf said, his voice deeper than expected. "Half this table runs on anxiety mixed with tea."

  That got a small laugh from everyone, and the tension eased fractionally.

  "We were just talking about you, actually," Lirien said. "Or rather, about your duel with Seren yesterday."

  "Lost 3-1 but made him work for it," Kael added with a grin. "Not bad for someone who's been here three days."

  The silver-haired girl nodded enthusiastically. "My cousin trains with Seren. Said you actually landed a touch. Most apprentices don't last long against him."

  Akilliz ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. "I got lucky."

  "Luck's just preparation meeting opportunity," the male elf said. "You improvised, adapted, and nearly overcame. It's commendable."

  They ate in comfortable rhythm for a few minutes, the conversation flowing around him. The girl was working on her music box offering, testing different emotional resonance patterns. The male elf was refining his preservation ward, trying to extend its duration from three days to a full week.

  Akilliz listened, contributed when he could, but his mind kept circling back to tonight. To the pages hidden in his journal. To the help he desperately needed.

  He waited until the two others were deep in discussion about Festival preparations, their attention elsewhere, then leaned forward slightly. Kept his voice low and urgent.

  "I need to talk to you both," he said to Lirien and Kael. "Tonight. It's important."

  Kael's eyebrows rose. "Everything alright?"

  "I just... I need help with something. Please."

  Lirien studied him with those perceptive silver eyes, concern replacing her earlier warmth. She glanced at Kael, some silent communication passing between them.

  "After my shift at the Sanitarium," she said quietly. "The Grand Library has private study rooms on the third floor down. There's one in the back corner that's usually empty. Four bells?"

  "Earlier if you can," Akilliz pressed. "Please."

  "You're worrying me," Kael said, setting down his spoon. "Are you in trouble?"

  "I don't know. Maybe." The honesty felt like ripping open a wound. "I just... I need help with some elvish. Translation. It's private."

  "Elvish?" Kael's expression shifted to understanding. "From your studies with Sylvara?"

  "Something like that."

  Lirien nodded slowly. "Four bells is the best I can do, but we'll be there."

  Relief washed through him. "That's…fine. Thank you."

  The conversation moved on, but Akilliz barely heard it. Kael launched into an animated story about Master Zolam's latest assignment—something about researching "which wizard had gotten himself trapped inside an oak for three hundred years because he'd tried to learn its secrets too quickly."

  "The moral being," Kael said with theatrical gravity, "that afternoon naps are virtues. Or possibly that Zolam just likes watching me wander the library looking confused. Could go either way, really."

  The table laughed, but Akilliz's mind was already racing ahead to tonight, to what he'd show them, to what they'd think when they learned he'd stolen from the restricted archives, to whether they'd still want to be his friends afterward.

  The alchemical chamber welcomed him with its familiar ambient glow. Decanters bubbled on high shelves, vines pulsed soft light through the walls, the faint scent of a hundred herbs mingling in the air. Sylvara stood at the central workbench already, her moonlit hair swept back with a leather tie, crimson robes rolled to the elbows in preparation for messy work.

  "Kwe vadis, young light!" she called, bright as morning bells as she bowed low.

  Akilliz bowed back.

  These sharp green eyes missed nothing as she gestured to the workbench. "Are thee well this morning? You ook... tired."

  "Just didn't sleep well," he managed. "Still adjusting."

  She pulled a clay pot from beneath the table, already half-filled with a thick, pale base that smelled of beeswax and olive oil. Set it on the rune-stand burner with practiced ease. Gestured for him to begin preparing the herbs she'd already laid out.

  He reached for the yarrow. Measured it once. The amount looked wrong. Measured again. Still wrong. A third time, and he couldn't remember what he'd gotten the first two attempts.

  "Akilliz."

  He looked up. Sylvara stood with her leather journal open, quill poised, watching him with an expression he couldn't read.

  "Perhaps some tea first? To settle thy mind?"

  She produced two clay cups, poured from a steaming pot he hadn't noticed. The scent of mint rose sharp and inviting, with that same undertone he couldn't place. Sweet, almost floral.

  He accepted the cup she pressed into his hands. The warmth seeped through the clay, grounding him fractionally. He sipped.

  Mint with something else. Something that made his shoulders loosen despite himself, made the fog in his mind clear just slightly.

  It's just tea. Just normal, helpful tea.

  But that small voice whispered, “Is it though?”

  Sylvara made a note in her journal. He tried to see what she was writing, angling his head slightly, but she noticed and turned the page away with casual grace.

  "Better?" she asked, voice warm.

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "Good." She set the journal aside but didn't close it. "Now. Let us try again. The yarrow, if thou wouldst."

  He measured. Got it wrong. She corrected gently, showed him the proper amount, had him pour it back and start over. His hands shook slightly, making the dried flowers scatter across the workbench.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I don't know what's wrong with me today."

  "Exhaustion," she said simply. Picked up her quill again, made another note. "Thy mind is elsewhere. Your hands are uncertain." Her eyes met his. "Are you sure you're sleeping well, my sprout? No strange dreams?"

  His heart kicked against his ribs.

  *Does she know? About the sleepwalking? The symbols?*

  "Sleeping fine," he lied. "Just nervous about keeping up with elven standards."

  Another note. The scratch of quill on parchment felt loud in the quiet chamber.

  They worked through the salve preparation, but every step was a struggle. He nearly knocked over the honey vial reaching for feverfew. Set the burner's heat too high, overcorrected too low, then forgot entirely what temperature he'd been aiming for in the first place.

  Sylvara corrected each mistake with patient precision, but he could feel her watching.

  Finally, when the mixture sat steeping and there was nothing left for him to mess up, she set down her quill and studied him properly.

  "Cannot forge steel when the fire's gone cold," she said quietly. "You are spent, darling. This will do you no good."

  Relief and shame warred in his chest. "You're dismissing me early?"

  "One requires respite, young light." Her smile was kind, reassuring. "Tomorrow we visit the Sanitarium. Young Lirien mentioned you may enjoy seeing their work and knowledge. I've arranged guest access for the afternoon."

  The words should've sparked excitement. Instead they settled like stones in his stomach. He was too tired to care about anything.

  *Helpful,* his mind supplied.

  "Thank you," he managed. "I appreciate it."

  "Of course." She turned back to her workbench, already absorbed in the black leather book that still sat open, pages covered in diagrams that hurt to look at directly. "Oh, and darling? If you want to train with that blade of yours... Vaelrik mentioned his training grounds are available. It would do you well to ground yourself in something familiar."

  The suggestion hit different than her other instructions. Less command, more genuine care. Like she actually understood what he needed.

  He thanked her again and climbed back to his room to retrieve Frostbane, the blade's familiar weight settling against his hip like an old friend's hand on his shoulder.

  Maybe he was becoming paranoid. Maybe she was just trying to help.

  The forge welcomed him with waves of heat and the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel. Vaelrik stood at his anvil, muscles bunching beneath soot-streaked skin as he shaped what looked like a ceremonial dagger. Sparks fountained with each strike, and the air tasted of smoke and molten promise.

  Elandor spotted Akilliz first, grinning from where he stoked the coals. "The trial's spark returns! Come to show us more of that human magic?"

  "Just looking to train," Akilliz called over the forge's roar. "Sylvara said you might know a spot?"

  Vaelrik's hammer paused mid-swing. He set it aside, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm that left a streak of soot across weathered skin. "Indeed I do. The training yard's open. But first..." His gray eyes dropped to Frostbane at Akilliz's hip. "Let me see that blade, pup."

  Akilliz unsheathed it carefully, offering the weapon hilt first. Vaelrik took it with the reverence of someone who understood steel's language, holding it to the light, testing its balance, running one calloused thumb along the fuller.

  "Thy father's work?" he asked, voice rough as gravel.

  "Mostly. I helped some with the process. We forged it together before I left."

  "Helped?" Vaelrik's eyebrows rose. "This edge is sharper than most work I've seen. Balanced proper, temper's clean..." He squinted at the blade, studying something Akilliz couldn't see. "Almost elven in its precision, yet different. Thy father's own touch, I'd wager." He handed it back with subtle approval hidden within his gruff features. "Good steel knows good hands. Both you and your father have wrought well."

  Pride swelled in Akilliz's chest. Genuine, uncomplicated warmth that chased away some of the morning's fog.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Don't 'sir' me, potion sipper! I'm a smith, not a lord." Vaelrik jerked his head toward a side door. "Training yard's through there. Mind the veterans. They bite."

  The training yard opened into a wide courtyard ringed by stone walls, the ground packed dirt worn smooth by countless boots. Wooden practice dummies stood at intervals, their torsos scarred from blade work. A weapons rack held an array of training swords with blunted edges, weighted for practice rather than killing.

  And everywhere, elves in various stages of armor moved through forms with fluid precision. Some sparred with wooden blades, their movements too fast for Akilliz's eyes to track properly. Others ran drills of lunges, parries, and overhead strikes executed with mechanical perfection.

  A few paused to watch as he entered, and he felt the weight of their attention. The mud grubber who'd brewed something he shouldn't.

  He ignored them, moving to an empty space near the wall. Unsheathed Frostbane and began running through the forms Pa had drilled into him.

  Basic stuff. Guard positions. Footwork. The fundamental strikes that formed the foundation of everything else.

  His body remembered even when his mind felt foggy. Muscle memory took over. Step, pivot, strike. Block, parry, riposte. The blade sang soft as it cut air, and for the first time since waking, his breath came easier.

  "Not terrible."

  Akilliz spun, nearly dropping into a guard position before recognizing Vaelrik leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching with those assessing gray eyes.

  "For a young human," the smith added with a grunt. "The foundation's solid. Good stance, clean strikes. But thou hast a rigid form. It's as if thou art fighting a set pattern instead of a living opponent."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Heat crept up Akilliz's neck. "It's how my pa taught me."

  "Aye, and thy father taught thee well for surviving village brawls and the occasional bandit." Vaelrik pushed off the wall, moving into the practice space with surprising grace for his bulk. "Elven combat flows like water, pup. Rigid form breaks against fluid response." He gestured to the sparring elves. "Watch."

  Two warriors danced across the yard. One attacking with a flurry of strikes, the other flowing around each blow like smoke, barely seeming to move yet never quite where the blade tried to find them. Then the defender became the attacker in a heartbeat, and the pattern reversed.

  "See?" Vaelrik said. "They don't block, they redirect. Don't resist, they adapt." He moved behind Akilliz, adjusting his stance with firm hands. "Here. Loosen thy knees. Let the weight shift natural-like. When I strike..." He picked up a practice blade from the rack. "Don't meet force with force. Guide it past."

  He swung slow, a lazy overhead cut that Akilliz could've blocked easily.

  "No blocking," Vaelrik reminded. "Guide."

  Akilliz tried, angling his blade to catch the strike and deflect it sideways. The practice sword slid along Frostbane's edge, diverted past his shoulder instead of crashing against his guard.

  "Better!" Vaelrik's grin was fierce. "Again. Faster this time."

  They worked through the technique. Vaelrik striking, Akilliz learning to redirect rather than resist. His arms burned with the effort of restraining his instinct to block, but slowly his body began understanding what his mind struggled to grasp.

  Flow. Adapt. Guide.

  By the time Vaelrik called a halt, sweat soaked Akilliz's tunic and his lungs burned, but something in his chest felt lighter than it had all morning.

  "Good work, pup." Vaelrik clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Practice that. Come back when you are ready for the next lesson. I'll take a break from the forge whenever you want. Sorely needed anyway."

  Akilliz was catching his breath, grinning despite the exhaustion, when a voice called out from across the yard.

  "You! Potion boy!"

  He turned to find a young elf striding toward him. Maybe sixteen or seventeen in appearance, though who knew how old that translated to in actual years. The elf wore practice leathers, a wooden training sword slung over one shoulder, and a grin that managed to be both curious and challenging.

  "I watched your trial," the elf said, stopping a few paces away. "The blue brew. Impressive work."

  "Thanks," Akilliz said warily, unsure where this was going.

  "But brewing and blade work are different skills." The elf's grin turned sharp. "Care to test which of us learned their lessons better? My name's Seren, and I am going to become a blade of God."

  Around them, other trainees paused their drills, attention focusing on the exchange. Akilliz felt the weight of their collective curiosity, the question hanging unspoken: “Can the human fight as well as he brews?”

  "And I'm going to be the best potion master you've ever seen, Seren," he heard himself say. "Let's go."

  Except, Seren moved like quicksilver given form.

  They faced each other in the center of the yard, wooden practice blades replacing their real weapons. A small crowd had gathered—trainees and a few guards drawn by the prospect of entertainment. Akilliz spotted Vaelrik leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

  And there, at the edge of the crowd, standing with perfect military posture, Voryn. The guard captain's face was impassive, but his eyes tracked every movement with sharp attention.

  Great. An audience.

  "First to three touches wins," Seren said, settling into a guard stance that looked effortless. "Ready?"

  Akilliz nodded, forcing his exhausted muscles into something resembling readiness. Tried to remember what Vaelrik had just taught him. Flow, adapt, guide.

  Seren moved.

  The first strike came so fast Akilliz barely got his blade up in time, instinct overriding training as he blocked instead of redirecting. The impact jarred up his arms, and before he could recover, Seren's blade tapped his ribs.

  "One," Seren said with a grin.

  Heat flooded Akilliz's face. Around them, a few elves chuckled. Not cruel, but definitely amused. The mud-born boy was outmatched. Of course he was.

  *Focus. Remember the lesson. Don't fight his fight.*

  They reset. This time when Seren attacked, a quick thrust aimed at his shoulder, Akilliz tried to redirect. His blade caught the strike, guided it past, and for a heartbeat he thought he'd succeeded.

  Then Seren's blade reversed direction with impossible speed, tapping his other shoulder.

  "Two."

  More chuckles from the crowd. Akilliz's jaw tightened.

  "You're thinking too much," Vaelrik called from the wall. "Feel it, pup. The body knows. Let it work."

  Third exchange. Seren feinted high, struck low, and Akilliz's blade was there. Not blocking, not quite guiding, but there, deflecting the blow enough that it glanced off his thigh instead of landing clean.

  Seren's eyes widened fractionally. "Better."

  They traded strikes. Akilliz defending, Seren pressing, both breathing harder now. The elf was skilled, clearly trained since childhood in forms Akilliz had never seen. But exhaustion worked both ways, and Seren's attacks came fractionally slower as the exchange lengthened.

  Akilliz felt it. That moment Vaelrik had described, when his body understood what his mind couldn't articulate. Seren's pattern, the rhythm of his attacks. He flowed, blade redirecting a thrust past his shoulder, and suddenly there was an opening.

  He struck. Clumsy, unrefined, but fast enough.

  His wooden blade tapped Seren's ribs.

  The crowd went quiet.

  "One," Akilliz managed, grinning despite his heaving lungs.

  Seren laughed. Genuine, surprised, pleased. "I'll be damned. The human's got teeth."

  They fought for real then, both giving everything. Seren landed his third touch first, a quick strike to Akilliz's chest that he didn't see coming, but it felt earned rather than inevitable.

  The small crowd applauded as they both lowered their blades, breathing hard.

  Seren offered his hand, palm up, fingers spread in an elven gesture of respect. "You fight well. For someone who looks half-dead on his feet."

  Akilliz clasped it, managing a breathless laugh. "You're pretty good yourself. For someone who probably started training before I was born."

  "Only by a decade." Seren's grin was infectious. "We should do this again. When you don't look so fatigued."

  "Deal."

  They bowed. Akilliz clumsy compared to Seren's fluid motion, but the intent was clear. Around them, the crowd dispersed, returning to their own training with the casual disinterest of people who'd gotten their entertainment.

  But Akilliz caught Voryn's eye across the yard before the guard captain turned away. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked.

  And in Voryn's expression...

  Not contempt. Not suspicion.

  Something almost like approval?

  Then the guard was gone, disappearing through the archway with armor clanking, and Akilliz was left wondering if he'd imagined it entirely.

  The market sprawled in afternoon sunlight, vibrant and loud and blissfully normal after the training yard's intensity. 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 for alchemy, still others hawking breads that smelled of honey and seeds Akilliz couldn't name.

  He wandered with no particular destination, just letting the market's energy wash over him. Coins clinked in his pocket, not much, but enough for a decent meal or maybe a small tool if he found something useful.

  He found the fountain in the center square and sat on its edge, mind spinning with the morning's strangeness.

  Everything felt connected somehow, threads weaving a pattern he couldn't quite see.

  Movement across the square caught his eye. A familiar gleam of polished armor. Voryn stood with another guard, both in full uniform, talking in low voices. Nothing suspicious about that. Guards talked. That was what guards did.

  But then Voryn's eyes swept the market and landed directly on Akilliz.

  Their eyes locked.

  His heart kicked into his throat. Hands started shaking. Every instinct screamed, *run*.

  Voryn said something to his companion. Both guards stood there, still talking, not moving.

  Not coming this way.

  Just standing there.

  Akilliz forced himself to stay calm. To act normal. He maintained eye contact even though his pulse hammered loud enough to drown out the fountain.

  Voryn said something else to his companion. Both guards turned and walked away, heading toward the upper district.

  They hadn't been coming for him at all.

  Relief washed through Akilliz so intensely his hands went numb. He pressed his palms flat against the fountain's cool stone edge.

  “I'm losing it. Voryn wasn't even approaching. Just standing there talking to another guard like guards do.”

  But the fear had been so real. So visceral. The certainty that they were coming for him, that Voryn knew about the symbols, about the stolen pages, about everything.

  "Get it together," he muttered to himself. "You're fine. Everything's fine."

  The demon's voice slithered in, quiet and amused. "Or maybe he's watching. Waiting. Gathering evidence before he strikes."

  "You're not helping."

  "I'm never trying to help, boy. I'm trying to prepare you." The voice turned almost gentle. "When they come for you, and they will, I'll still be here. Willing to protect you. All you must do is ask."

  Akilliz didn't respond. Just sat there by the fountain, trying to slow his racing heart, wondering when paranoia had become his default state.

  Wondering how much longer he could keep this up before something broke.

  A public garden opened off a side street, not the grand Heart Garden but a smaller decorative space with benches and flowering bushes. He found himself drifting toward it, drawn by the promise of quiet.

  Collapsing onto the nearest bench, head in hands, he tried to sort through everything weighing on his mind. The meeting tonight. What he'd tell Lirien and Kael. How much to reveal without sounding insane.

  "Akilliz?"

  He jerked upright, hand instinctively reaching for Frostbane before recognizing the voice.

  Lirien stood at the garden's entrance, slightly out of breath, concern written plain on her features. Her hair had escaped its braid in wisps, and her healer's robes showed grass stains at the hem like she'd been running.

  "There you are!" She hurried over, settling beside him on the bench without invitation. "I saw you in the market. You looked upset. Are you alright?"

  The genuine concern in her voice cracked something in his chest. He wanted to tell her everything. The sleepwalking, the symbols, the demon's whispers, Sylvara's careful observation. Wanted to pour it all out and let someone else carry the weight for just a moment.

  But how could he explain without sounding like he'd lost his mind?

  "I dueled today," he managed instead. "With a young elf named Seren. Lost pretty badly."

  Her expression softened immediately. "Oh, Akilliz. You're exhausted. Of course you lost. Seren's been training since he was six years old."

  "I know. It was still fun, I guess. He was respectful about it. We agreed to spar again." He rubbed his face, trying to pull himself together. "I just didn't sleep well. I'm having a hard time adjusting here."

  Lirien's silver eyes studied him, really looked at him, and he had the uncomfortable sense that she knew he was hiding something. But she didn't push. She thought he looked rather pale and tired today.

  "Do you ever feel like you're being watched?" he asked quietly. "Like everyone's waiting for you to fail?"

  "Every single day." Her voice carried old pain. "Especially after my sister's exile. Everyone watching to see if I'll fail too. If I fail too, it'll prove that our family is tainted."

  "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it with his whole chest. "That must've been horrible, seeing her leave like that."

  "It was." Her hand found his where it rested on the bench between them. Not accidental this time, deliberate and warm as she squeezed gently. "But you're not alone in that feeling. Half the city's watching you because you're human. The other half's watching because you brewed that potion so easily. Either way, you're seen everywhere. That's exhausting."

  They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, her hand still holding his, and something in his chest loosened fractionally.

  Then, quieter: "Do elves even sleep? I've never seen one sleep. It's like you're all just awake and bright-eyed all the time."

  Lirien laughed. Bright and genuine. "Of course we sleep! Just about half as much as humans. Which means you're probably actually exhausted by our standards if you're not getting enough rest."

  "Great. So I'm failing at being human too."

  "Stop." She turned toward him, her other hand joining the first so she held his hand between both of hers. "You're not failing. You're adjusting. To a city that doesn't make it easy, to people who judge before they understand, to expectations that aren't fair." Her voice turned fierce. "Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. You're doing remarkably well."

  He looked at their joined hands, something warm and terrifying blooming in his chest. "Thank you. For saying that. For being kind."

  "I know what it's like to be judged unfairly." Her voice broke slightly. "Like my sister... Lira..."

  The name came out strangled, and suddenly she was crying. Silent tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

  Akilliz's heart cracked watching her. Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. Awkward because he'd never been good at this, but trying because she clearly needed it.

  She melted into him immediately, face pressed against his shoulder, fingers gripping the back of his tunic like he was the only solid thing in a tilting world.

  "She was brilliant," Lirien managed between sobs. "Better than me in every way. Smarter, more talented, kinder. Everyone said she'd make it through just fine. Maybe even join the Council someday."

  "What happened?"

  "One mistake." Her voice turned bitter. "She failed the last trial. Only the Council knows why. And they..." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, her face blotchy and wet. "They cast her out like she was nothing! Ten years of perfect work meant nothing because of one failure."

  "That's not right," Akilliz said, anger kindling in his gut. "That's not fair at all."

  "No. It's not." Fresh tears spilled over. "And I just stood there. Watching the guards march her through the gates. I couldn't do anything. Couldn't speak up, couldn't defend her, just stood there like a coward."

  She was crying harder now, the grief clearly bottled up for years finally finding release.

  "I'm a coward, Akilliz. I let them destroy her and I did nothing. My parents won't even tell me where she is, if she's okay, if she's even alive. Maybe they don't even know. And what if I fail next?"

  His heart broke watching her pain, and suddenly all his own problems felt smaller, more manageable. He had his issues. Demons and marks and sleepwalking. But at least he knew where everyone he loved was. At least he could reach them if he needed to.

  Lirien had been living with years of not knowing.

  "Lirien," he said gently, pulling back enough to meet her eyes. "I know where she is."

  She froze. Literally stopped breathing, her silver eyes going wide with shock and desperate hope. "What?"

  "Your sister. Lira. I met her."

  "You..." Her hands flew to her mouth, a fresh sob breaking free. "You met her? Where? When? Is she..."

  "In the Mistwood village. That hidden village Eryndor protects." He described her quickly. "Auburn hair like yours, silver eyes, about yay tall. She's a weaver. Made these clothes I'm wearing. She talks about her family, about you, with so much love."

  Lirien's hands stayed pressed to her mouth, and the sound that came out was half-sob, half-laugh. "She's alive! She's really alive and..." The words dissolved into crying, harder this time, her whole body shaking.

  Akilliz held her through it, one hand rubbing awkward circles on her back the way Pa used to do when he was small and scared. "She's okay," he murmured. "She's safe. She's healing, building a new life. She has friends, purpose. She even smiled when I met her. Genuine, not forced. She's going to be okay."

  "Tell me everything," Lirien gasped between sobs. "Please. Everything."

  So he did. Told her about the Mistwood clearing, the community of exiles who'd built something beautiful together. Eryndor's quiet protection. Lira's weaving, her kindness, the way she'd made him clothes without hesitation. The children she watched over. The garden she tended. The friends she'd made who actually valued her for who she was, not her trial results.

  Lirien drank in every detail like a woman dying of thirst, tears still streaming but her breathing gradually steadying.

  Finally, she pulled back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, leaving smudged trails across her cheeks. She looked wrecked. Eyes red, face blotchy, hair half-escaped from its braid. But somehow more real than he'd ever seen her. Raw and honest and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

  She fumbled in her pocket, pulling out a woven bracelet. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Intricate patterns that must've taken hours, threads in shades of silver and blue that caught the light like water.

  "I made this three years ago," she said, voice thick. "The month after she was exiled. It's twin to one I gave her on her birthday." She pressed it into his hands, her fingers lingering on his. "Next time you go to the village, please. Give this to her."

  The weight of the bracelet felt heavier than it should. "I will. I swear it."

  He hesitated, then reached into his cloak, fingers finding the other bracelet he'd tucked away. The one Lira had pressed into his hand when he left the village, silver vines woven intricate and beautiful. He'd kept it close, a reminder of kindness when everything felt overwhelming.

  He pulled it out, the silver catching the garden's light, and held it between them.

  "Here," he said quietly. "She made this for me. I want you to have it. I'm not one for bracelets anyway, and I think... maybe she would want you to have it."

  Lirien's eyes widened, fresh tears spilling over as she took it with trembling fingers. She traced the silver vines, the pattern so familiar it made her breath hitch. "She made this," she whispered. "Her work. I'd know it anywhere."

  She clutched both bracelets to her chest, one she'd made, one Lira had crafted, and the sound that escaped her was half-laugh, half-sob. "Thank you. This means... so much."

  "And tell her..." Lirien's voice broke again. "Tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't stop them. Tell her I think about her every single day and I'll never stop fighting to bring her home. If I can... maybe I can sneak out of the city with you. We could visit her together."

  "We'll go together," Akilliz promised. "And you can tell her every word yourself."

  Silence fell, but it was comfortable despite the heavy emotions. Lirien wiped her face again, managing a watery smile. "Thank you. For telling me. For bringing her memory back to me when I thought..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Thank you."

  "You don't have to thank me for that."

  She looked at him. Really looked, her silver eyes holding his. And something shifted in the air between them. Awareness, sharp and electric, making his breath catch.

  She leaned forward. Slowly enough that he could've pulled back if he'd wanted to. Close enough that he could count the silver flecks in her eyes, see the faint freckles on her cheek, see the tear tracks still wet on her skin.

  Their faces were inches apart. He could feel her breath on his lips, warm and slightly unsteady.

  For a heartbeat, he thought she was going to kiss him. Really kiss him, not just a peck on the cheek but actually...

  She chickened out at the last second, pressing her lips to his cheek instead. But it was longer than last time, more deliberate, and when she pulled back they were both blushing furiously.

  "You're a good person, Akilliz," she whispered. "Don't let this city convince you otherwise. I know what the elves think of humans. All because of things you have no control over. Your lifespan, your ears, things that don't matter." Her hand squeezed his one more time. "I hope that changes someday. I really do."

  He sat frozen, heart hammering so loud he was certain half the city could hear it. His cheek burned where her lips had touched, and his tongue had apparently forgotten how language worked.

  "I... uh... thank you?" Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

  She laughed, standing and smoothing her robes with shaking hands. "I need to get back to the Sanitarium. They'll have my head if I'm late for the afternoon shift." She paused, looking down at him with something warm and complicated in her expression. "Will I see you tomorrow? Sylvara mentioned you're visiting."

  "There's nowhere I'd rather be," he managed, his voice only slightly strangled.

  She squeezed his hand one more time, then turned and hurried away through the garden. He watched her go. Auburn braid swaying, healer's robes catching the afternoon light. And only when she'd disappeared around a corner did he remember to breathe.

  *She almost kissed me. Really kissed me. And I almost kissed her back and...*

  "Touching," the demon drawled, amusement thick in its tone.

  "Shut up," Akilliz muttered, but there was no heat in it. His face hurt from smiling.

  For just a moment, sitting in the garden with the ghost of Lirien's lips on his cheek, everything else faded. The sleepwalking, the symbols, Sylvara's watching, all of it felt distant and manageable.

  Then reality settled back in.

  He still had time before four bells. An hour, maybe more. And he was sitting in a garden doing nothing while the Heart Garden waited with its rarest specimens. Herbs he'd only read about in Ma's notes. Ingredients that could push his brewing to new heights.

  He could go back to the tower. Rest. Prepare for tonight's meeting.

  Or he could use this time productively. Experiment. Push himself. Learn.

  The choice wasn't difficult.

  The Heart Garden welcomed him with its eternal twilight glow. The massive tree at its center pulsed with soft light, its branches spreading like veins of captured starlight across the vaulted ceiling. The air here tasted different, richer, almost sweet, thick with the essence of growing things.

  Akilliz moved through the terraced beds with careful steps, avoiding the more traveled paths. Most apprentices stuck to the common sections where yarrow and calendula grew in abundance. But Ma's lessons had taught him a few rarer specimens. Plants that grew in shadowed corners, that required specific conditions, that most healers avoided because they were too difficult to work with.

  He found the first one tucked beneath an overhanging ledge, half-hidden by ferns. Moonbell flowers, pale white petals that only bloomed in darkness, their stems releasing a faint luminescence. Ma's notes said they could amplify the potency of any healing draught if prepared correctly, but they withered at the slightest mishandling.

  He knelt carefully, producing a small cloth from his pack. Wrapped his hand before touching the stem, remembering the warning about skin oils damaging the delicate structure. Cut cleanly at the base with his knife, three stems total, and wrapped them immediately in the dampened cloth.

  The second find was deeper in the garden, near a pool of still water that reflected the tree's glow. Silverleaf sage—its leaves actually shimmered with a metallic sheen, and it only grew near water sources touched by moonlight. Back home, they had used it in clarity potions, brews that sharpened the mind and enhanced focus.

  He harvested carefully, taking only what he needed, leaving enough for the plant to recover.

  The third discovery made his breath catch.

  Tucked in the darkest corner of the garden, where even the tree's light barely reached, grew a single specimen of Nightshade Trumpet. Not the poisonous nightshade from common herbology, but its rare cousin-a deep purple flower with petals that curled inward like a sleeping hand. The few notes he remembered had been sparse on this one, just a single line: “Dangerous in large amounts, but a single petal can bind opposing essences that should never mix.”

  Fire and water. Life and death. Chaos and order.

  His hand hovered over the plant, hesitation warring with curiosity. This could be exactly what he needed for the Dragon's Breath potion. A binding agent strong enough to hold drinkable fire in stable form.

  He knew these are above all, “Dangerous in large amounts.”

  He took a single petal. Just one. Wrapped it separately from the other herbs, marked the cloth so he wouldn't confuse it with the safer specimens.

  By the time he finished, his pack held a small fortune in rare ingredients. Enough to experiment with new formulas. Enough to push his understanding of potion-making beyond what Sylvara had taught him.

  Enough to possibly create something truly magnificent for the Festival.

  He was making his way back toward the garden's entrance, mind already racing with possibilities, when movement caught his eye.

  A figure stood near the central tree. Tall, angular, dressed in flowing robes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. At first Akilliz thought it was another apprentice, but as he drew closer he realized the figure was standing perfectly still. Not breathing. Not moving at all.

  Just standing there. Watching the tree.

  "Hello?" Akilliz called, uncertain.

  The figure didn't respond.

  He approached cautiously, hand instinctively finding Frostbane's hilt. As he got closer, details resolved that made his skin crawl.

  It wasn't a person.

  It was a statue. Or something like a statue. Carved from wood so dark it looked almost black, features rendered in such detail they seemed almost alive. The face was elven but wrong somehow—too sharp, too angular, eyes carved open but pupil-less, mouth set in an expression that might've been serenity or might've been horror.

  He'd never seen this statue before. Had walked past this spot yesterday and it definitely hadn't been there.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?"

  Akilliz spun, nearly drawing his blade before recognizing the elderly elf who tended the garden. The same one who'd shown him around on his first day.

  "I didn't hear you approach," Akilliz managed, heart hammering.

  "Few do." The elf moved closer, studying the statue with an expression Akilliz couldn't read. "The Watcher. It appears sometimes, in different places throughout the garden. No one knows who carved it, or when, or why it moves."

  "It moves?"

  "So they say. I've tended these plants for seventy years and I've never caught it in motion. But it's never in the same place twice." The elf's ancient eyes turned to Akilliz. "Some say it's watching for something. Others say it's waiting."

  "For what?"

  "For whatever it was carved to find." The elf's smile was enigmatic. "You've been harvesting, I see. Rare specimens too. Your teacher instructed you well."

  Heat crept up Akilliz's neck. "I was just... experimenting. Trying to learn."

  "Curiosity is a virtue in alchemists. Though I'd suggest care with that Nightshade Trumpet." The elf's eyes went to his pack, somehow seeing through the fabric. "A single petal is wisdom. Two would be foolishness. Three would be your death."

  "I only took one."

  "Good." The elf turned to leave, then paused. "The garden provides for those who respect it. But it remembers those who take too much. Mind you remember that, young one."

  Then the elf was gone, disappearing between the terraced beds with unsettling speed for someone who looked a thousand years old.

  Akilliz stood alone with the statue, which continued not-looking at him with its carved empty eyes.

  A bell tolled in the distance. Deep and resonant, the sound rolling across the city like a wave.

  One.

  He waited.

  Two.

  His heart began to race.

  Three.

  Almost time.

  Four.

  The fourth bell's echo faded into silence, and Akilliz stood frozen. It was time.