Sylvara stood at the workbench, her moonlit hair swept back with a silver clasp, crimson robes catching the morning light. She looked up as his boots hit the doorstep, and something flickered across her face—assessment, calculation, satisfaction?

  "Kwe’vadis, young light," she said while bowing, her voice bright as morning bells. "Thou lookest weary. Rough night?"

  Heat crept up his neck as he bowed in return. "Just... adjusting still."

  She studied him for a moment, those opalescent eyes seeming to look through him rather than at him. "Mm. Well, today shall be a respite from our usual rigors." She gestured to the tea already poured, steam curling invitingly. "Drink. Then we visit the Sanitarium as promised."

  He accepted the cup, sipping carefully. Mint and honey with a subtle undertone he couldn't place. The warmth spread through him, and some of the exhaustion loosened its grip.

  "The Sanitarium?" he asked.

  "Indeed. Lirien speaks highly of their medical library. One may find it illuminating." She watched him over the rim of her own cup. "I have Council business this morning. Urgent matters regarding the spreading sickness in the lower tiers. Thalindra has called a meeting of all senior healers and alchemists."

  She set down her cup with deliberate precision. "I will escort thee to the Sanitarium and introduce thee to the Head Healer. You may study their library, observe their methods, perhaps assist where needed. Lirien will guide thee." A slight smile. "Consider it field research. I expect a full report on what you learn, use elvish where you can.”

  Akilliz nodded, trying to keep his face neutral. A whole day at the Sanitarium. Away from Sylvara's watchful eyes. Use elvish?! Merlin's boots, he hadn't been studying at all. Maybe he would have time to talk to Lirien, to plan, to figure out how to ask for that key tonight.

  “Or she's testing you,” a small voice whispered. “Seeing what you'll do when she's not watching.”

  "I'll learn everything I can," he said honestly.

  "I know you shall." She finished her tea. "Come. We leave now."

  The Sanitarium rose in the city's second tier, white marble that seemed to glow with its own inner light. Arched windows revealed glimpses of healers moving with quiet efficiency. The scent hit him as they entered, herbs sharp and clean, underlaid with something astringent that made his nose wrinkle.

  Sylvara led him through corridors lined with doors, some open revealing beds and patients, others closed with soft sounds of pain and healing beyond. Healers in pale blue robes nodded respectfully as they passed, their pointed ears and ageless faces turning toward Sylvara with clear deference.

  They found the Head Healer in a small office lined with medical texts. An ancient elf, appearing perhaps eighty in human terms though probably ten times that age, with silver hair braided in intricate patterns.

  "Tessa, this is Akilliz, my apprentice," Sylvara said. "He will be studying here today while I attend Council matters. I trust you will make him welcome?"

  Tessa's sharp gray eyes fixed on Akilliz with unsettling intensity. She leaned forward slightly, studying his face with clinical interest.

  "Hmm. Yes, yes, I see." She tilted her head. "Fascinating. The ears are so round. And that nose—barely any bridge at all! Like a button." She reached toward his face as if to touch, then seemed to remember herself and pulled back. "Apologies. Professional curiosity. We see so few humans here. The anatomical differences are quite remarkable."

  Akilliz didn't know whether to laugh or be offended. He settled for a polite smile that felt more like a grimace.

  "The trial boy," Tessa continued. "Soul's Breath brewed in the square. Impressive work, regardless of ear shape." Her expression softened fractionally. "Any who can craft Vael'tharis may study here freely. Though I would very much like to examine those ears later. For research purposes. Purely academic."

  Is she serious? Heat crept up Akilliz's neck.

  "Lirien!" Tessa called toward the corridor. "Come show your round-eared friend our facilities!"

  Lirien burst through the door moments later, auburn braid half-undone and streaming behind her like a banner, pale blue robes showing evidence of a chaotic morning. She was slightly out of breath, freckles standing out against flushed cheeks, but her silver eyes brightened immediately when she spotted him.

  "You're here! Perfect timing—we're completely overwhelmed today."

  Sylvara made her farewells, reminding Akilliz she'd return by evening, and swept out in a whisper of crimson robes.

  As the door closed behind her, Tessa's demeanor shifted from formal to practical.

  "Can you brew?" she asked Akilliz bluntly.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good. Lirien, put him to work. We've twenty patients waiting and half our staff is sick with the very illness we're treating." She was already moving toward the door, clearly heading back to triage. "If he's half as skilled as the trial suggested, we can actually help people today instead of just triaging. I know you wanted to study Akilliz, but experience will be far more useful than any book."

  He nodded, understanding passing between them.

  She paused at the threshold, glancing back at Akilliz again with that unsettling intensity. "I wonder if the ear structure affects the hearing range. I should test that later. Do you think you would sit still for measurements?"

  Before anyone could respond, she was gone, leaving Akilliz and Lirien alone in the small office.

  Lirien snorted. "Don't let her get started. Last week she spent two hours measuring a merchant’s beard density. Poor man nearly fell asleep." She grabbed his hand, already pulling him toward the door. "Come on. I'll show you the library first, then the brewing room. We've got work to do."

  "So," Lirien said, grinning. "Welcome to organized chaos. Ready to actually do some healing?"

  She showed him the library first, floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books, scrolls, anatomical diagrams pinned to boards, jars of preserved specimens. The smell of old parchment mingled with medicinal herbs.

  "Study here whenever you want," she said. "But right now..." Distant shouting echoed from elsewhere in the building. She winced. "Right now we have a triage hall full of people who need help. My assistant called in sick. Ironic, given we're treating a sickness outbreak." She grabbed his hand without hesitation. "Can you help? Please?"

  He looked at her, eyes bright with hope and exhaustion. Purpose sparked through him, cutting through the numbness that had been settling in lately.

  "Help how?"

  Her grin was fierce and beautiful. "I assess patients, make diagnoses, prescribe treatments. You brew whatever I need. Together we can work fast, and maybe I can actually treat people instead of just running in circles all morning."

  She was already pulling him toward a side door. The brewing room beyond made his fingers itch to start working. The shelves were packed with ingredients labeled in both Common and Elvish, organized with meticulous precision. Multiple workstations lined the walls, burners waiting, tools gleaming on hooks.

  "I'll call out what I need based on diagnosis," Lirien said, pulling her hair back into a tighter braid. "Listen for symptoms—they'll tell you what to adjust." She handed him a hastily scrawled list. "Common potions and their uses. Your ma was a healer, so you should recognize most of these, but can you handle this?"

  He scanned it: Chamomile decoction (fever, anxiety), Lungwort tincture (respiratory), Wound salve (trauma), Willow bark brew (pain, inflammation)...

  "Let's find out," he said.

  Her smile could have lit the whole Sanitarium.

  "Patient presenting with elevated temperature, dry cough, no chest congestion!" Lirien's voice carried from the triage hall, clinical and precise. "Likely viral, upper respiratory only. Chamomile decoction with feverfew, standard dosing!"

  Akilliz's hands moved through familiar steps—grinding chamomile flowers, measuring feverfew, binding with honey, adding moondew base. Muscle memory from hundreds of village brews guided him. Within minutes he was carrying the pale gold potion to where Lirien administered it to an elderly elf woman.

  The woman's breathing eased almost immediately. She smiled up at them with watery eyes. "Blessings, children. Both of you."

  Lirien caught his eye across the hall and grinned.

  First success.

  "Middle-aged male, productive cough with green sputum, chest pain on deep breath!" Lirien's pointed ear pressed to an elf's back. "Bacterial infection, lower respiratory. Lungwort tincture with eucalyptus, HEAVY eucalyptus to break up congestion!"

  He'd never made this exactly, but the principle was similar to Ma's chest cold remedy. He crushed lungwort leaves fine, steeped them in alcohol base, added eucalyptus oil until the sharp scent made his eyes water.

  Brought it to Lirien, who tasted it carefully. Her nose wrinkled. "Medically sound but way too bitter. Patients won't drink this willingly."

  "Honey and a touch of peppermint to mask the taste?"

  "Perfect. Maybe some anise for the aftertaste too."

  He adjusted, brought it back. She tasted again, eyebrows rising. "Now that's drinkable. You're thinking past just 'does it work' to 'will they actually take it.'"

  Warmth spread through his chest. "Ma taught me. Said the best potion in the world is useless if it stays in the bottle."

  "Smart woman." Lirien administered the tincture, then paused, voice softening. "I'm sorry. I know she passed."

  "Yeah." The word came out rougher than intended. "But she'd like this. Helping people."

  Lirien squeezed his arm gently. "You should smile more. It looks good on you."

  He flashed a sheepish grin, unaware her words had such power over him.

  Then she was back in the thick of it.

  "Deep laceration, radial artery nicked but not severed!" Lirien had her hands pressed to a middle-aged elf's forearm, blood seeping between her fingers despite pressure. "I need wound salve, double strength with extra yarrow for clotting, and extra comfrey for deep tissue repair!"

  Akilliz ground ingredients with focused intensity, adding calendula for its anti-infection properties, binding it all with beeswax. The salve came together thick and green-gold, smelling sharp and medicinal.

  "Good timing," Lirien said when he brought it. "Help me apply it. I need both hands to keep the wound closed."

  They worked in synchrony, her holding the laceration shut while he spread salve with careful fingers. The flesh began knitting almost immediately, the elf's expression shifting from pained to merely uncomfortable to relieved.

  "Remarkable," the elf said, flexing his fingers.

  "Thank my assistant," Lirien said with a smile that made Akilliz's chest warm. "He brews faster than anyone I've worked with."

  *Assistant,* Akilliz thought. He could get used to being a beautiful elf's assistant.

  The next patient was a child maybe eight years old, with a purple tinged rash spreading up her left arm like twisted vines. The mother clutched the girl close, panic plain across her features.

  "Rash appeared this morning as a single spot," Lirien murmured, examining the discoloration with gentle fingers. "Now covering approximately thirty percent of the limb. Progression suggests..." She pressed lightly—the girl winced. "Tender to touch, slight heat, purple rather than red..."

  She tried standard anti-inflammatory salve. The rash didn't respond.

  "Not allergic reaction, texture's wrong. Not bacterial, progression too uniform." Lirien frowned. "Akilliz, come look. Fresh eyes?"

  He studied the discoloration. Purple. Spreading in web-like patterns that almost seemed to pulse. Almost like—

  Recognition prickled cold down his spine. Similar to what crept up his own hand, hidden beneath his sleeve.

  "Could it be exposure to something unusual?" he said carefully. "Dark magic contamination sometimes presents with purple discoloration and web-pattern spreading."

  Lirien's eyebrows shot up. "That's fairly obscure. Where did you—"

  "Ma dealt with some strange cases near Frosthelm. Had notes about magical corruption symptoms." Not entirely a lie. "If that's what this is, silverleaf extract with blessed water should counteract minor taint. But I've never actually made it—just theory from her notes."

  She studied him for a long moment. But the child whimpered, and priorities shifted. "Let's try it."

  He brewed it quickly, silverleaf requiring precise temperature control or it turned toxic instead of healing. He sang Ma's song softly while working.

  Lirien applied it with gentle hands, murmuring comfort to the child.

  The rash faded. Not slowly, quickly, and visibly. The purple drained away until only healthy skin remained, slightly pink but otherwise perfect.

  The mother burst into tears of relief.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  When they stepped away, Lirien grabbed his elbow. "That was brilliant. You saw something I completely missed." She paused. "Your mother must have been exceptional."

  "She was." The words came out thick.

  Lirien squeezed his arm, understanding in her eyes. "Let's keep going. More work ahead."

  An elderly male elf shuffled into the triage hall, guided by a younger woman who bore enough resemblance to be his granddaughter. The old elf looked physically healthy, spry even, for someone appearing to be in his sixties. Straight posture, fluid movements.

  But his eyes were distant, unfocused, looking at things that weren't there.

  "Grandfather needs his calming medicine," the woman said, voice tight. "He's been confused today."

  Lirien's expression softened into something achingly gentle. "Of course. Come, let's sit here."

  She led them to a quiet bench while Akilliz watched, uncertain what medicine would help this. The old elf settled and immediately brightened, turning to Lirien with pure joy.

  "Arian! There you are, my dear! I've been looking everywhere for you."

  "My name is Lirien, grandfather." She took his weathered hands in hers.

  "Larien?" Confusion clouded his features. "Then where's Daniel? He promised we'd have supper. Damn boy always smells like bread..." His face crumpled. "I can't... the days all run together now..."

  "It's alright. You're safe here."

  "Such nice birds today," he said suddenly, gazing past her shoulder at the blank wall with wonder.

  Lirien followed his gaze to empty space. "Birds?"

  "Oh, you like birds too?" His face lit up with childlike enthusiasm. "Aren't they magnificent?"

  "I don't see any birds, grandfather."

  He leaned in conspiratorially, pointing at nothing. "Well, that's because you aren't looking properly. See? Right there—the blue one with spotted wings. And there—the little red fellow, just singing his heart out!"

  He sat back, smiling at the wall, utterly content in his delusion.

  The granddaughter's hand tightened on his shoulder, tears threatening. Lirien administered a simple calming draught, nothing that would cure, just ease agitation. The old elf settled deeper into his pleasant confusion, humming a tune from centuries past.

  As they walked away, Akilliz heard him say dreamily: "I do love birds. Always have. Always will."

  "How old?" Akilliz asked quietly.

  "Seven hundred thirty-four," Lirien said, checking her notes with trembling hands. "Physically healthy. Could live another century easily. But his mind..." Pain flickered across her face.

  "The birds weren't real."

  "No. But to him, they were more real than we are." She glanced back at the old elf describing his imaginary birds with animated gestures. "After about seven hundred years, minds begin to drift. Not all at once—it's gradual. Small things forgotten first. Names. Dates. Then faces. Eventually they live more in memory and imagination than present."

  "But his body..."

  "Is perfectly healthy. That's the cruel part. Bodies stay strong while minds dissolve. He could live another hundred years like this, losing more each day until nothing remains but confusion and birds." Her voice went thick. "It's why elves fear age more than death. We don't fade gracefully. We watch ourselves disappear piece by piece until we're not aware of anything real anymore."

  From across the room, the old elf's cheerful voice drifted: "The birds say it'll rain tomorrow. They're NEVER wrong..."

  Akilliz felt something cold settle in his chest. "That's horrible."

  "It's the price of long life," Lirien said softly. "Everything costs something."

  The next patient made the previous seem almost merciful.

  An elderly female elf, physically healthy, appearing perhaps fifty in human terms. She sat rigidly, hands clenched in her lap. Silver eyes wide with terror, pupils dilated, fixed on Lirien with desperate intensity.

  "Tremor in hands, dilated pupils, rapid breathing, elevated heart rate," Lirien murmured, checking vitals. "But physically healthy. No signs of illness." She crouched before the woman. "What brings you in today?"

  "I feel it starting," the woman whispered, voice shaking like wind through dead leaves. "The fog. It's at the edges now, creeping in. I forget small things. The name of a street I've walked for five hundred years. What I ate for breakfast. Which grandchild visited yesterday…or was it last week?" Her voice cracked. "How long before I forget my children's NAMES? My husband's face? How long before I'm the one seeing birds that aren't there?"

  Lirien took both trembling hands in her own, professional mask slipping to reveal raw empathy. "How old are you?"

  "Six hundred eighty-seven." The number came out like a death sentence. "I have friends who've already drifted. I watched them go. Watched them forget me, forget themselves, forget everything that made them WHO they were." She leaned forward desperately. "Is there anything? Any potion, any treatment, any prayer? I don't want to lose myself. Please. I'm so scared."

  Lirien's composure cracked, revealing the young woman beneath who had no answers, no solutions, no hope to offer. She squeezed the woman's hands tighter.

  "I'm so sorry. There's no cure. Nothing we can brew that stops time's effect on the mind."

  "Then what do I do?" The woman's voice rose, edging toward panic. "I'm watching it happen. I can feel myself slipping away. I don't want to forget. I don't want to become a stranger in my own mind. I don't want to die while my body keeps living!"

  Lirien didn't answer with words. She just held the woman's hands, sitting with her in the terrible silence of truth no potion could change.

  The woman wept quietly, and Lirien wept with her.

  After long minutes, the woman's breathing steadied. She squeezed Lirien's hands once more. "Thank you. For not lying to me."

  "I wish I could do more."

  "You did what mattered. You listened. You sat with me instead of rushing away." The woman stood, straightening with dignity. "That's more than most can offer."

  She left, and Lirien sagged against the wall. Akilliz moved to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.

  "Does that happen often?" he asked quietly.

  "Often enough." She rubbed her eyes, smearing ink across one cheek. "Healing isn't just potions and bandages. Sometimes it's just not leaving people alone in their fear."

  He stood beside her, solid and present, until she straightened with the resilience of someone who did this every day.

  "Next patient," she said, voice steadying. "There's always a next patient."

  The afternoon wore on.

  A merchant who'd bought a "vigor tonic" from a black market dealer and now hiccupped every thirty seconds. They experimented with three different counter-agents before finding one that worked, laughing despite the chaos.

  A child with a broken arm. Lirien's hands moved with practiced precision while Akilliz brewed a pain-numbing draught. The crack of bone realigning made his stomach turn, but the child never stirred.

  An apprentice alchemist who'd mixed incompatible reagents and was now breaking out in hives that migrated across his skin—shifting from arm to chest to face in slow waves.

  "Elevated histamine response combined with residual magical interaction," Lirien diagnosed. "The potions are STILL reacting inside his bloodstream."

  "So we neutralize the magic and calm immune response simultaneously," Akilliz muttered, grinding ingredients. "But most magical neutralizers are toxic if ingested..."

  "What about silverleaf again?"

  "Different mechanism. This is internal reaction." He chewed his lip. "Maybe blessed thistle to purify blood, chamomile for inflammation, and birch bark? It's a detoxifier. Might bind magical residue."

  First attempt: hives stopped moving but turned bright red.

  Second attempt: hives faded but the apprentice started hiccupping.

  Third attempt, with Lirien adjusting proportions: hives faded completely, no side effects.

  The apprentice sagged with relief. "Thank you."

  "Use a proper lab next time," Lirien said dryly. "With ventilation."

  When he left, Lirien turned to Akilliz with raised eyebrows. "Birch bark detoxifier? Where did you learn that?"

  "Honestly? I've actually studied this." He grinned despite exhaustion. "Ma taught me principles. How ingredients interact. The rest is just trying things, adjusting what's needed"

  "That's called intuition. Most healers follow formulas exactly, terrified to deviate. You adapt." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "That's the mark of a real healer."

  The compliment settled warm in his chest.

  Then the critical case arrived.

  The doors burst open hard enough to slam against walls. Two elves stumbled in carrying a third between them, a young male, barely twenty in appearance, convulsing violently. Foam flecked his blue-tinged lips. Eyes rolled back showing only whites. Blood vessels burst in his sclera, turning whites red.

  "POISONING!" one carrier shouted, voice cracking. "Accidental. He was brewing experimental tonic! Flask exploded, he breathed the fumes! Please!"

  Lirien moved fast, gentleness replaced by emergency precision. "Get him on the table! Clear the workspace!" Already checking airways, pulse, pupil response. "Akilliz—mild sedative immediately to stop convulsions!"

  He grabbed poppy flowers, valerian root, brewing the simplest sedative while his hands shook. Two minutes.

  She administered carefully, too much would depress breathing, too little wouldn't stop seizures. The victim's convulsions eased fractionally, body still twitching but no longer in danger of self-injury.

  Lirien pressed her ear to his chest, face going grim. "Respiratory distress, heart rate erratic, multi-organ involvement. This isn't simple poisoning…whatever he breathed is reacting with his chemistry." She looked up, real fear in her eyes. "I need a universal antidote. It's our only chance."

  His stomach dropped. "I've never made that."

  "Emergency protocols—" She thrust a manual at him, flipping to a marked page. Instructions covered two pages, half Common, half archaic Elvish he could barely parse. "Activated charcoal base, silverleaf, moonwort, blessed thistle, dragonroot, starflower essence..." Twelve ingredients. "Standard brew time is ten to fifteen minutes. We have maybe ten before organ shutdown. Sedatives bought time, not much."

  Akilliz stared at the page, at blue-tinged lips, at friends sobbing.

  Ten minutes. Instructions half in a language he couldn't fully read. A person dying.

  His hands moved on autopilot, gathering ingredients, but halfway through he hit the Elvish section and his brain stuttered. Symbols blurred, refusing to resolve. Was that "heat until boiling" or "heat until warm"? That character—"three drops" or "three parts"?

  The victim seized again despite sedative, back arching, horrible rattling from his chest.

  "Akilliz, STATUS?" Lirien called, hands keeping the victim from falling.

  "I—there's Elvish, I can't read it fast enough—"

  "Do your best! HURRY!"

  His hands shook over the mortar. Couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't afford to guess wrong—

  The victim's lips turned purple. Not blue. Purple. Like the child's rash but spreading from inside out.

  One friend screamed: "PLEASE! Do something!"

  Akilliz grabbed the knife from his belt without pause, dragged it across his palm. Pain flared white-hot as the blood welled.

  *Blood first. Then ask.*

  He pressed his bleeding palm against the workbench, let blood soak into wood grain.

  "Knowledge," he whispered. "How to read these instructions."

  The response was immediate, hungry, gleeful.

  Knowledge slammed into his skull. Elvish symbols resolved, meaning flooding through in torrents. Heat until simmering. Three drops, not parts. Steep thirty seconds clockwise, not counter. His hands moved with sudden certainty, ingredients flying together in precise order, temperatures exact, Ma's binding song aided by new Elvish theory he hadn't possessed minutes ago.

  The potion turned from muddy brown to clear silver.

  Perfect.

  He shoved it at Lirien. "Now!"

  She didn't question, didn't hesitate, poured it down the victim's throat while friends held him steady.

  Horrible stretched moment of nothing.

  Then the victim gasped. Full, deep, shuddering breath filling lungs completely. Color flooded back, the purple receding, blue fading, healthy pink returning. Eyes rolled forward, focusing on the ceiling.

  "What..." he croaked. "What happened?"

  Friends sobbed with relief. Lirien sagged against the table, and when she looked up her eyes were wet.

  She crossed the space in three strides and threw her arms around him.

  "You saved him," she whispered, voice breaking. "You saved him."

  He hugged back automatically, feeling her shake with released tension. But beneath the embrace, beneath her warmth, he felt the mark on his hand pulse hotter than ever.

  Taimon's voice purred satisfaction: "Good boy. See how useful I am? How much good you can do with my help? Think of all the lives you'll save..."

  He pulled Lirien closer, trying to focus on her warmth.

  The victim would live.

  He'd deal with the cost later.

  By the time they finished, the sun had set. Twelve hours of nonstop work. Twenty-three patients treated. Two pulled back from death's door. Countless minor ailments resolved. One elderly elf convinced he'd seen the most beautiful birds in Luminael's history.

  Akilliz and Lirien stumbled out into the Sanitarium's courtyard, collapsing onto a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. His hands were stained with herb residue and blood he hoped no one would notice. Her healer's robes had ink smears, potion spills, stains he didn't want to identify. Her braid had given up entirely, auburn hair escaping in wild tangles.

  They sat in exhausted silence, watching the first stars appear.

  "You were amazing today," Lirien said finally, voice hoarse.

  "You were the one making the diagnosis. I just followed your lead."

  She turned to look at him, silver eyes catching starlight. "We made a good team."

  "Yeah." The word came out softer than intended. "We really did."

  Comfortable silence. The kind that came after a shared trial, when words felt less important than just being. Flowering vines climbed walls around them. Soft splash of a fountain somewhere nearby. Crickets beginning evening song.

  Lirien shifted closer until their shoulders touched. Contact sent warmth through him—actual warmth, real and immediate, breaking through numbness.

  Akilliz reached over and took her hand. Laced his fingers through hers deliberately, gloves and all.

  She squeezed back immediately, soft sound of surprise and pleasure. "This okay?"

  "More than okay."

  They sat like that, hands clasped, watching stars emerge one by one. Exhaustion was bone-deep, but comfort was deeper. Just the simple rightness of sitting beside someone who understood, who'd fought beside him.

  After a while, Lirien rested her head on his shoulder tentatively, giving him space to pull away.

  He didn't want to. Instead he tilted his head to rest against hers, breathing in herbs and ink and something floral he'd forever remember.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "For being here. For helping. For saving that boy. For this."

  "Nowhere I'd rather be."

  Despite the demon mark spreading hot in hid hand, despite corruption creeping toward his arm, despite everything he'd sacrificed—it was absolutely true.

  Demon whispers faded to background noise. Fear and guilt receded. Just warmth and starlight and the girl who'd become the brightest point in his days.

  A streak of light crossed the sky above them, brilliant, brief.

  "Look!" Lirien sat up slightly, pointing. "Falling star! Make a wish!"

  Akilliz opened his mouth to respond.

  Then the demon mark pulsed.

  Not hot. Cold. Ice-cold, like it had never felt before.

  His hand went to his arm instinctively. Something was wrong. Something was—

  The light wasn't white or silver like normal meteors.

  It was purple.

  And getting closer.

  "That's not a star—" he started.

  The purple light shot down into the courtyard, seeming to turn to dust. When the glow faded, a fairy lay in a small crater—wings partially healed but one with an unnatural black mark, her tiny body was heaving with exhaustion, violet eyes wide with terror.

  "It's Aura!" He ran to the tiny creature, scooped her gentle form into his hands.

  Telepathic images flooded into their minds in desperate, chaotic torrent:

  *Mistwood village burning. Dark elves. Twenty, thirty. Children screaming. Eryndor fighting. Too many. Help. Now. *

  The fairy collapsed in his cupped hands, barely conscious, tiny chest rising and falling in rapid, panicked breaths.

  Lirien lurched to her feet beside him, one hand pressed to her temple.

  "Oh gods—" Her voice broke. "That means…Lira. My sister is there!"

  Akilliz was already moving, cradling the fairy carefully while his mind raced. "We have to go. Right now."

  She grabbed his arm, fingers digging in. "Then I'm coming with you."

  "Lirien—"

  "Don't you DARE try to leave me behind."

  He looked at her—silver eyes blazing through tears, jaw set with determination. Arguing would waste time they didn't have.

  The This is insane, part of him whispered. You're students, not soldiers. You should get actual guards, people who know what they're—

  But Lira's face flashed in his mind. The weaver who'd made his clothes. Who'd trusted him with her sister's bracelet.

  "We need Kael," he said. "And weapons." His mind clicked through necessities. "And we need to alert guards—"

  "Guards won't believe us without proof." She was already running toward the Sanitarium's interior, pulling him along. "Kael will believe us. Come ON!"

  They sprinted through marble halls, boots echoing, startling healers who called after them in confusion. The fairy stirred weakly in Akilliz's hands, heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird.

  Hold on, he thought desperately. We're coming.

  A pulse of gratitude and exhaustion answered from Aura, then she went still, not dead, just utterly spent.

  Lirien burst through a side door into evening streets. "Kael's quarters are in the Arcanum! Third tier, eastern spire!"

  They ran. Past merchants packing up, past nobles stumbling home wine-drunk, past guards who watched them sprint by with mild curiosity. The city felt surreal—peaceful, bright, utterly ignorant of horror unfolding beyond its walls.

  The Arcanum rose ahead, pale stone wrapped in climbing vines glowing soft blue. Lirien took steps three at a time, Akilliz keeping pace despite burning lungs.

  She pounded on a door halfway up. "KAEL! KAEL, OPEN UP!"

  Sounds of stumbling, cursing, something crashing. The door flew open—Kael in sleeping clothes, hair wild, wand already glowing with defensive magic.

  "What—Lirien? Akilliz? What's—"

  "Mistwood village is under attack," Akilliz cut him off, breathless. "Dark elves. Dozens. People are dying!”

  Kael's expression transformed, sleepy confusion evaporating. "I thought we were going to get zolams sachel?"

  Akilliz held up the fairy. "Not tonight, She flew here to warn us. I saw it in my mind. It's bad, Kael."

  "Lira's there," Lirien added, voice breaking. "My sister. Please. We have to go."

  Kael didn't waste time with questions. He spun back into his room, emerged thirty seconds later fully dressed, wand holstered, pack over shoulder. "The guards—"

  "Won't believe us fast enough," Lirien said. "We're going now. You coming?"

  "Obviously." He fell into step as they descended at reckless speed. "But we need—"

  "I know," Akilliz interrupted. "Frostbane's in my room. One stop."

  They altered course, racing toward Sylvara's tower. Streets blurred past, concerned faces shouted questions they didn't stop to answer.

  Sylvara's tower loomed. They burst through, took spiral stairs four at a time. Akilliz's room, he grabbed Frostbane from the wall, grabbed his pack with potions, and supplies.

  The bottled fire on his nightstand caught his eye—still glowing soft, impossible light. On impulse he grabbed it too, shoving it carefully into his pack.

  "Ready?" Lirien stood in the doorway, face pale but determined.

  "Ready."

  They descended, hit the street running. City gates loomed ahead, massive, ancient, wrought with protective runes glowing soft gold. Two guards stood watch, bored.

  "Wait!" one called as they approached at sprint. "Gates are closed after—"

  "EMERGENCY," Kael shouted, not slowing. "Dark elf attack on Mistwood settlement!"

  The guards exchanged glances. One moved to block their path. "We haven't received any—"

  Lirien didn't slow. "Then you will soon. But people are dying right now and we're not waiting for bureaucracy!" She shoved past him—actually physically pushed the guard aside—and kept running.

  Kael and Akilliz followed, guards shouting protests behind them but not pursuing.

  The forest swallowed them whole.