The garden smelled of thyme and warm earth, a scent Akilliz could find blindfolded. He knelt beside his mother, Elowen, his skinny fingers brushing the fuzzy leaves of a feverfew plant. “Grow, you stubborn thing,” he muttered, humming a tune she’d taught him—a lilting, three-note spell that made the herb perk up, its white petals unfurling like tiny stars. At thirteen, he wasn’t much good at it yet, but the garden didn’t mind his crooked notes, its glow a gentle encouragement.

  “Gentler, Aki,” Elowen said, her voice soft as the brook burbling past their cottage. She knelt a pace away, her dark hair streaked with gray, guiding a trowel that dug on its own with a flick of her wrist. “You’re singing to it, not shouting at a goat.” Her smile crinkled her eyes, warm as the afternoon sun spilling over Lumara’s stone rooftops.

  Akilliz grinned, sticking out his tongue. “Goats listen better.” He gave the feverfew a final hum, and it stretched an inch taller, glowing faintly—a trick of the village’s magic, where every chore had a spark of life. He leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow, his sandy hair sticking out like a haystack, his patched tunic smelling of moss. He loved this—the garden’s hum, the way Elowen’s magic danced with the plants, the quiet rhythm of their life in Lumara.

  She chuckled, brushing dirt from her skirt. “You’ve got a knack for it, lad, but feverfew’s stubborn. It likes a soft touch.” She reached into her basket, pulling out a sprig of lavender, its purple blooms shimmering faintly. “This one’s for calming—good for a restless night. When I was your age, I’d sneak it into my pa’s tea when he got too grumpy. Worked like a charm.” She winked, her laughter like wind chimes, and Akilliz couldn’t help but laugh too.

  “Did it really?” he asked, scooting closer, his eyes wide. “Did Grandpa ever figure it out?”

  “Oh, he knew,” Elowen said, her smile turning mischievous. “But he’d pretend to be cross, then sleep like a babe. Herbs have their secrets, Aki. They’re older than us, older than Lumara even. Some say they whisper to the gods—like Aurelia herself, watching from Luminara.” She pointed south, where the horizon glowed faintly with the city’s golden light, a beacon of divine magic.

  Akilliz followed her gaze, his curiosity sparking. “Do you think she really watches us? And what about the dwarves in Frosthelm? Tild says they’re just stories, but Mara swears she saw one once, trading ore for bread.” He tilted his head, his voice full of wonder. “Are there really dwarves up there?”

  Elowen’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe, maybe not. Frosthelm’s full of mysteries—caves deep as the earth’s heart, where the stone sings if you listen close. My ma used to say the dwarves guard their secrets, but they’ll trade if you’ve got something they want. She met one once, long ago, said he was gruff but fair, with a beard as red as fire.” She ruffled Akilliz’s hair. “You’ll have to climb up there one day and find out for yourself.”

  “Me?” Akilliz laughed, the idea thrilling and terrifying all at once. “I’d probably get lost before I found a single cave!”

  Across the yard, his father’s forge roared, a plume of golden sparks swirling as Torin swung his hammer. The big man grunted a word—“Strike!”—and the hammer flared blue, slamming into a blade with perfect aim, folding the steel like dough. The air shimmered with the spell’s echo, a faint hum Akilliz felt in his bones. “Show-off,” the young boy called, dodging a playful glare.

  Torin’s laugh rumbled like thunder, his apron smudged with soot, his broad shoulders hunched over the anvil. “Keep to your weeds, lad. This blade’s not for Old Maris today—I’m working on something special.” He beckoned Akilliz over, wiping his hands on a rag. “Come see.”

  He scampered to the forge, the heat washing over him like a warm embrace, the scent of molten steel mixing with the garden’s earthy aroma. His father held up a half-finished sword, its blade etched with faint runes that glowed a soft blue. “For a traveler passing through tomorrow—a knight from the southern valleys,” Torin said, his voice proud. “Says he’s hunting beasts near Frosthelm. This’ll cut through ‘em like butter, with a bit of magic to light his way.” He ran a finger along the runes, and they flared brighter, casting a gentle glow across the forge.

  Akilliz’s eyes widened. “Beasts? You mean those the red-eyed demons Tild talks about?” He reached out, touching the blade’s hilt, the metal warm under his fingers.

  “Could be,” Torin said, his tone gruff but kind. “Tild’s got a big mouth, but there’s truth in some stories. Frosthelm’s no place for a boy, though—not yet.” He slapped Akilliz’s shoulder, his big hand gentle. “Help me with the bellows, eh? Let’s get this finished.”

  Akilliz nodded eagerly, grabbing the bellows and pumping them with all his might, the fire roaring higher as his father worked the blade. They laughed as a stray spark landed on Akilliz’s tunic, Torin swatting it out with a grin. “You’ll be a blacksmith yet, lad,” he teased, and Akilliz beamed, the forge’s warmth wrapping around him like a second home.

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  A knock at the gate interrupted them, and they turned to see Mara, the butcher’s wife, her arms full of a wrapped bundle. “Elowen!” she called, her voice cheery as she stepped into the yard, her cheeks rosy from the afternoon sun. “Brought some venison—thought you might trade for a bit of that sage you grow. Tild’s been grumbling about his aches again.”

  Elowen rose, her trowel hovering mid-air as she waved Mara over. “Always a pleasure, Mara. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She inspected the venison, nodding approvingly, and handed over a bundle of sage, its leaves shimmering faintly. “Steep this in hot water for Tild—it’ll ease his joints. And tell him to stop hauling flour sacks like he’s a young sprout again!”

  Mara laughed, tucking the sage into her basket. “You’re a lifesaver, Elowen. Aki, you helping your ma today?” She winked at him, her smile warm.

  “Always,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I’m gonna be the best potion maker in Lumara one day—just like Ma!”

  “That’s the spirit,” Mara said, pinching his cheek as she turned to leave. “You three take care now.”

  As Mara’s footsteps faded, Elowen set him to a new chore—gathering mint from the garden’s edge for a cooling salve. He hummed as he worked, the mint leaves glowing softly under his touch, their scent sharp and refreshing. “Ma, how’d you learn all this?” he asked, plucking a leaf and holding it up. “You always know just what to use.”

  She smiled, her eyes distant. “My ma taught me, and her ma before her. But I learned the most from an old elf in Luminael, years ago. She was a potion master, sharp as a blade, but kind. Said herbs are the earth’s magic—older than any spell we can weave. You’ll learn too, Aki, if you keep at it.” Her voice softened, a flicker of strain crossing her face as she caught her breath, her trowel wobbling mid-dig.

  “You alright?” Akilliz asked, his grin fading. She’d been slower lately, her hands shaky when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  “I’m fine, love,” she said, too quick. She waved the trowel back to work, but it dropped into the dirt, the feverfew beside her wilting a touch, its glow dimming. He reached for her arm, but she shooed him off. “Just the heat. Fetch me some water, dear?”

  He nodded, unease prickling, and darted to the cottage. Inside, the hearth flared with a snap of his fingers—“Light!”—casting a cozy glow over the worn table. A waterskin hung by the door; he grabbed it, pausing as the stew pot hummed softly, its spoon spinning in a bubbling dance. Outside, Torin’s hammer sang, blue sparks shaping the knight’s sword, the forge’s warmth a steady heartbeat. Akilliz smiled despite himself—magic made Lumara home.

  Back in the garden, he handed his mother the waterskin. She drank, her hands trembling faintly, her breath a little shallower. Torin ambled over, wiping soot on his apron. “Sun’s dipping,” he said, squinting at the valley’s rim, where Frosthelm loomed, its snowy cap catching the last light. “Best get that stew inside, darlin’.”

  She nodded, rising with a wince. “Aye, and little one’s tonic needs testing.” She tousled his hair, her touch warm but frail. They crossed the yard together, Torin’s arm around her, Akilliz trailing with the journal clutched tight. The village settled into dusk—lanterns flickered to life with soft murmurs, a goat bleated as its tether untied itself, and the brook glinted like liquid silver under the first stars.

  Inside, Torin set the stew pot on the table with a clink. Akilliz lit the hearth again—“Up!”—the flames dancing higher. Elowen sank into a chair, her breath hitching, her face paler than before. “Let’s see that tonic,” she said, forcing a smile.

  He grabbed sage from a shelf, honey from a jar, and dew from a vial—Elowen’s stash, collected at dawn. He hummed as he mixed, the sage leaves curling tighter with each note. The brew bubbled in a small pot, turning a faint green—not blue this time. “Better?” he asked, holding it up.

  She leaned forward, then froze. Her hand flew to her chest, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. The pot slipped from Akilliz’s grip, splashing green across the floor, as she slumped forward. “Ma!” he shouted, his heart lurching as he lunged to catch her.

  Torin reached her first, cradling her against his broad chest. “Elowen!” His voice broke, raw with desperation. He pressed a hand to her brow, muttering “Warm,” but the magic faltered—no glow, no heat sparked beneath his calloused fingers. Her eyes fluttered, glassy, her breath a frail wisp.

  “Aki…” she rasped, her trembling hand clutching his wrist. “The cupboard… the white bottle. I need—” A heavy cough cut her off, and she slumped against the table, sweat beading on her pale forehead. Akilliz bolted to the kitchen, heart pounding.

  There it was, tucked behind a jar of honey—a glass bottle, pure white, shimmering faintly as if light danced within. He snatched it and hurried back, thrusting it into Torin’s hands.

  “By the gods…” Torin uncorked it, peering inside with a grimace. “Empty, love. Plum dry.” He tilted it over a wooden cup, coaxing out a few meager drops, his usually cheerful face creasing into a frown. “How long’ve you been taking this? Why didn’t you say?”

  Elowen gasped, her voice thin. “Didn’t want… to burden you. Is it truly gone?”

  “Aye,” Torin grunted, setting the bottle down. “You need to lie down. Tell me how to get more—I’ll fetch the herbs, call the monk if I must.”

  “No time,” she whispered, her grip tightening on Akilliz’s wrist. “Aki, darling… Lightspire Bloom. On Frosthelm. It glows… best found at dusk.”

  “Frosthelm?” Akilliz’s heart thudded against his ribs. The mountain loomed north, a jagged shadow capped with snow. “Ma, I can’t—”

  “You can,” she said, her voice fierce despite its frailty. “Take my journal. Go.”

  Torin’s gaze met his, eyes wet and fierce. “I’ll get her to bed and pray to Aurelia, lad. Hurry—now.”

  Akilliz stumbled back, chest tight, as the hearth’s glow dimmed. The cozy warmth of Lumara wavered, urging him into the night.