The funeral draped Lumara in a silence heavier than the snow cloaking the village. No hammer rang against Torin’s anvil, no children scampered by the well, their laughter snuffed out like a pinched wick. The villagers gathered beneath a bruised gray sky, snowflakes drifting onto woolen cloaks and melting into tears on weathered faces. Elowen’s garden lay still, its herbs drooping as if they, too, mourned—thyme and feverfew bowing low, their faint glow dimmed to a whisper. Akilliz stood beside Torin, his skinny thirteen-year-old frame swallowed by a borrowed tunic two sizes too big, its hem brushing his knees. He stared at the wooden marker carved with her name: Elowen, Light of Lumara. The crowd murmured—What sickness took her? Could it spread? Was anyone else hiding it?—but no answers came, least of all to him. He clutched her journal, its leather edges frayed from nights spent hunched over the Lightspire recipe, each failed attempt a fresh stab of guilt. He’d climbed Frosthelm, fought a wolf, bled for her—and she was gone. The weight of it settled in his chest, a cold stone he couldn’t shift.
That night, the cottage felt like a shell. Akilliz muttered “Up!” to the hearth, and the flames flickered weakly, casting jittery shadows over the worn table where her laughter once warmed the air. Torin slumped in a chair, clutching the small golden Aurelia pendant he’d worn since their wedding, his eyes red and sunken. “She’s with her now, lad,” he rasped, voice thick with unshed tears. “A miracle, her coming like that—rare as stars at noon. Significant, Aki. Unheard of.” Akilliz nodded, mute, the memory of Aurelia’s golden light still burned into his mind—her elven words, Shal’ethar, vyn’ara, echoing soft and commanding. Be at peace. But peace wouldn’t come, not when his hands still trembled with the memory of that last potion, not when her frail smile haunted him. He crawled into bed, the journal beneath his pillow, and stared at the ceiling until dawn crept through the shutters.
Days bled into weeks, each one a gray blur. Akilliz drifted to the garden, kneeling among the thyme and feverfew, humming the three-note spell she’d taught him—a lilting tune that once made the herbs dance. The petals unfurled, glowing faintly like tiny stars, but their light felt dimmer without her beside him, her soft voice correcting his pitch. He’d pluck a sprig of lavender, crushing it between his fingers until its sharp scent stung his nose, and whisper, “Why’d you leave me, Ma?” The wind tugged at his patched tunic, cold against his skin, offering no reply. He’d sit there for hours, staring at the brook burbling past, its silver glint mocking him with memories of her trowel flicking dirt. The garden was hers, and now it was his, but it felt wrong—too quiet, too empty.
One morning, he opened her journal, its pages crinkling under his touch, and stared at the Lightspire entry: Found near the Lady’s shrine… blooms only at dusk… hum the Song of Dawn—three notes, soft and pure—cut steady at the base. He stumbled to the hearth, gathering moondew from her vial, a drop of honey from the jar, and a wilted feverfew sprig—closest he had to the Bloom. “Up!” he snapped, and the fire sputtered to life. He boiled the mix, humming until his throat ached, but the brew turned gray, then a muddy brown, never the pure white she’d needed. He slammed the pot down, shards scattering across the floor, and sank beside them, fists clenched. “I failed you,” he muttered, tears freezing on his cheeks as the hearth’s glow dimmed. “I’m not good enough.” The words became a mantra, bitter and relentless, gnawing at him through sleepless nights.
Weeks later, as snow melted into slush, he climbed Frosthelm again, a dull hatchet from Torin’s forge slung over his shoulder. His boots crunched through the pines, carving a smoother path up the steep trail—something to do, something to keep his hands busy. The air bit at his lungs, thinner with each step, and the shrine loomed ahead: Aurelia’s stone form, serene and unyielding, her hands outstretched over the mountain. He checked the crevice between the boulders—no Bloom glowed; dusk had slipped away, or maybe it hid from him. He sank against the statue, its faint warmth seeping into his numb hands, and glared up at her carved face. “Why’d you take her?” he demanded, voice cracking like ice underfoot. “Why was it ‘her time’? Who decides that—you? I could’ve saved her if I’d been better—faster, smarter. Why didn’t you help me? Why’d you leave me alone?” His fists pounded the snow, wet and cold soaking through his tunic, but the statue offered no answer—just the wind howling through the peaks, snow swirling in blinding gusts. He trudged home, empty-handed, a simmer of rage curling beneath his grief, driving his steps faster down the path he’d hacked.
Spring crept into Lumara, thawing the frost, and life stirred again. The forge roared one afternoon, golden sparks swirling as Torin shaped a plow blade for Old Cobb. Akilliz lingered nearby, grinding sage in a chipped mortar, its earthy tang cutting through the smoky air. He couldn’t shake the questions clawing at him—every failure, every wilted herb, stoked them higher. “Pa,” he said, setting the pestle down, his voice low but firm, “why’s magic so different? Why could Ma do what others can’t? Why couldn’t I save her?”
Torin paused mid-swing, the hammer glowing a faint blue before dimming in his grip. He wiped soot from his brow with a rag, his smile soft but tired, etched with lines Akilliz hadn’t noticed before. “Ain’t got all the answers, lad. Magic’s a gift—from the Nine, they say. Each made a city, poured their power into it—Aurelia’s Luminael, down south where the elves dwell, and eight others scattered across Ao, far beyond our maps. She shares her light with us, like the others do their own—wind, fire, stone, what have ye. Some folk hum to herbs and they bloom, some swing a hammer and it sings blue—it’s what calls to ye, what ye work at.” He leaned on the anvil, eyes drifting to the horizon where Frosthelm’s snowy cap caught the sun.
“But it’s got a price, Aki. Tales tell of a sorcerer up that mountain, mad with wind magic—he pushed too hard, burst into a cloud, lost his body entire, drifting forever in the skies. Magic’s alive, lad, and it bites back if ye overreach. Fire magic burns ye from within, blisters skin, steals yer touch ‘til ye can’t feel a thing. Common folk like us don’t fret much—humming to a plant or sparking a forge won’t kill ye—but them who pact with wizards or delve deep into it… they pay dear, body and soul.”
Akilliz’s eyes widened, fingers tightening on the mortar. “The Nine—do they ever come here? Why’d Aurelia take Ma?”
Torin rubbed his beard, voice dropping to a reverent hush. “Rarely, lad. They’ve been here since dirt was new and skies were young, but most don’t show their faces in a man’s life—far as I know, anyway. Aurelia’s different—folk say she visits Luminael once a year, at the Festival of Light, shining down on her elves. The others? Might as well be myths to us. Her coming for yer ma…” He clutched the pendant, tears glinting in the forge’s glow. “That’s a marvel, Aki. Significant. Unheard of in Lumara, maybe anywhere. She’s likely doing something grand with her now—I feel her watching over us, though it might just be an old fool’s hope.” His voice softened, breaking slightly. “She’d be proud of ye, lad—grieving don’t mean ye’re weak. It means ye loved her fierce.”
He nodded, the words sinking in slow, a tangle of comfort and ache. Questions simmered—about the Nine, about Luminael, about why his magic faltered when hers shone—but he let them rest for now, turning back to the garden. The herbs waited, their glow faint but stubborn, and he knelt among them, hands trembling as he tried to tend them alone. Feverfew wilted under his clumsy hums, nettles stung when he rushed, and he cursed under his breath, kicking at the dirt. “I’m not you,” he muttered, but he opened the journal again, determined to prove something—to her, to himself, to the silence that pressed in.
Summer bloomed across Lumara, the brook glinting like liquid gold under a fierce sun, and Akilliz threw himself into potions, desperate to fill the void Elowen left. The garden hummed under his touch now, thyme and sage unfurling with his three-note tune, but every success stung—she wasn’t here. One afternoon, Widow Bess knocked at the gate, her scrawny goat trailing behind, bleating pitifully. “Aki, this beast’s all bones—can ye fix him?” she asked, wringing her apron, her gray eyes pleading. He frowned, mind racing, and nodded. For days, he tinkered—grinding oats with a pestle, steeping burdock root, adding a pinch of glowing thyme from the garden’s edge. He hummed until his throat rasped, the mixture shimmering a faint green—Goat’s Grit, he called it. Poured into the trough, it worked slow magic: the goat’s coat thickened, legs muscled up, and within a month, it butted Bess’s fence with new vigor. She beamed, trading a plump pheasant, its feathers iridescent in the sun. “Yer a wonder, lad!” she said, pinching his cheek. Akilliz grinned despite himself, a flicker of pride cutting through the gloom, but as she left, he clutched the pheasant and whispered, “Wish you’d seen this, Ma.”
He brewed more, selling to the village—Dusk Draught (chamomile and honey, violet-glowing) to Mara for sleepless nights, easing her cough by dawn; Glowpetal Mist (yarrow and sage, shimmering red) to Old Cobb for a sliced thumb, traded for a sack of barley. Failures dogged him—a Cinder Tonic to warm bones flared too hot, scorching his workbench with a hiss, and he slumped by the hearth, muttering, “I’m still not good enough.” Torin found him there, clapping his shoulder. “Ye’re learning, lad—mistakes make the master.” Akilliz nodded, but the ache lingered, sharp as nettle stings.
One crisp evening, Tild the butcher fell ill, his wife Mara pounding on the cottage door. “Aki, he’s burning up—coughing, sweating somethin’ fierce!” Akilliz grabbed his pack, following her to their squat stone house. Tild lay on a cot, skin flushed, breath rattling like dry leaves. Akilliz knelt, pressing a hand to his brow—hot, clammy—then sniffed the air: stale, heavy with fever. “Feverfew,” he muttered, digging through his herbs, “mint to cool, moondew to bind it.” He brewed a Feverfew Kiss over their small fire, humming soft and steady, the liquid glowing a faint blue. Tild sipped it, grimacing, but the flush faded, his cough easing by nightfall. Mara pressed a smoked ham into Akilliz’s hands, tears in her eyes. “Yer Elowen’s son, alright,” Tild rasped, grinning weakly. Akilliz forced a smile, chest tight—success felt hollow without her to see it.
Stolen novel; please report.
Winter blanketed Lumara again, and he climbed Frosthelm a second time, his boots—worn but sturdy—crunching through fresh snow. Two years had hardened him; he was fifteen now, taller, shoulders broader from hauling wood and herbs. The shrine stood bare under a slate sky, no Bloom glowing in the crevice. He knelt, breath clouding, and traced the statue’s base, the cryptic inscription—She who lights the peaks sees all—mocking him. “If she’s with you, Aurelia,” he said, voice low and raw, “tell her I’m trying. But I need more—I can’t lose anyone else like that. Why’d you let her go?” The wind sighed through the pines, cold biting his ears, and he lingered, half-hoping for a sign—a glow, a whisper. Nothing came. He descended, resolve hardening like ice, the journal’s weight in his pack a quiet promise.
Spring returned to Lumara, the air thick with the scent of budding herbs and the brook’s cheerful gurgle, but Akilliz’s rage simmered beneath the surface, a quiet fire stoked by every day he stayed. He tended the garden—feverfew and thyme glowing under his hums—helped Torin at the forge, and brewed potions, but his mind churned with Luminael, with the elves, with a world beyond the village’s stone walls. One afternoon, rummaging behind the forge for a spare bellows strap, he found an old sword—rusted, notched, its leather hilt cracked from years of neglect. It wasn’t Torin’s gift; his father didn’t know the itch driving him. He hefted it, the weight dragging his skinny arms, and swung at the air, a clumsy arc that nearly toppled him. “I’ll need this,” he muttered, jaw tight, imagining Frosthelm’s wolves, imagining proving himself—to her, to himself.
He trained in secret, late into spring nights when the forge’s glow faded and Torin snored inside. Under a waxing moon, he hacked at straw dummies he’d lashed together with twine, the sword’s heft bruising his palms, each swing a battle against his own weakness. His arms trembled, barely holding the blade aloft, and his wild strokes missed half the time, thudding into dirt or slicing air. He’d stumble over roots, breath hitching, and curse under his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. “Stronger,” he’d growl, swinging again, the steel a dull gleam in the dark. One dusk, Torin caught him—leaning against the forge, arms crossed, a knowing glance flickering in his hazel eyes. “What’s this, lad?” he called, voice gruff but laced with curiosity. Akilliz froze, blade mid-swing, chest heaving. “Just… messing about, Pa,” he lied, wiping his brow. Torin stepped closer, squinting at the boy’s shaky stance—feet splayed wrong, grip too tight. “Hold it steady—here,” he said, nudging Akilliz’s hands lower, kicking his boots apart. “Swing from the shoulder, slow, like yer chopping wood.” he tried, the blade wobbling, and grazed the dummy’s arm, straw spilling. His father chuckled, a deep rumble. “Yer ma’d say ye dance like a goat, Aki—keep at it.” He lingered, studying him with a father’s quiet wonder—why the sword?—but said no more, retreating inside with a thoughtful frown.
He pressed on, out late, the sword a leaden burden he refused to drop. His arms ached after a few minutes, shoulders screaming, but he’d grit his teeth and swing again, a boy’s desperation forging resolve. Inside, he hid the fire—the elusive city burned in his thoughts, but he kept it from Torin, helping with the forge, tending herbs, biding time.
Summer flared hot and dry, and Akilliz sat by the anvil one dusk, sage dust on his hands, the forge’s heat waning as crickets chirped. “Pa,” he said, voice casual but probing, “what’s Luminael like? What’d Ma say about the elves?” Torin wiped sweat with a rag, eyes softening as he leaned on his hammer. “She said it’s all golden spires and glowing trees, lad—magic thick as mist, humming in the air. The elves are sharp, proud folk—stingy with their knowledge, not keen on outsiders. Yer ma learned from an old alchemist there, stern but kind, who taught her herbs are the earth’s heartbeat—older’n any spell we weave.” He sighed, clutching the pendant at his neck. “She’d want ye to grow beyond Lumara, Aki—said the Festival of Light’s a sight, Aurelia herself shining down. I’d give a year’s iron to see it.” His voice carried a wistful ache, but Akilliz’s heart raced—proof he needed more, proof the elves held answers.
Two years honed him sharp. He mastered the journal—Lightfoot Brew (rosemary and glowpetal) to lighten steps, traded for a skein of wool that scratched his neck; Storm Salve (aloe and a cryptic herb, faintly crackling) for burns, bartered for a slab of venison that dripped red on the table. Merchants rolled through under late summer’s haze, their carts creaking, and Akilliz haggled with a fierceness they didn’t expect from a boy—a stag-clasp cloak, deep green and warm against the evening chill; boots of thick leather that hugged his feet like a promise; vine-etched bottles delicate as frost, glinting in the lantern light. His purse clinked with coins, each trade a brick in the wall he’d built toward leaving, though rage simmered beneath—a fire he couldn’t douse, a scream he swallowed daily.
One sweltering late summer day, Akilliz helped Torin forge a broadsword for a merchant bound south. The forge roared, heat plastering his tunic to his skin, and he pumped the bellows, arms burning from dawn spent weeding the garden, nights swinging that cursed sword, and no meal since a stale crust at noon. His stomach gnawed itself, his head swam, and the tedium—pump, pump, pump—stoked his rage higher. Torin barked, “Steady, lad—keep the rhythm!” Akilliz’s hands slipped, slick with sweat, and the bellows faltered. The fire flared wild, a tongue of flame licking out, searing his forearm with a sharp, white-hot sting. He yelped, dropping the bellows with a clatter, the burn blistering red against his skin. Rage burst free—he kicked the anvil stand, pain forgotten, and roared, “I’m done, Pa!” Storming inside, the cottage door banged shut, rattling the stew pot on its hook.
Torin pushed through the cottage door, his heavy boots thudding against the worn floorboards, his brow creased with worry and frustration. “What’s this nonsense, Aki?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the stifling air. Akilliz spun around, pacing the cramped room like a trapped animal, his words bursting out in jagged, splintered shards. “I failed her—I’m a failure! She died because I wasn’t good enough—too slow, too weak, too stupid! I tend herbs, help ye forge, swing that damn sword, and it’s nothing—nothing! I need more—I need to study with the elves, learn everything they know. I won’t let anyone I love die like that again—not you, not anyone!” Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms, the fresh burn on his hand throbbing in rhythm with his racing pulse. He collapsed to his knees, sobs wracking his frame, his head bowed low. “I hate myself, Pa—I hate me.”
Torin dropped beside him in an instant, pulling him into a fierce, enveloping hug, his own tears falling silently onto Akilliz’s sandy hair. “Ye’re no failure, lad,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “Ye climbed a mountain, faced a beast—ye’re brave, like her, stronger than ye know. She died ‘cause it was her time—Aurelia said it—not ‘cause ye fell short. The elves…” He trailed off, exhaling a shaky breath, his voice cracking under the weight of memory. “They’re a hard lot, proud and stingy with their secrets. Master her journal—every page—and ye might win ‘em over. She’d be proud, Aki—proud ye’re doing so well.” He gripped Akilliz’s shoulders, his eyes glistening but resolute. “I feel her watching—I know ye will go on to be a great potion master just like yer ma’”
The wildfire of Akilliz’s rage simmered down, cooling into something solid—purpose. He wiped his face with a trembling hand, nodding silently, and wrapped his burned hand in a scrap of cloth, the sting a sharp anchor to his resolve. In the days that followed, he threw himself into the journal’s final recipes: Cinder Tonic, refined until it warmed without scalding, traded for a copper coin; Feverfew Kiss, perfected with a steady hum, easing a child’s cough in exchange for a crusty loaf of bread. The garden flourished under his care, the herbs glowing brighter—a quiet tribute to her—and each night, he swung the sword, his movements growing surer, though still clumsy, his arms trembling less with every passing moon.
Late summer bled into autumn, the leaves brushing the trees with hints of gold, and one evening, as the forge cooled and the stew pot bubbled on the hearth—its spoon twirling lazily, filling the cottage with savory warmth—Akilliz sat Torin down by the fire. “Pa,” he said, his voice calm and clear at fifteen, his eyes steady, “I’ve been thinking. Ye’ve kept me busy—garden, forge, all of it. I know ye’re stalling, trying to keep me from Luminael. But I want to go—soon. I need to learn, make her proud. I can’t stay here forever.” He placed the journal on the table between them, its pages worn but intact, a roadmap to the future he envisioned.
Torin’s hand drifted to the pendant around his neck, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. He sighed, shoulders slumping as if the weight of years pressed down on him. “Aye, lad, ye’ve caught me,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Wait ‘til spring—roads’ll be kinder, and I need ye ‘til then, helping with the forge. Truth is…” He faltered, and the big man seemed to crumple, tears streaming into his graying beard, his hands trembling. “Ye’re all I’ve got, Aki. I love ye, love our family—miss her so fierce it’s like a blade in me. I don’t want to be alone, rattling ‘round this place with naught but echoes. But I know a young man’s journey matters—I stayed, built a life, but ye… ye’ve got fire.” He swallowed hard, meeting his son’s gaze with raw, unguarded honesty. “Stay ‘til spring, get stronger—I need to know ye can face the wide world alone. I’m afraid I’ll lose ye too, won’t hear from ye again, but ye’re smart, strong. I’ve got to trust that. If ye stay, I’ll give ye my blessing come thaw.”
Akilliz’s throat tightened, and he reached out, gripping his father’s arm, the dull ache of his burn grounding him. “I’ll stay ‘til spring, Pa—help ye, get ready. I’ll come back, I swear—ye won’t be alone forever. I’ll learn, make ye both proud.” Torin nodded, a sob shaking his broad frame, and pulled him into a tight embrace, a father’s love fierce and fragile in the hearth’s gentle glow.
Autumn deepened into winter’s slow creep, Akilliz tending the herbs through frost, swinging the sword—still heavy, still awkward, but steadier—until spring’s first thaw glimmered on the horizon. When the time came, he started to pack his treasures: the journal tucked close to his heart, bottles of remedies clinking softly in his pack, his boots laced tight beside the stag-clasp cloak. Torin’s blessing lingered in his mind with a quiet hum, and as the budding dawn whispered through the village, the road to Luminael was close now. He was prepared to say his goodbye to all he had known and venture forth into the world beyond the humble village.
