The wagon rolled steady through the evening, wheels creaking a rhythm that almost lulled Akilliz to sleep despite the throbbing in his bandaged arm. He sat in the back, his pack now a makeshift pillow as he watched the village lights grow brighter with each turn.

  Petyr spoke up from the driver's bench. "Y'know kid. I been traveling with the Brother near two years now. You're lucky we came along when we did."

  "Lucky's one word for it," Akilliz managed. "Thank you. Both of you."

  Petyr guided the horses around a muddy rut. "Don't thank us yet. Thank us when you make it to Luminael in one piece."

  Aldric chuckled. "Petyr's right. Three days on the road and you've already tangled with bandits. The Mistwood will test you harder than any sword."

  A blacksmith's forge still glowed red in one workshop as they rolled in, the distant clang of hammer on metal echoing familiar. Akilliz watched the forge glow until it passed from sight.

  "If you make it through the Mistwood," Aldric said, "and if you're fortunate enough to reach the elven city proper, you might run into an old friend of mine. Tell him he's spent too long sleeping on his studies of the duel, and I challenge him to a rematch."

  "Sleeping on his studies?" Akilliz asked.

  "The man's narcoleptic. Brilliant wizard, mind you. One of the best I've ever seen. But he sleeps more than he wakes." Aldric shook his head with something between fondness and exasperation. "His name is Zolam. Mighty Zolam."

  He said the last part in a whisper, glancing around as if afraid the trees might be listening.

  "Why are you whispering?" Akilliz asked.

  "Because if you sing it just right, he will appear without warning. And I don't want to turn this place into an outhouse just yet."

  Petyr snorted. "I rather like the tune, myself."

  "What's the song?"

  Aldric held up a hand. "I can't sing it, or he'll appear." His grin widened. "You'll have to ask him about it yourself. If you dare."

  "He's that powerful?"

  "Powerful?" Aldric laughed. "That's one way to describe it."

  "How old is he?"

  "Old enough to sleep as much as the trees themselves." Aldric stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Unless he drinks his potions. Then he's a whirlwind until he crashes again. Last I saw him, he had his entire class staring into the cosmos until it stared back. Of course then he started snoring. The elflings just covered him with a blanket and continued on."

  Akilliz tried to picture it. An old wizard staring at the sky with a class of elves behind him doing the same thing, then all of them just covering him with a blanket mid-lesson.

  How ridiculous. How fun.

  "So if I meet him, I just... mention you?"

  "Tell him Brother Aldric says he's gotten soft. That he's afraid to duel me again because he knows I'll win this time." Aldric's eyes gleamed with competitive fire. "That should wake him up long enough to be insufferable about it. And if you're lucky, he might teach you something before he nods off again."

  At the village center stood their destination. A weathered sign creaked above the door, painted with a turtle balancing precariously on a wine barrel. The Tipsy Turtle. Warm light spilled from the windows, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread made his mouth water.

  Petyr pulled the wagon to a stop near the stable. "I'll see to the horses. Brother, get him inside before he begins to bleed on my bench."

  Aldric climbed down and came around to help Akilliz from the back. Standing made the world tilt. He gripped the wagon's side until his vision steadied.

  "Easy," Aldric said. "You lost more blood than you think. Slow steps."

  They made their way to the inn's entrance. Aldric pushed the door open and heat rolled out to meet them along with the clamor of evening trade. The common room bustled with locals bent over their meals, traders comparing goods, a bard in the corner plucking at a lute with more enthusiasm than skill.

  Behind the bar stood a wiry man with auburn hair fading to gray at the temples. Sharp green eyes took in Akilliz's bloodied sleeve and pale face in an instant. He set down the mug he'd been wiping and came around the counter.

  "Brother Aldric," he said, relief and concern mixed in his voice. "Didn't expect you till tomorrow. And who's this?"

  "Kote." Aldric guided Akilliz to a stool. "This is Akilliz, from Lumara up north. Ran into some trouble on the road. Three bandits tried to kill a merchant. He stepped in to help."

  Kote's eyebrow rose. "The fire of youth, eh? It knows no consequences." He looked the boy up and down. "When's the last time you ate properly?"

  Akilliz tried to remember. "Bread and dried meat. This morning."

  "Right." Kote turned and shouted toward the kitchen. "Gwenny! Hot stew and fresh bread, quick as you can!" He grabbed a pitcher and poured water into a mug, sliding it across. "Drink that. All of it."

  The water was cool and clean. Akilliz drained it in three long swallows.

  A woman emerged from the kitchen, broad-shouldered and sturdy, wiping her hands on a blood-flecked apron. She took one look at Akilliz and disappeared back into the kitchen without a word. She returned moments later with a steaming bowl of stew, chunks of beef and carrots floating in rich brown gravy. The smell was so good it made him dizzy, and there was a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven.

  "Eat," she commanded. "You look like you've been living on air."

  He didn't need to be told twice. The first spoonful burned his tongue, but he didn't care. By the third, he was shoveling it in like a man starved.

  Aldric watched with quiet amusement. "Slow down. You'll make yourself sick."

  He forced himself to pause, tearing off a chunk of bread. Around them, the inn's noise continued. Laughter from a corner table. The scrape of chairs. Someone calling for more ale.

  Kote leaned against the bar. "Normally I'd charge for a room, but given the circumstances, it's yours free tonight. Second door on the left upstairs." He paused. "My wife Serna usually keeps them tidy, but she's been laid low with fever these past days."

  "Fever? Your wife's sick?" Akilliz straightened. "I'm a healer. I could look at her. Least I could do."

  Kote's eyebrows rose. "You're in no shape to be brewing potions, lad."

  "I've got supplies. And I've treated fever before." He touched the pack at his feet. "Let me at least try to repay your kindness."

  Kote and Aldric exchanged a glance. Then Kote nodded. "All right. First door upstairs. But if you collapse halfway through brewing, don't blame me."

  Akilliz climbed the stairs slowly, pack slung over his shoulder. The first door opened to a room thick with the tang of illness. A woman lay beneath a mound of blankets, her face flushed red as forge coals. Sweat glistened on her brow. Her breaths came in dry, rattling gasps.

  Kote hovered in the doorway. "That's her. Been like this three days now."

  Akilliz set his pack down and knelt beside the bed. He touched her forehead. Burning hot. "She needs Feverfew Kiss. It'll break the sickness."

  He unpacked his supplies at the small bedside table. The tiny travel cauldron, cleaned with a rag and fresh water from the pitcher. He whispered the blessing.

  "Earth to feed, fire to warm,

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  breath of both, in silence born.

  Take no toll, leave no scar —

  bless this work, as near and far."

  A faint shimmer rose and faded.

  He worked methodically. Two cups of spring water from his flask, measured to the mark Ma had etched inside the rim. A cloth bundle of feverfew lowered in as the candle flame built. The sand timer turned. Fresh mint ground in the mortar, releasing its sharp green scent.

  But doubt gnawed at him. This fever raged fiercer than Tild's had back in Lumara. The mint might not be enough. Serna's breathing rattled worse with each passing minute, sweat pouring off her in sheets despite the cool evening air.

  Then the voice slithered into his skull like oil spreading across water.

  Mint is dull, mortal. Add shadowroot instead. Sharper bind. Faster cure.

  His hand hovered over his pack. Shadowroot. Rare, and dangerous. A single pinch too much turned any brew to poison. Still, he had one precious dose, carefully harvested from the shadowed vales east of Lumara where few dared tread.

  The old way is slow, the demon whispered. This woman suffers while you measure and second-guess. Be swift. Be certain.

  Akilliz's fingers itched toward the shadowroot vial. His mother's face swam in his memory. Her gentle corrections during lessons. “Magic is about care, not speed.”

  But Serna's rattling breath filled the room, desperate and failing. Each gasp sounded weaker than the last. What if the mint wasn't enough? What if she died because he'd been too afraid to use what he had?

  His hand closed around the vial.

  He uncorked it.

  Added the pinch.

  Watched it dissolve with a hiss.

  The brew turned deep indigo, far stronger than usual, with an acrid edge that sharpened the air. The scent changed from Ma's gentle herbal warmth to something darker, more potent. Guilt twisted in his gut like a knife, but he pushed it down.

  It would work. It had to.

  Serna sipped from the cup he held to her lips, her face contorting at the bitterness that bit sharper than Ma's sweet wine base ever had. Minutes stretched into agony. Her flush lingered stubbornly. The rattle in her breathing worsened for a harrowing moment, and panic spiked through him.

  What have I done?

  Then, gradually, her color eased to pale normalcy. Her sweat cooled from burning to merely damp. Her breaths steadied into a soft, deep rhythm, clear and strong.

  She managed a weak smile, her trembling hand patting his arm. "Bless you, lad. Thought the fire would claim me tonight. But now... it's like a cool stream washed through me. First easy breath in days."

  Relief flooded through him, sharp and warm. The shadowroot had worked better than Ma's gentle mint would have.

  But not in a clean way.

  You're learning, the demon purred, satisfied as a cat with cream.

  Akilliz packed his supplies with shaking hands, unable to meet Serna's grateful eyes.

  Kote appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "She's better. Color's back, breathing clear. How did you—"

  "Feverfew Kiss," Akilliz said. His voice sounded hollow, like it came from someone else. "Old family recipe."

  He descended back to the common room, legs unsteady. The stew Gwenny had given him sat half-finished on the bar. He slid back onto his stool and ate mechanically, barely tasting it.

  The shadowroot guilt gnawed at him with every bite.

  It worked, he told himself. Serna's alive. That's what matters.

  But inside, he felt like he'd done something wrong. He could've killed her.

  He'd chosen the harsh path, and it had worked better.

  Was it truly wrong to use this power if he saved people with it?

  He pushed the empty bowl away and looked around the room, trying to shake the spiraling thoughts. The inn buzzed with evening life. Conversations rose and fell like waves. Ale flowed. The bard had given up on the lute and was telling a story instead, something about a dragon and a very confused baker.

  From a corner table, an old man's voice cut through the din. "Ah, fuck! Not again! Come on!" Dice clattered. Groans followed.

  Near the corner, three men hunched over a table. Two burly travelers in patched cloaks and an old farmer whose freckled face tightened as he watched his modest pile of coppers shrink. They were playing Farkle. The dice clattered across the scarred wood, and the travelers smirked each time they landed, banking points with uncanny consistency.

  Always ones and fives. Farkle's scoring numbers.

  Akilliz watched for longer than he should have. Enough that the two burly travelers gave him a side-eyed glare for staring. But the pattern was too perfect. Too consistent.

  Something was wrong.

  He leaned toward Kote, who was wiping down the bar. "Those men playing Farkle. Something's off about their dice."

  Kote glanced over. "That's Tobin. Poor bastard's been losing all night. His wife's gonna skin him alive when he gets home empty-handed."

  "The dice must be weighted," Akilliz said quietly. "Lead in the ones and fives. Watch. They never roll anything else."

  Kote's eyes narrowed. He watched for another minute, tracking the rolls. His jaw tightened.

  "Watch them," Akilliz said. "It bothers me they're taking that old man's coin. My pa would walk right over there and drag them out by their ears."

  Another roll. The dice tumbled, clattered, settled. Three ones, two fives.

  Perfect. Too perfect.

  If Pa would fix it, I should too. That's the kind of man he is.

  Akilliz stood, ignoring the protest from his wounded arm, and crossed to the table. The farmer looked up, hope flickering desperately in his eyes like a drowning man spotting shore.

  "Fair game, friends?" Akilliz asked, keeping his voice light and curious.

  The bearded traveler sneered. "Buzz off, kid. This ain't your table."

  "Just curious." Akilliz reached out and snatched the dice mid-roll with the same quickness he used for snipping herbs. He held them up to the lamplight, examining them closely. Then he scraped at a small nick on one with his thumbnail.

  Dull gray lead glinted beneath the white paint.

  "Weighted," he said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "Lead in the ones and fives. Every roll favors the house."

  The room quieted. Conversations died. Eyes turned.

  The travelers flushed red. The bearded one stood abruptly, his hand moving toward something hidden under his cloak. "You calling us cheaters, boy?"

  "I'm saying your dice are rigged." Akilliz set them on the table with a definitive click. "Anyone here can check for themselves."

  Kote appeared then, solid and imposing despite his wiry frame, something in his stance suggesting he knew how to handle trouble. "Out. Both of you. Now. And if I catch you cheating inside my inn again, I'll have the village guard toss you in the stocks."

  The travelers grabbed their cloaks and shoved through the growing crowd, muttering curses that grew louder once they reached the door. It slammed behind them hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar.

  The farmer blinked, stunned. Then his face broke into a wide relieved grin and he thrust a heavy silver coin into Akilliz's palm. "Reckon my wife's right that I've got no head for dice. That was my last bit for winter feed and the baby's milk." He laughed, the sound slightly manic with relief. "Name's Tobin. I owe you more than coin, friend."

  Akilliz tried to hand the coin back. "I can't take this. It's yours."

  "No, lad." Tobin closed Akilliz's fingers around it firmly. "Refusing would be disrespectful. You earned it. Besides, my wife would box my ears if she knew I tried to weasel out of paying a debt."

  Akilliz pocketed the coin, the weight of it unfamiliar and welcome. "Just hate seeing folks fleeced."

  "What brings you through our little village, lad?"

  "Heading to Luminael. Through the Mistwood."

  Tobin's grin vanished. His face went pale under the freckles. "Luminael? Gods preserve you." He leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Folks around here tell stories of men who venture into those fog-shrouded trees. Most never come back. Those who do?" He shook his head slowly. "They forget. Names, kin, even their own faces in a mirror. They wander back hollow as old barrels."

  An old man at the next table spoke up, his voice like gravel scraping stone. "Aye. I knew a man went there looking for rare mushrooms. Came out three days later and didn't know his own wife. Stared at her like she was a stranger asking for coin."

  "That's just stories," a younger man scoffed. "Traveler's tales to scare children."

  "Is it?" The old man's clouded eye fixed on him with disturbing intensity. "Then explain Henry the hermit."

  Several people shifted uncomfortably. A woman made a warding sign. Someone muttered a prayer to Aurelia.

  Aldric's voice cut through the murmurs. "There's a hermit who lives in the woods east of the Mistwood. People call him Half-Mad Henry because he speaks in what sounds like utter tongues. Predictions. Prophecies. Warnings. None of it makes sense, but..." Aldric paused. "Later, you realize he was right all along."

  "Some say he went through the Mistwood and came out touched by the gods themselves," Kote added from behind the bar. "Others say he was born with one oar in the water. Either way, that forest is strange."

  "The Mistwood is simple," Aldric said. "If you respect it, it respects you."

  "Is that all there is to it?" Akilliz asked.

  "I've been through twice. Once when I was younger than you, seeking the temple in Luminael. The mist showed me my father, dead five years by then, calling for help from quicksand. I almost ran to him. Almost. But I stopped and asked myself: is my father really in the forest? Or am I seeing what I fear most?" He took a drink from his mug. "The moment I recognized it wasn't real, the vision faded. The mist cleared. I kept walking south."

  "That's it?" Akilliz asked. "Just... don't believe what you see?"

  Aldric looked at him steadily.

  "It's harder than it sounds when the vision is your dead mother asking why you let her die."

  The words hit like a blow. Akilliz's breath caught.

  "Just keep your wits about you, lad," Aldric said quietly.

  Akilliz nodded slowly, throat tight. "I'll remember."

  Tobin clapped him on the shoulder one last time. "Then may all the Nine watch over you. You've got more gusto than sense, but I suppose that's what it takes these days."

  Exhaustion pulled at him like a pair of old muddy boots. Every part of him ached. The wounded arm throbbed in time with his pulse. His thoughts moved sluggishly through shadowroot guilt and Mistwood warnings and the bone-deep weariness of nearly dying.

  He climbed the stairs again, each step an effort. Found the second door on the left. The room was small but blessedly clean. He eyed a narrow bed with a patchwork quilt, a wooden chair, and a basin of water on a stand near the window.

  He set his pack down carefully, checking once more that everything was secure. Ma's journal, wrapped in waxed cloth. All the vials, cushioned by dried herbs. The Lightspire Bloom, still glowing faintly through its protective padding. His coin purse, heavier now with Tobin's silver.

  Everything accounted for. Everything safe.

  He should wash. Tend the wound properly. Instead he collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  The shadowroot whispered in his memory. The demon's satisfied purr. The way Serna's fever had broken so fast, so completely.

  Yet it worked, he told himself again. That's what matters.

  However the guilt wouldn't leave. It sat heavy in his chest like a stone.

  He thought about the Mistwood. About visions of dead loved ones. About Ma's voice asking why he let her die.

  Will it show me the mountain? The moment I failed? The potion turning gray?

  Or worse, would it show her alive? Calling for him to come home, and that it had all been a terrible dream?

  Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under despite the spiraling thoughts.

  He dreamed of potions turning sour, old demons laughing in his ear, and the face Ma made when she drew her last breath.