Three days had passed since the Mistwood.

  Three days of pretending everything was normal.

  Three days of feeling nothing.

  Akilliz woke to pale morning light filtering through his tower window. The first thing he did, before even opening his eyes fully, was check his left arm.

  He pulled back the sleeve of his sleep shirt and examined it in the dawn glow. The black veins had calmed since the battle. No longer pulsing, no longer spreading visibly. Just ashen gray skin from fingertips to shoulder, like flesh slowly turning to stone. The color was easier to hide than the veins had been. Small mercy.

  He flexed his fingers. They moved smoothly now, obediently. The delay was gone. When he told them to curl, they curled. When he told them to spread, they spread. Perfect control.

  But they didn't feel like his anymore.

  The arm was cold. Always cold. Numb in a way that went deeper than skin, deeper than nerve endings. Like someone had replaced his flesh with clay and expected him not to notice the difference.

  He sat up and reached for the scissors on his bedside table. His nails had grown again overnight. They always did now. Every morning he had to trim them back to normal length, watching the black clippings fall like tiny shards of obsidian. By evening they'd be long again, sharp at the edges if he let them go.

  Just another thing to manage. Another sign to hide.

  After trimming his nails, he dressed carefully. New clothes from the market, purchased two days ago with coin he'd earned selling spare potions. A long-sleeved tunic in deep blue, thick enough that the gray of his arm wouldn't show through. New leather gloves, soft but substantial, dyed black to match his boots. A cloak for extra concealment if needed, though he left that hanging by the door for now.

  He checked himself in the small mirror above his washbasin. Normal. He looked normal. Just another student preparing for another day of lessons.

  The bottled fire sat on his desk where it always did, glowing softly in its glass prison. He'd kept it as a night light since arriving in Luminael, watching the flames dance without consuming anything, wondering how such a thing was possible. This morning, holding it up to the light, he noticed something he'd missed before.

  At the bottom of the bottle, etched into the glass itself, was a rune.

  He turned it slowly, studying the symbol. Definitely not Elvish script. The lines were too angular, too geometric. Dwarven maybe? He'd assumed Sylvara might teach him the basics of runes since he saw them everywhere, but she hadn't gotten to that yet.

  He set the bottle back down and made a mental note to research it later. Another mystery. Another question without answers.

  A raven sat on his windowsill.

  Akilliz noticed it when he turned from the mirror, a black shape silhouetted against the dawn light. The bird was massive, easily twice the size of a normal crow, with feathers that gleamed oil-slick in the pale sun. It watched him with one intelligent eye, head cocked at an angle that was almost human in its assessment.

  A message cylinder was strapped to its leg.

  "How long have you been there?" Akilliz asked.

  The raven croaked once, shifting its weight from foot to foot. Waiting.

  He crossed to the window and opened it wider. The bird hopped inside without hesitation, landing on his desk with a heavy thump that scattered a few loose papers. Up close, it was even larger. Its beak looked sharp enough to take off a finger.

  "Easy," Akilliz murmured, reaching for the cylinder. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  The raven allowed him to unbuckle the leather strap and remove the message. The moment the cylinder came free, the bird mantled its wings and croaked again, louder this time. Demanding.

  "You want food, don't you?"

  The raven fixed him with both eyes now, unblinking.

  Akilliz found some bread from yesterday's breakfast, still sitting on his desk wrapped in cloth. He broke off a piece and offered it. The raven snatched it from his fingers with surprising gentleness, swallowed it whole, then croaked for more.

  He gave the bird the rest of the bread while he opened the cylinder and unrolled the letter inside. His father's rough handwriting, the letters uneven and pressed too hard into the paper like Pa had been gripping the pen with forge-calloused hands.

  Son,

  Was shocked when a raven landed at the forge. Fed the damned bird for three days before I figured out I was supposed to write back. Your mother always handled that sort of thing.

  Forge is running me ragged. Old Gareth's boy took sick two weeks back, still hasn't recovered. Half the village has the coughing sickness. We're managing but it's hard work without enough hands.

  Wish your mother was here. She'd know what herbs to use, how to help them. I just hammer metal and hope for the best.

  Hope you're learning well. Hope Luminael treats you right. Come back soon Aki, miss you something fierce. Your birthday is coming up, hope to see you by then.*

  Your Pa

  Akilliz read it twice, the raven watching him the entire time while it tore the bread into smaller pieces with its beak.

  Pa had fed the bird for three days, not knowing what to do with it. The image should have made him smile. Should have made him homesick, thinking of Pa standing in the forge yard, confused and grumbling while feeding a bird that refused to leave.

  The village was sick. Half of them, Pa said. Without Ma's knowledge of herbs, without her healing touch, they were suffering. People were dying, probably. People he'd known his whole life.

  "Miss you something fierce." Pa never said things like that. Never put feelings into words.

  His birthday was coming. He'd forgotten. Seventeen soon. A man by village standards. Pa wanted him home for it.

  He should feel something about that. Guilt for being here while they struggled. Worry for Pa working himself into the ground. Grief that Ma wasn't there to help them. Homesickness at the thought of missing his birthday with Pa.

  Nothing. Just distant awareness that a response was expected.

  The raven finished the bread and began preening its wing feathers, completely at ease on his desk like it owned the space.

  Akilliz pulled out parchment and ink. Wrote quickly, mechanically, while the bird watched with those too-intelligent eyes.

  Pa,

  Lessons are going well. I’m learning advanced techniques now. The city is fine.

  Hope the village recovers soon. I miss the forge, used our sword the other day.

  Love,

  Akilliz

  He stared at what he'd written. It was shorter than it should be. Colder. He should ask about the sickness, about which families were affected, about whether Pa needed anything. Should tell him he missed home, that he thought about them. Should mention his birthday, say he'd try to visit.

  The words wouldn't come. Or maybe they just didn't feel true anymore.

  He rolled the letter and fitted it into the message cylinder. The raven stopped preening and hopped closer, offering its leg with the kind of patience that suggested it had done this a thousand times before.

  "You know the way back?" Akilliz asked while he buckled the cylinder in place.

  The raven croaked once. Obviously.

  He carried the bird to the window and held out his arm. It was heavier than he'd expected when it stepped onto his forearm, talons gripping through the fabric of his sleeve but not breaking skin. The weight was solid, real, grounding in a way that nothing else had felt in days.

  "Safe flight," he said quietly.

  The raven launched from his arm with a powerful thrust of wings that sent papers scattering across his desk. It circled once outside his window, black against the pale morning sky, then turned north toward home and disappeared into the distance.

  Akilliz watched it go until it was just a speck, then nothing.

  He closed the window and went to prepare for the rest of his day.

  The tower was quiet as he descended to breakfast. Sylvara's door remained closed, though he could hear movement inside. She'd been oddly cheerful the last few days. Even took time to properly treat his rib wound from the dark elven blade. He'd learned that dark elves forge their weapons by folding magic into the steel. The blades carry a poison-like corruption that resists normal healing, but if treated before you bleed out or fester, you'll be fine.

  His ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply, but the wound had closed clean.

  The walk to the Refectory was automatic. His feet knew the path without thought. Through the Scholar's Ward, past the fountain where he'd first met Lirien and Kael, down the wide avenue lined with crystal-veined walls. Everything was the same as it had been yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.

  The Refectory was bright with morning sun and full of the usual breakfast chaos. Students laughing, dishes clattering, the smell of fresh bread and honey. He grabbed a plate from the serving line, piling it with bread, cheese, and an apple. Then he made his way to their usual table near the windows.

  Kael and Lirien were already there, mid-conversation, their plates mostly empty. They looked up when he approached, and something in their expressions shifted. Careful. Like they were watching him for signs of something wrong.

  He sat down across from them, slightly apart, and began eating mechanically.

  "There you are," Lirien said, smile a little too bright. "We were wondering if you'd slept in."

  "Got up early," Akilliz said. "Wanted to prepare for lessons."

  "Right. Potions class twice a day." Kael made a face. "How's that going? Sylvara seems like a real piece of work sometimes, at least in our classes with her."

  "She's fine."

  Kael glanced at Lirien, then pressed on, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Speaking of classes, the Festival of Light is in a little over a week. I'm actually making good progress on my demonstration spell. Might not embarrass myself after all."

  Lirien's face lit up. "Really? What are you going to show?"

  "Light manipulation. Creating illusions with refracted brilliance. If I don't screw it up, it should look impressive." Kael grinned. "Been practicing every night. My hands are still cramping from the finger work, but I think I've got it."

  "That's amazing, Kael!" Lirien reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

  Akilliz watched them smile at each other, easy and comfortable. Kael making Lirien laugh with some story about his mother's latest worried letter, how she'd sent him three different books on "safe spell casting" like he was still a child. They fit together so naturally. Both elven, both from good families with parents who wrote them letters full of love and concern. Both belonging here in ways he never would.

  What would she even see in him anyway? A human. A half-trained potions apprentice with a demon mark spreading up his arm. He was temporary. A novelty. Someone she'd forget the moment she graduated and moved on to whatever perfect elven life waited for her.

  They talked about their parents like minor inconveniences. Worried mothers, overprotective fathers, care packages and constant letters. They had no idea what real loss felt like. What it meant to have nothing left but an empty house and a father who didn't know how to talk to his own son.

  Awkward pause. They exchanged glances.

  Lirien tried again, voice lighter. "My mother sent another letter yesterday. She's convinced I'm not eating enough. She wants to send care packages. Can you imagine? Like I'm a child who can't feed herself."

  Kael laughed. "Mothers. Mine thinks I'm going to accidentally maim myself with a spell. She made me promise to keep a healing potion in my pocket at all times. As if that would help if I actually blew myself up."

  "At least yours doesn't try to fatten you up," Lirien said, smiling at him. Then she turned to Akilliz, the smile gentling. "What about your father? Does he write to you?"

  Akilliz took a bite of bread. Chewed. Swallowed.

  He knew his father had written. The letter sat back in his room, already answered with cold efficiency. But he didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want their pity or their questions.

  "He doesn't write much."

  Brief silence. They were still watching him with that careful expression.

  "Must be nice having the whole tower to yourself though," Kael said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "No parents watching over your shoulder. I'd kill for that kind of privacy."

  Something cold twisted in Akilliz's chest. "Yeah. Must be nice having parents at all."

  The words came out flat and sharp, slicing through the comfortable atmosphere like a blade. Lirien's smile disappeared. Kael's eyes widened slightly.

  "Aki, I didn't mean—"

  Akilliz stood, picking up his half-eaten plate. "I have a lesson to prepare for."

  He walked away without looking back, didn't see Lirien's hand reach toward him and then drop. Didn't hear her quiet voice asking Kael if he was okay. He didn't care.

  The tower stairs felt longer than usual. His boots echoed in the spiral stairwell, the only sound except for his own breathing. When he reached Sylvara's workshop, someone else stood by the central workbench.

  Not Sylvara. A male elf he'd never seen before.

  Tall, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back severely, sharp features arranged in an expression of vague distaste. He wore formal teaching robes in deep purple, and everything about him radiated cold assessment. His eyes swept over Akilliz like he was evaluating livestock and finding it subpar.

  "You must be the human." Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the kind of tone reserved for something mildly unpleasant. "I am Master Vaelis. I will be overseeing your instruction while Sylvara attends to other matters."

  Akilliz stopped just inside the doorway. A substitute. Great. "Okay, Vaelis. What are we—"

  "You will address me as Master Vaelis or simply Master." The correction came sharp as a blade. "I am not your peer, human. I am your instructor. Do you understand?"

  Heat rose in Akilliz's face. "Yes... Master."

  "Good." Vaelis studied him like an insect pinned to a board. "Sylvara speaks highly of your progress. We shall see if her faith is warranted." He paused. "You're late, by the way."

  Akilliz glanced at the tower clock. "I'm five minutes early."

  "Early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable. Remember that." Vaelis turned to the equipment laid out on the central workbench. "Now. Let us see what you're capable of."

  The bench held three pieces of advanced equipment. Crystal sieve, levitating stirrer, rune burner. Akilliz recognized all of them. Sylvara had been teaching him the basics of each over the last few days, but separately. It took all his concentration to operate just one of these with any accuracy.

  "You will demonstrate mastery of all three by brewing a Clarity Draft base. You have one hour. Begin."

  Akilliz stared at the setup. This was impossible. Each technique required complete focus. The crystal sieve needed constant attention to maintain its filtering resonance. The levitating stirrer had to be controlled with precise hand movements and mental focus. The rune burner required careful observation of the ingredient responses and adjusting temperature in real time.

  Doing all three at once while also brewing a complex potion? Sylvara wouldn't have asked this of him. Not yet.

  But Vaelis was watching with that cold satisfaction, clearly expecting him to fail.

  Akilliz began.

  He started the base heating on the rune burner, trying to gauge the optimal temperature. Set up the crystal sieve and began filtering the primary ingredient, a luminescent moss that needed its impurities removed. Attempted to levitate the stirrer while managing both.

  The sieve clouded immediately. He'd lost the resonance.

  The stirrer wobbled and dropped into the mixture with a splash.

  The temperature spiked, ingredients beginning to burn.

  Frustration built in his chest, hot and sharp. His left hand twitched under his glove.

  "Perhaps Sylvara's assessment was overly generous," Vaelis observed from his position by the window.

  Akilliz glanced at his gloved left hand. The potion was starting to smoke. In minutes it would be ruined completely and he'd have failed in front of this smug bastard who'd set him up to fail from the start.

  He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Whispered under his breath, barely audible. "Just this once. Just to not fail."

  Taimon's presence unfurled in his mind like smoke, warm and patient.

  "I can give you knowledge, little mortal. Mastery over these tools. Understanding of elven script. Potions that will make the stars dance before your eyes. All you need do is ask."

  "Please," Akilliz breathed. "Help me."

  "So it shall be."

  His hands moved.

  Not his will, but not fighting it either. His fingers adjusted the rune burner with perfect precision, temperature dropping to exactly the right point. His other hand attuned the crystal sieve, the clouding clearing instantly as resonance locked. The stirrer lifted smoothly from the mixture and began moving in the exact pattern needed, controlled by his corrupted left hand through the glove.

  Knowledge flooded his mind. Not just how to use the equipment, but why. The theory behind resonance frequencies. The mathematical precision of levitation spells. The symbolic meaning of temperature runes and how they responded to different magical signatures.

  He worked for the next forty minutes with flawless efficiency. Every adjustment perfect. Every timing exact. The three techniques flowing together like he'd been doing this for years instead of weeks.

  When he decanted the finished Clarity Draft, it glowed with the soft amber light that indicated perfect synthesis.

  Vaelis stared at it. Then at Akilliz. Then back at the potion. He crossed the room slowly, examining the result from every angle.

  "Hmm. Perhaps Sylvara wasn't lying after all." He stepped closer, studying Akilliz with narrowed eyes. "Though I wonder how you improved so dramatically in mere moments. From complete incompetence to flawless execution. Quite remarkable."

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  "Practice," Akilliz said flatly.

  Vaelis didn't look convinced. His gaze lingered on Akilliz's gloved left hand for a moment too long. "Come. Let us see how you fare among peers."

  Before Akilliz could ask what that meant, Vaelis was already walking toward the door. "Bring your equipment. You'll need it."

  "Master Vaelis," Akilliz said, not moving. "Sylvara said I wasn't ready for full classes yet. I can't read Elvish script well enough to—"

  "Oh?" Vaelis stopped, turned to face him with one eyebrow raised. "She told me you've been practicing especially hard these last few days. Surely you can read basic script by now? The fundamentals aren't difficult, even for a human."

  "I can try, but—"

  "Or are you too afraid to try?" Vaelis's voice went soft, almost kind, but with an edge beneath it like a blade wrapped in silk. "Say the word and I will leave you in your tower. Alone. Safe from any challenge that might push you beyond your comfortable limitations. Is that what you want?"

  The question hung in the air. They both knew what saying yes would mean. Akilliz would be admitting weakness, admitting he couldn't handle what the elven students did as a matter of course.

  His jaw tightened. "No, Master."

  "Then come."

  They walked through the Scholar's Ward to one of the Academy buildings Akilliz had never entered. The halls were wider here, ceilings higher, everything designed for formal instruction rather than individual study. Vaelis moved with the confidence of someone who'd taught here for decades, not bothering to check if Akilliz was keeping up.

  He stopped outside a classroom door, hand on the handle. "A word of advice, human. Do try not to embarrass yourself too thoroughly. It reflects poorly on Sylvara, and she's a colleague I respect." He opened the door without waiting for a response.

  Inside, fifteen elven students were already seated at individual workbenches. They all looked older than Akilliz, though who knew how old they actually were by elven reckoning.

  Vaelis strode in with the kind of presence that made every student immediately straighten in their seats. He didn't raise his voice, didn't make any dramatic gesture, just walked to the front of the classroom and the atmosphere shifted.

  "Class," he announced, voice carrying effortlessly. "We have a special participant today. This is Akilliz. A human. Sylvara's personal project."

  The way he said "human" made it sound like a species of particularly stupid livestock.

  Fifteen elven faces turned to stare. Some curious. Some skeptical. One elven girl in the second row, with silver-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes, let her lip curl in obvious disgust before she quickly smoothed her expression.

  "He will be joining you for today's practical examination," Vaelis continued, walking along the front of the class with measured steps. "Do not adjust your performance for his sake. He claims to be learning at an accelerated pace. Let us see if that claim has merit."

  Akilliz stood near the door, every eye on him, heat crawling up his neck. He could feel their assessment, their judgment. The human. The outsider. The one who didn't belong.

  "Take the empty workbench in the back," Vaelis said without looking at him. "You'll find your materials there."

  Akilliz walked down the aisle between workbenches. Whispers followed him, not quite quiet enough to miss.

  "That's the one Sylvara's teaching?"

  "I heard he's only been here a few weeks."

  "A human doing practical alchemy. This should be entertaining."

  He reached the back workbench and found a textbook waiting. Old, stained, with pages that stuck together where something had been spilled years ago. Nothing like the pristine volumes on every other desk.

  Vaelis returned to the front of the classroom. "Today's practical examination: the Mindsharp Elixir. A standard third-year brew. You have thirty minutes. Textbooks are permitted. Begin."

  Everyone immediately opened their pristine, well-kept textbooks and began gathering ingredients from the supply shelves that lined the walls. Akilliz opened his damaged book and his stomach dropped.

  Half the pages were in Elvish he couldn't fully read. Not the simple script Sylvara had taught him, but formal academic Elvish with technical terminology he'd never seen. The diagrams were smudged beyond recognition. Measurements were partially illegible where water damage had blurred the ink.

  Around him, the elven students worked with practiced efficiency. They'd probably brewed this a dozen times. Their hands moved with confidence, measuring ingredients, preparing equipment, setting up their workflows.

  He was already falling behind, trying to puzzle out instructions he couldn't understand. The first step required something called lumis mortalis but he couldn't tell if that was an ingredient or a technique. The measurement looked like it said three drops, or maybe thirty, the smudge made it impossible to tell.

  The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Twenty-five minutes remaining.

  Public humiliation loomed. He could feel Vaelis watching him, waiting for him to fail in front of everyone. Waiting to prove that Sylvara had wasted her time on a human who couldn't even read the instructions.

  Akilliz glanced at the student next to him, a male elf with dark hair who was already filtering his primary ingredient through a crystal mesh. The elf noticed him looking and shifted his body to block Akilliz's view of his textbook.

  "Eyes on your own work, human," he said quietly.

  Heat rose in Akilliz's face. He looked back at his incomprehensible book and tried to make sense of the blurred text.

  Twenty minutes remaining.

  Everyone else was making progress. He could hear the soft clink of glass, the hiss of controlled heating, the quiet confidence of students who knew exactly what they were doing.

  The girl with ice-blue eyes glanced at his workbench. Whispered something to her neighbor. They both laughed quietly, not even trying to hide it.

  His left hand throbbed beneath the glove.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Vaelis paused behind Akilliz's workbench. Loud enough for nearby students to hear: "Having difficulties, Akilliz? Perhaps you'd like me to read the instructions aloud for you? I could translate the Elvish into something simpler. We wouldn't want the language barrier to prevent you from attempting the work."

  Several students smirked. The ice-eyed girl didn't bother hiding her smile.

  "I'm fine, Master," Akilliz managed through clenched teeth.

  "Of course you are." Vaelis moved on, but left the implication hanging in the air. The human can't even read the textbook.

  Ten minutes remaining.

  Everyone else was cleaning their workstations. Bottling their finished potions. Labeling them with neat script. His workbench was still mostly empty. A few ingredients laid out that he thought might be correct based on guessing at the blurred diagrams.

  This was what they all thought anyway. That humans don't belong here. That he was a charity case, Sylvara's pet project who couldn't even read basic Elvish. That he'd gotten lucky with potions so far but would fail the moment he faced real academic work.

  Prove them wrong. Just this once. Just to wipe that smugness off Vaelis's face. Just to show that ice-eyed bitch that he belonged here as much as any of them.

  His left hand throbbed harder, cold spreading up his arm.

  Under the workbench, hidden from view, he pressed his thumb hard against his palm until the stitching bit deep enough to draw blood. The glove would hide it. No one would see.

  "Please," he whispered beneath his breath, so quiet only he could hear it. "Just this once."

  Taimon's voice came warm and satisfied, like he'd been waiting for exactly this.

  "They mock you. Look down on you. Think you lesser because of the flesh you were born in. Let me show them what you're capable of.

  The text shifted.

  Not all at once, but like watching ice melt in spring sun. The Elvish characters that had looked like meaningless hieroglyphics suddenly connected to words he knew. The script weren't just random marks anymore, they had meaning, weight, purpose. His eyes felt different, sharper somehow, and there was a brief stab of pain behind them that faded as quickly as it came.

  The incomplete diagrams filled themselves in his mind. Where water damage had destroyed half an illustration, he could see the missing pieces clearly, like his brain was reconstructing them from knowledge that shouldn't exist.

  He understood it all. Not just the words, but the concepts beneath them. The relationships between ingredients. The precise timing. The magical theory that made the whole thing work.

  His hands moved with sudden confidence. Gathering ingredients, measuring with precision he shouldn't possess, setting up the workflow like he'd done this a hundred times.

  The nearby students noticed. The dark-haired elf who'd blocked his view of the textbook glanced over with a frown. The ice-eyed girl's smile faded into confusion.

  Akilliz worked through the steps with mechanical perfection. Taimon's knowledge guiding every movement, every decision. The base mixture, the activation sequence, the final stabilization. All of it flowing through him like water through a channel.

  Five minutes remaining.

  He bottled the finished Mindsharp Elixir and set it on his workbench. The liquid glowed with the soft silver-blue light that indicated proper synthesis. Not perfect, not the best in the room, but solidly good. Better than several of the elven students' attempts.

  Three minutes remaining. He cleaned his workstation with hands that wanted to shake but didn't. His left arm was colder than ice, the numbness spreading past his elbow. Behind his eyes, that strange sharpness remained, like he was seeing the world through a lens that was slightly too clear.

  Time expired.

  Vaelis walked among the workbenches, examining each potion with the same critical eye. He paused at several, made quiet comments to the students. Praise for some, correction for others.

  When he reached Akilliz's workbench, he stopped longer than he had for any other student. Picked up the vial, held it to the light, studied the color and consistency with narrowed eyes. His expression suggested he'd been hoping for a smoking crater instead of a functional potion.

  "Adequate," he said finally, loud enough for the class to hear. Then, quieter, leaning closer so only Akilliz could hear: "Though I wonder what precisely you did to achieve even this mediocre result. A student who seemingly couldn't read the instructions ten minutes ago suddenly producing passable work. Quite the miracle."

  He set the vial down with more force than necessary.

  Akilliz looked up at him, expression flat. "I simply thought thirty minutes was too long a time for such a basic potion, Master."

  The classroom went dead silent.

  Vaelis's eyes narrowed to slits. Several students gasped. The ice-eyed girl's mouth fell open.

  "Is that so?" Vaelis's voice went dangerously soft. "You found the standard third-year practical examination... too easy?"

  "I found it adequate," Akilliz said, using Vaelis's own word back at him.

  A few students made shocked sounds. One muttered "Is he insane?" to his neighbor.

  Vaelis stepped closer, looming over the workbench. "Perhaps next time I should design something more... challenging. Specifically for you. Something that will properly test the limits of your supposed abilities."

  "I'd welcome that, Master."

  Vaelis's jaw tightened. "Class dismissed. Except you, Akilliz. Remain."

  The elven students gathered their things and filed out quickly, throwing glances back at Akilliz. Some looked impressed. Most looked like they thought he'd just signed his own death warrant. The ice-eyed girl whispered to her friend as they left: "He's either the bravest human I've ever seen or the stupidest."

  When the last student left, Vaelis circled around to stand directly in front of Akilliz's workbench. The door clicked shut behind them.

  "Let me be very clear, human." Vaelis leaned forward, hands planted on the workbench. "I don't know what you did. But I know you did something. No student improves that dramatically in mere minutes without assistance."

  "You told me yourself, Master. I've been studying my Elvish hard recently. Perhaps you underestimated how effective that study has been."

  "Or perhaps you're using methods that violate Academy regulations." Vaelis's gaze dropped to Akilliz's gloved left hand. "I will be watching you. Very carefully. And the next time you're in my classroom, you'll find the challenges I set are not so easily overcome."

  He straightened. "You're dismissed. And the next time you feel the urge to display such... attitude, remember that I have the authority to recommend your expulsion."

  Akilliz gathered his things and stood. "Understood, Master."

  He walked to the door, feeling Vaelis's eyes boring into his back the entire way.

  "One more thing," Vaelis called out just as Akilliz reached for the handle.

  Akilliz stopped but didn't turn around.

  "Whatever you're doing, whatever shortcut you've found, it won't last. Natural talent can only be hidden for so long before it's exposed as fraud. I've seen students like you before. They always fail eventually."

  Akilliz opened the door and walked out without responding.

  The afternoon sun was too bright after the dim classroom. His left arm felt like it had been dipped in ice water. He'd used Taimon twice in one morning. For lessons. For mundane student work. Used him the way he might use a reference book or a helpful tutor.

  And worse, he'd gotten cocky about it. Let his anger at Vaelis override his judgment. Drawn attention to himself when he should have stayed quiet and unremarkable.

  That should bother him more than it did.

  He needed to clear his head. Move. Fight. Something physical that didn't require thinking or feeling or wondering what he was becoming.

  The training grounds waited.

  The training grounds were mostly empty when he arrived, just a few students running drills at the far end. The afternoon sun beat down on packed dirt worn smooth by countless boots. Wooden practice dummies stood at intervals, their torsos scarred from blade work.

  He spotted Seren near the weapons rack, stretching in preparation for training. The young elf looked up when Akilliz approached, face breaking into that familiar grin.

  "Potion boy!" Seren called out. "Come to get your ass kicked again?"

  Despite everything, Akilliz felt the corner of his mouth twitch. They'd sparred a few times since that first bout weeks ago. Seren always won, but it was getting closer each time.

  "Looking for a rematch," Akilliz said.

  "Always." Seren's grin widened. "Best of five? Make it interesting?"

  "Sure."

  They selected practice swords from the rack, blunted but weighted properly, and took positions in the sparring circle. A few other students noticed and drifted over to watch. Seren had a following among the trainees. Everyone wanted to see the elf who was going to "become a blade of God."

  Seren settled into an easy guard stance. "Your move when you're ready."

  Akilliz raised his sword in his right hand, the way Pa had taught him, the way he'd been training for years. Tried to remember what Vaelrik had taught him about flow and adaptation.

  Seren moved first. Quick, testing, a feint high that became a strike low.

  Akilliz blocked, but his timing was off. Exhaustion from the morning's lessons, from using Taimon twice already, made his movements sluggish. Seren's blade slipped past his guard and tapped his ribs.

  "One-zero." Seren stepped back, studying him. "You alright? You look like death warmed over."

  "I'm fine."

  They reset. This time Akilliz tried to redirect instead of block, remembering Vaelrik's lessons. But Seren was faster, more experienced. The elf's blade came around in a combination that Akilliz couldn't quite follow, catching him twice more.

  "Two-zero."

  The third bout was worse. Akilliz could feel his frustration building, making him sloppy. His left arm kept twitching under the glove like it wanted to help, wanted to take over. He suppressed it, fought with just his right, and lost badly.

  "Three-zero." Seren lowered his practice blade, concern replacing the competitive grin. "Seriously, Akilliz. You're way off today. Want to call it?"

  Akilliz's jaw tightened. "Again. Best of five."

  "You sure? You look exhausted."

  "Yes."

  Seren shrugged. "Alright. Your funeral."

  They reset. But this time, without quite deciding to, Akilliz switched his practice sword to his left hand.

  Seren's eyebrows rose. "Ambidextrous? You never mentioned that before."

  "Never tried it in a bout before."

  "Well then." Seren's grin returned, sharper now. "Let's see what you've got."

  The fight began and immediately everything changed.

  His left arm moved with speed and precision his right had never possessed. Demon-guided skill, centuries of experience compressed into muscle memory that wasn't his. He could see Seren's patterns before they formed, predict each strike a heartbeat before it came.

  Seren's eyes widened as their blades met with sharp cracks that rang across the training grounds. The elf had to actually work now, couldn't coast on superior training. More students gathered to watch, drawn by the intensity of the exchange.

  They traded strikes, both breathing harder. The bout lasted longer than any of their previous matches. Akilliz felt the demon's knowledge flowing through his left arm, guiding each parry, each counter, showing him openings that shouldn't exist.

  Seren made a move, a deliberate gap in his defense. Testing. The kind of opening an experienced fighter left to see how an opponent would respond.

  Akilliz struck.

  Too hard. Too fast. His blade caught Seren's sword arm with force that went beyond practice, beyond what blunted wood should be capable of. The impact was brutal, and he heard something crack.

  Seren's weapon clattered to the ground. The elf stumbled back, gripping his arm, face going pale. Blood didn't show, not with wooden swords, but the way Seren held his arm, the way he gasped in pain, made it clear something had broken.

  The crowd gasped. Someone ran for a healer.

  "Gods," Seren managed through gritted teeth, sinking to his knees. "What the hell was that?"

  Akilliz stood there, practice sword still raised, and waited for the horror to come. The guilt. The desperate need to apologize and help. They'd been developing something like friendship over the past weeks. Seren was one of the few elves who'd treated him like an equal rather than a curiosity.

  Nothing.

  He felt annoyed. Annoyed that the bout had been interrupted. Annoyed that people were staring. Annoyed that Seren had left such an obvious opening in the first place.

  Not guilt. Not concern for someone who'd shown him kindness.

  He lowered his blade slowly. "Sorry. Lost focus."

  Seren looked up at him, face twisted with pain but also confusion. Hurt that went deeper than the physical injury. "Lost focus? Akilliz, you nearly broke my arm. That wasn't losing focus, that was..."

  He trailed off, staring at Akilliz's face with growing uncertainty.

  "That was what?" Akilliz heard himself ask. Flat. Cold.

  "That was like you wanted to hurt me."

  A healer arrived, dropping to her knees beside Seren. She began examining his arm with glowing hands, face tight with concentration. Other students clustered around, some checking on Seren, others staring at Akilliz with expressions ranging from shock to disgust.

  "Did you see his face? He doesn't even care."

  "That was way too hard for practice. What's wrong with him?"

  "I heard he's Sylvara's student. Maybe she's teaching him more than potions."

  Akilliz sheathed his practice sword and turned to leave.

  "Wait." Seren's voice stopped him. The elf was still on his knees, cradling his injured arm, but his eyes tracked Akilliz with something that looked like genuine concern. "Are you okay? Seriously. Something's wrong. You're not... you're not acting like yourself."

  For a moment, something flickered in Akilliz's chest. Recognition that Seren was reaching out, trying to help despite being the one who'd gotten hurt. That a real friend would accept that help, would admit something was wrong.

  But the feeling died before it could take root, smothered by cold numbness.

  "I'm fine," Akilliz said. "Just one of those days."

  He walked away while the healer worked on Seren's arm, while the other students whispered and stared. Didn't look back. Didn't care that he'd just hurt one of the few people in Luminael who'd been genuinely kind to him.

  His left arm was colder than ice, the numbness spreading up past his elbow toward his shoulder..

  That should bother him more than it did.

  Evening was settling over Luminael when he returned to the tower. Sylvara's door remained closed, her workshop dark. She'd been there this morning, cheerful even, treating his rib wound. Then suddenly gone by the time he'd returned from breakfast, replaced by Vaelis with no explanation.

  The tower was empty. Just him and the silence and the growing cold in his left arm.

  He stood outside Sylvara's office door for a long time, thinking. Where had she gone?

  His heart beat faster. This was wrong. Breaking into a teacher's office. He could be expelled for this. Arrested, even.

  But he needed to know.

  Fuck it.

  He tried the door handle. Locked. Sealed with magic that hummed against his palm when he touched it. His pulse quickened further. No going back after this.

  He bit his palm hard enough to feel it through the glove. Blood welled warm against leather. "How do I open this?" he whispered.

  Taimon showed him. Guided his bloody finger to trace a counter-sigil on the wood, the inverse of Sylvara's locking spell. The magic resisted for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, then gave way with an almost audible click.

  The door swung open.

  Akilliz's breath came shallow as he stepped inside and closed it behind him. Every sound seemed amplified. The soft rustle of his cloak. His boots on the stone floor. His own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  What if she came back right now? What if someone saw him enter?

  Sylvara's office was neat, organized with the precision of someone who controlled every aspect of their environment. Bookshelves lined two walls, labeled and alphabetized. Her desk held neat stacks of parchment, quills arranged by size, an inkwell that probably never spilled.

  He moved to the desk, hands trembling slightly. Started with the visible papers. Mundane. Assignment schedules. Ingredient orders. Student progress notes.

  Then he tried the drawer. Locked. Of course it was locked.

  He glanced at the door. Still closed. No footsteps. His left hand guided the counter-sigil again, and the drawer opened with a soft click that made him flinch.

  Inside, he found what he was looking for.

  Alchemical acceleration recipes, also known as “Speed potions”. Multiple copies, with refinements noted in the margins. Next to them, a ledger tracking dosages and effects. His eyes scanned the entries, and his stomach tightened.

  "Subject requires increased dosage for same effect."

  "Dependency achieved, will ensure continued supply."

  "Master Zolam fully reliant. Will not function without regular doses."

  Was she keeping Zolam addicted? Deliberately?

  Beneath the recipes was a leather-bound journal with a name embossed on the cover in silver script.

  Akilliz.

  His hand shook as he opened it. The entries were clinical. Dates, observations, assessments. All about him, though most seemed standard. Teacher's notes on a student's progress. But one line caught his attention, made him read it three times.

  "Hybrid concoctions produce results inconsistent yet may achieve our desired outcome all the same."

  What desired outcome? Was she speaking about the potion or something else?

  A floorboard creaked somewhere in the tower. He froze, heart hammering, eyes locked on the door. Waiting for it to open. Waiting to be caught.

  Nothing. Just the old building settling.

  He forced himself to keep searching, moving faster now. Every second felt dangerous.

  On the bookshelf, a tome on dwarven runes lay open to a page titled "Containment Symbols." One matched the rune at the bottom of his fire bottle exactly.

  Notes in Sylvara's handwriting beside it: "Bottling essence requires dwarf craft plus an innate gift. Subject possessed both. Investigated further. No records of how subject acquired dwarven knowledge. Unusual for a human. Connection to the gift and specific dwarven runes must be required, yet I lack the knowledge on how transference becomes possible or why this is necessary."

  Who was the subject? He barely understood what he was reading. Likely some high-level alchemy for her advanced classes. He moved on, anxiety mounting with each passing moment.

  A locked cabinet stood in the corner. His hands were definitely shaking now as he forced it open. Inside, rare ingredients that made his breath catch. Vials and jars, each labeled in Sylvara's precise script.

  Living Water - a bottle where water bubbled continuously like a fresh spring, never still.

  Moondew (Spring's First Full Moon) - gathered beneath spring's first full moon, dew that had absorbed lunar energy.

  Wild Thyme - dried bundles hanging from hooks.

  Forest Honey - thick and golden in a sealed jar.

  Phoenix Ash - glowing faintly in a crystal container, worth a fortune.

  Bottled Aether - white liquid that glowed softly. He'd delivered a similar bottle to the forge once for Vaelrik.

  Soul-weaver Root - dried and twisted, looking almost alive in the dim light.

  And at the back, separate from the others, a flask of something black and viscous that made his demon mark pulse even through the glove.

  Blood.

  Not just any blood. Something felt wrong about it.

  On the highest shelf, empty space where a large book should be. The dust outline was clear, perfectly rectangular. Recently removed.

  Beneath where the book had been, correspondence. A letter in script he couldn't read at all. Not Elvish, not Common, nothing he recognized. Sealed with black wax. He couldn't risk opening it, wouldn't be able to seal it back properly. But the address on the outside was written in those same foreign characters.

  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

  Ice shot through his veins. Someone was coming. Now. Right now.

  He grabbed his notebook, hands fumbling as he scribbled down what he could. The alchemical acceleration potion recipe, something he wanted to experiment with later anyway, and a rough sketch of the rune from the dwarven tome. It was far more visible than the one he had to stare at inside of his glowing bottled fire.

  The footsteps were getting closer. Third floor. Maybe second.

  He shoved everything back into place, tried to make it look undisturbed. Forced the cabinet shut. The drawer. Was everything exactly as he'd found it? He couldn't remember. His mind was racing too fast.

  He slipped out the door, resealed it with shaking hands. The counter-sigil felt clumsy this time, his bloody finger leaving a smear he had to wipe away with his sleeve.

  The footsteps were close. First floor now. Coming up.

  He ducked into the alcove where cleaning supplies were stored, pressing himself against the wall, trying to control his breathing. In. Out. Quiet. Don't move.

  A figure passed. One of the tower's cleaning staff, an older elven woman carrying fresh linens. She walked right past the alcove without glancing in, her footsteps continuing up toward the third floor.

  Akilliz waited. Counted to thirty. Then fifty. His legs felt weak.

  When he was sure she wasn't coming back, he slipped out and returned to his room. Shut the door. Locked it. Leaned against it with eyes closed.

  His heart was still pounding. Hands still shaking.

  Had she warded the office to detect intrusion? Would she know someone had been there? Had he left something out of place, some sign that would give him away?

  Too late to worry about it now.

  He looked at his left hand in the dim light from his window. Four times today he'd used Taimon. A lesson. A test. A training bout. A lock.

  Everything had felt reasonable at the time.

  Akilliz lay in bed that night, staring at the dark ceiling. His left arm rested cold and heavy at his side. The anxiety from the break-in had faded, replaced by that familiar numbness.

  He replayed the Mistwood battle. The four dark elves he'd killed. Each one clear in his memory with unnatural precision. The first one, throat crushed by his demon hand. The second, his own dagger driven up under the ribs. The mage, Frostbane punching through his chest.

  He waited for the horror to come. The guilt. The nightmares Ma had mentioned, the ones soldiers got after killing. Nothing. Just emptiness where something should be.

  And the worst part was thinking about the ones who'd gotten away. The dark elves Thalindra had chained and captured. They'd killed the old elf. Torn his head clean off. Terrorized children. They didn't deserve chains and cells. They deserved what his sword had given the others.

  Why had Thalindra not eliminated them?

  The thought felt cold. Logical. Right. And that was the strange part.

  He thought about Seren too, injured on the training grounds. That should have horrified him. Instead he'd felt annoyed at the interruption.

  Each choice had felt reasonable at the time. Using the demon for lessons because failing would be worse. Switching to his left hand because losing was frustrating. Breaking into Sylvara's office because he needed to know.

  But strung together, those choices painted a picture of someone he didn't recognize. Someone who hurt people without caring. Someone who justified everything with cold logic. Yet, it didn't bother him at all.

  His left hand lay in his lap, gray in the moonlight. He flexed the fingers. They moved smoothly now, perfectly obedient. But they still didn't feel like his.

  He bit his thumb hard enough to draw blood. Let it well dark against his gray skin.

  "Taimon," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"

  The presence manifested like frost creeping across glass. Patient. Amused. Always listening.

  "Took you long enough to use my name, little mortal."