Midday bells tolled across Karadesh as Amriel’s boots clicked against worn marble floors, each step carrying her toward the heart of the Lyceum. Her fingertips brushed against the cool stone wall to her right—a grounding habit she’d developed during her first bewildering weeks at the academy four years ago.
Niamh, ever the buoyant counterweight to Amriel’s more reserved tendencies, chatted on with carefree energy, her voice filling the spaces between footsteps.
Through towering arched windows, sunlight fractured into dazzling patterns that danced across the ancient walls, illuminating centuries-old reliefs of scholars, archivists and witches whose stone eyes seemed to follow the pair’s progress.
“...and then when I told Ava she can’t use that word, she said ‘Daddy said it!’” Niamh was saying, her dark red hair twisted into a practical bun atop her head, bouncing with each animated gesture. “Well, you can just imagine the look on Simon’s face! Our three year old calling him out! I nearly burst out laughing—” She paused, green eyes narrowing. “Riel, are you even listening to me?”
Amriel blinked, forcing her gaze to focus on her friend’s freckled face instead of the carved relief they were passing—an ancient archivist, stone hands forever frozen in the act of unfurling a scroll, eyes eerily lifelike despite centuries of students’ reverent touches smoothing away the finer details.
“I’m sorry,” Amriel murmured, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m just...” Terrified. Confused. Possibly losing my mind. “...distracted.”
The tome’s revelation burned in her mind like a brand. Five thousand years it kept its secrets locked away in a language scholars had dismissed as indecipherable. Five thousand years of silence, until this morning, when the angular script had suddenly resolved itself before Amriel’s eyes, the words unfurling in her mind as if they’d always been there.
Why can I read it now? I sure as hell couldn’t read it yesterday, or any day before that! Why now?
“Distracted doesn’t begin to cover it,” Niamh asked, “You’ve been walking around like a shade since this morning. Finals? I know Simon’s stressing over them, too. But then again, that man never puts his hammer down long enough to pick up a book and study. So it’s his own damn fault.”
“No,” she said as they rounded the corner where the corridor led to the inner courtyard.
Niamh glanced at her, sunlight from the approaching courtyard catching in her red hair, turning it to copper flame. She nudged Amriel with a gentle elbow.
“Is this about Nikola?” Niamh asked, her voice dropping low and little crinkles formed at the corners of her eyes as she smiled. “Don’t worry about him. I’m sure he’ll forget about it.” She waved her hand in that fluid, dismissive way she had. “Men always forget such things in the presence of a pretty face. Even if you do drool.”
Amriel nearly laughed at the absurdity—here she was, possibly holding the key to some ancient prediction of impending catastrophe, and Niamh thought she was worrying over a boy.
When the last of the Starlight Witches falls, the door to Eternity will open.
The words echoed in her mind, each syllable striking like a small hammer against her temples.
What did it mean?
The inner courtyard sprawled before them now, half bathed in the golden light of midday, half cast in cool shadow as the sun traversed the cloudless cerulean sky. The transition from the cold stone floors to the courtyards soft grass was a welcome relief. Amriel only wished she could take off her shoes to embrace its grounding effects, but such things were frowned upon in the Arboretum.
In the western corner of the courtyard, beneath the spreading branches of one of the trees, her friends had gathered at their usual table.
A Galious tree, Amriel knew, as her eyes traced over its bluish diamond shaped leaves and dark, thick bark. She recalled the history lesson about those trees—an ancient species nearly obliterated 100 years ago when a trade vessel from Tilvark had docked with its holds full of exotic silks, spices, barrels of wine... and an invasive beetle that had devastated the native Galious forests within a season.
Only the tireless work of the Green Archivists, with their stubborn dedication, had saved a handful of saplings. Now they grew here, in the protected inner courtyard that doubled as the Lyceum''s arboretum, living monuments to what was nearly lost.
As they approached the table, Kaleth’s animated voice carried across the courtyard.
“I swear by all the gods,” he was saying, green eyes gleaming with mischief, “the whole flask turned this brilliant purple—not just any purple, mind you, but the kind that makes your eyes hurt to look at it—and then it started whistling like a kettle! Master Michel dove under his desk so fast his spectacles flew off and skittered across the floor. I thought old Brinkley was going to have an apoplexy!”
Kaleth’s face was alive with delight at the memory, freckles standing out against his flushed skin. Amriel noted, not for the first time, how he somehow managed to look both disheveled and alluring simultaneously—a quality that had charmed nearly every woman in their year, and many outside of it. Mara, seated across from the alchemist, was clearly one of the unaffected.
Mara, her posture perfect as always, not a single blond hair out of place. She sipped delicately from her steaming cup. One elegantly shaped eyebrow rose fractionally—the equivalent of an exasperated eye-roll from anyone else.
“And this,” she said, her rich voice carrying the faint lilt of her northern homeland, “is precisely why alchemical elements should be added in precise order, according to established procedure. Not whenever some random inspiration strikes your fancy.” She set her cup down with barely a sound on the weathered wooden table. A subtle smile played at the corners of her full lips, belying her stern words.
Kaleth pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Where’s the discovery in that? The great alchemists of history didn’t make breakthroughs by following some dusty tome’s instructions!”
His expression brightened as he spotted Amriel and Niamh approaching. “Riel! Niamh!” He beckoned enthusiastically. “Please tell our lovely but frustratingly rule-bound Mara that true innovation requires a certain creative disregard for established procedure.”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Niamh laughed, sliding onto the bench between Kaleth and Simon. “Last time I took your side in an argument about ‘creative alchemy,’ my eyebrows took three weeks to grow back. Three weeks, Kal!”
Amriel settled beside Mara, the familiar banter washing over her like a balm. For a moment, she could almost pretend this was just another day—that her world hadn’t shifted irrevocably that morning.
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Simon, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his rust-colored forge apprentice’s tunic, chuckled deeply. The sound rumbled from his chest like distant thunder. “At least you’re consistent, Kal,” he said, his calloused fingers tapping against the wooden table. “Consistently dangerous, but consistent.”
“I think you meant to add handsome,” Kaleth replied, running a hand through his unruly hair in a gesture that somehow left it looking artfully tousled rather than messier. His grin was cocky, dimple flashing in his left cheek. “I am dangerously handsome. Consistently. And the ladies love it.”
A collective groan rippled through the friends. Mara rolled her hazel eyes over the rim of her mug before taking another measured sip.
“We’ll agree to disagree,” Simon said as Niamh settled beside him with an exaggerated sigh.
The change in Simon’s demeanor was immediate and striking—the solid, stoic craftsman transformed in an instant. His dark eyes softened as they settled on his wife’s face, the hard lines around his mouth melting away. “Hello, love,” he murmured, the tenderness in his voice incongruous with his imposing frame as he wrapped a muscled arm around her waist and drew her close.
The table groaned again, but this time at the display of affection. Amriel attempted a smile as she sank onto the bench across from Niamh, but her hands trembled slightly beneath the table as she clasped them tightly in her lap.
The sight brought a rare flicker of warmth to Amriel’s distracted thoughts. Their relationship had evolved so naturally over the years—an inevitable shift from childhood friendship to something deeper. No one had been surprised when they’d announced their betrothal, least of all Amriel, who had known Simon since before she could walk.
Simon placed a kiss on the middle of Niamh’s forehead, and as she leaned into him, he caught sight of Amriel’s face. His brow furrowed, the blacksmith’s perceptive eyes narrowing slightly as they took in her pallor, the tight set of her jaw.
“You okay, Riel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern filling his deep voice. A lifetime of friendship had taught him to read her face better than anyone.
“I’m fine,” Amriel lied, her voice rough even to her own ears. She cleared her throat, aware that Mara had turned slightly beside her, her sharp gaze now assessing as well.
Kal arched a skeptical brow and leaned forward, elbows on the table. . “Really? Because you look like you just saw the ghost of Finals Future.”
“I’m just... tired,” Amriel said, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She couldn’t tell them. Not yet. Not until she understood what it meant herself.
Before Kaleth or Simon could press further, Niamh spoke up, her voice taking on that protective tone that brooked no argument. “Leave her be.” She gave Simon a pointed look, then Kaleth.
Simon didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. Amriel was grateful for it—grateful for the normalcy of their banter and the familiar comfort of the mess hall. Yet even as laughter bubbled around her, she couldn’t shake the weight of what she’d discovered.
The words of the prophecy lingered, sharp and unyielding. She needed answers, and soon.
Thankfully, Kaleth’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.
“So, Riel,” he said, leaning forward with a mischievous air, “you’re our resident expert on herbology. Tell me—do you know of any herb or potion that can make someone lose half their hair? Or possibly all of it?” His grin turned devilish, freckled face brimming with faux innocence. “Asking for a friend, obviously.”
Mara asked, clearly unimpressed. “For a friend? Or for yourself? No one here is going to help you harm someone, Kaleth.”
“Harm?” He feigned a gasp of insult, splaying his long-fingered hand over his heart dramatically. “I’m wounded that you would think such a thing of me! How do you know it’s not for myself? Maybe I’ve grown tired of these stunning locks.” He gave his hair a theatrical shake, sending copper strands flying. “Besides,” he added, voice dropping to a stage whisper, “it wouldn’t be for permanent harm, right?”
Mara actually snorted—a sound so rare that Amriel glanced up in surprise. The corner of Mara’s usually composed mouth twitched upward as she set down her teacup, “It’s not Caleb’s fault that Dierdra has taken a liking to him,” she said.
Dierdra Fontain, a third-year acolyte, was as elegant as she was stunning—the sort of beauty that turned heads wherever she went. She also happened to be Kaleth’s latest obsession. His heart, however, shifted as often as the wind, and it was only a matter of time before Dierdra would be forgotten, replaced by someone new. Caleb, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of Kaleth’s affections, deserved better than ‘accidental’ hair loss. Permanent or not.
“Anyway,” Simon cut in, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, “Niamh and I are planning a study session tomorrow. You’re all welcome to join.”
“Not a bad idea with finals breathing down our necks,” Mara agreed, pulling her blond braid over one shoulder. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Kaleth chimed in, lounging back with a grin. “Couldn’t hurt to brush up.”
Amriel forced herself to stay present, offering a faint smile. “Thanks for the invite, but I can’t. My herb supplies are running low—I need to restock.”
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She rarely kept secrets from these people.
Niamh arched a brow, skepticism written across her face. “Really? Herb collecting? Right before finals?”
Simon’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, his voice careful but probing. “It’s not like you to skip prep sessions, Riel.”
Just then, the deep chime of the bell echoed through the capital city, signaling the end of the meal period.
“Saved by the bell,” Kaleth laughed, gathering his scattered papers. “Literally.”
<hr>
The late afternoon sun hung low over the western tower when Amriel emerged from her Advanced Botanical Theory class, her mind still spinning with the morning’s discovery rather than Professor Telmah’s lecture on adaptive root systems.
Footsteps quickened behind her—the distinctive rhythm of Niamh’s determined stride. Amriel slowed, knowing avoidance was futile.
“So,” Niamh began, falling into step beside her. “Herb collecting? Or is that code for one of your meditative walks into the wild? You look like something’s been gnawing on you since dawn.”
Amriel’s lips quirked in a faint smile despite herself.
“Little bit of both,” she admitted, fingertips brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “But mostly I just needed some grounding.” She hesitated before adding weakly, “You know, finals and all.”
Niamh’s skeptical look could have withered a thornbush. “Ah, the universal excuse for existential dread: finals. Classic.” Her voice softened, concern replacing mockery. “But seriously, Riel, you’ve been weird today—even for you. And I know weird. I’m married to a man who talks to metal.”
Amriel’s grip tightened on her satchel strap, thumb working the frayed edge where the leather had split and been mended three times. The weight of the morning still pressed against her ribs, making each breath feel shallow and insufficient.
Tell her, a voice urged inside her. If anyone would understand, it’s Niamh.
But what if understanding led to danger?
“I’m fine,” she said, the words coming out too stiff, too practiced.
Niamh stopped walking, positioning herself squarely in Amriel’s path. The shadows of approaching evening deepened the constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks, her eyes hard with determination.
“Riel,” she said quietly, “come on. Don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ routine. I’ve known you too long for that crap.”
Amriel’s throat tightened. The words of the prophecy seemed to burn behind her breastbone, desperate for release. But seventeen years of caution weren’t easily overcome.
“Just... a lot on my mind,” she murmured, gaze fixed on the worn paving stones beneath her feet—stones crossed by thousands of students before her, each carrying their own secrets and burdens. “I think some quiet time in the Vhengal will help clear my head.”
The mere mention of the ancient forest sent a wave of longing through her—the cathedral-like silence beneath towering sentinels older than the Academy itself, dappled light painting patterns on the soft forest floor, the whisper of leaves speaking a language older than human memory. The Vhengal had been her refuge since childhood, a place where the constant internal chatter of her thoughts quieted to a manageable hum.
Niamh’s expression softened, the stubborn set of her jaw relaxing. “Look,” she said, her voice low enough that only Amriel could hear, “if wandering around in the woods talking to flowers helps, fine. But just remember—you’ve got me too.” She reached out, her fingers briefly squeezing Amriel’s forearm. “You don’t have to do everything alone, okay?”
The simple touch—warm, solid, present—cracked something in Amriel’s carefully constructed facade. The knot that had been tightening in her chest all day loosened, just enough to breathe more easily.
She met Niamh’s steady gaze and saw no judgment there, only the fierce loyalty and understanding of a friendship tempered by years of shared struggles and triumphs.
“I know,” Amriel said softly, a genuine smile tugging at her lips for the first time since morning. “Thanks, Niamh. Really.”
Niamh grinned, her usual humor returning like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You’re welcome. Just don’t expect me to talk to plants with you anytime soon. I draw the line at befriending shrubbery.”
Amriel laughed—actually laughed—and the sound surprised even her.