Chapter 5: Ink, Herb, and Stone

The cottage interior smelled of lavender stems, woodsmoke, and dried citrus peel. The air was warm and slightly humid, carrying the underlying tang of crushed herbs and steeping salves. Inside, the space unfolded into a single large room divided by function—kitchen to the left, workbenches and cabinets to the right, and living space centered around a squat stone hearth that pulsed with embers. Rows of dried herbs hung from ceiling beams like rustling garlands, and a scattering of runes carved onto stone chips rested in open wooden bowls near the window.

The elven woman moved with the grace of age not measured in years but in centuries of familiarity. Her silver hair shimmered when it caught the light, though her face bore no wrinkles. Only the faintest crow’s feet touched the corners of her eyes, and even those seemed to have settled there from smiling rather than time. Her eyes were pale grey, soft but observant.

“Elara, was it?” she asked, moving toward the hearth where a kettle sat suspended over the coals. She didn't wait for my nod before continuing. “I’m Naerel. No title, no formalities—just Naerel. You’ll find I have little patience for ceremony and even less for flattery. But if you work with your hands and speak with your mind, we’ll get on fine.”

“Thank you,” I said, brushing a damp curl behind one ear. “I’m grateful for the chance to learn, even if it’s only for a short while.”

“We’ll see how short it is,” she said dryly, lifting the kettle. “I’ve seen many come and go, and most don’t last past the first week.”

She poured hot water into a clay cup already half-filled with dried mint and catleaf. The scent rose in a cloud of steam—simple, grounding. She handed the cup to me, then gestured toward the bench beside the hearth.

“Sit. We’ll talk while you warm yourself.”

I did as she asked, the steam curling up toward my face as I wrapped my fingers around the warmth. The bench was firm but well-cushioned, with a woven blanket folded over one end. Naerel took the stool opposite me and studied me in silence for a few long moments.

“Rennel speaks well of you,” she said at last. “Said you have a careful eye and a steady hand. That’s rare, especially in the young.”

“I try to observe before I act,” I replied. “It’s a habit I learned the hard way.”

“Good. Then let’s see what you observe.”

She reached behind her to a small basket tucked beneath a side table and pulled out several items, placing them one by one between us on the low table: a bundle of dried leaves, a tightly sealed waxed pouch, a smooth river stone etched with a shallow spiral, and a thin square of slate carved with unfamiliar markings. Each was ordinary at first glance—yet clearly chosen with intent.

“What do you see?” she asked. Her tone was not impatient, but there was no softness in it either. She was not coddling me. This was a test.

I took my time.

“The leaves are bloodshade. Picked about a week ago, judging by the darkening at the edges. Still potent—good for fever, but the wrong dose will make you sick.”

She nodded once.

“The pouch... smells faintly of burdock and something resinous. Maybe pine? I’d guess a drawing salve. Antiseptic, thickened with beeswax.”

Her lips quirked slightly. Not a smile, but close.

I picked up the river stone, turning it slowly in my palm. It was warm from sitting near the hearth, smooth and faintly humming with latent energy.

“This spiral’s been etched as a holding rune,” I said slowly. “Not an active ward, but a focus. No current intention set, though—it’s just a vessel.”

Naerel’s brows rose. “Not bad.”

I picked up the slate last. The marks carved into it were finer, more deliberate. It didn’t hum the way the river stone did, but I felt the whisper of something in it—a resonance just beneath the surface, like a string waiting to be plucked.

“I don’t know these,” I admitted. “They feel like... layers? Like more than one rune combined. I can sense the weave, but I don’t understand what it’s doing.”

Her eyes sharpened with interest. “That’s because it is layered. Basic preservation—warding against moisture and rot. Meant for food stores or bundled herbs. One of the first useful sets an apprentice learns.”

“I’ve only studied cantrips and warding circles,” I said, setting the slate down with care. “Mostly on the fly—basic protection while camping, a few medicinal sparks for sterilizing tools, that sort of thing. I’ve never worked with inscribed runes before.”

“Runecraft is a different discipline,” she said, resting her hands on her knees. “Slower. Older. Less flashy, but deeply rooted. The kind of magic that sinks in over time—into stone, into soil, into habit. You don’t learn it with flair. You learn it with repetition. Patience.”

She reached out and tapped the slate with one finger.

“This isn’t healing,” she said. “You won’t mend bones or knit wounds with it. But it can keep mold from your pantry, protect the edge of a well from freezing over, or keep pests from nesting in your roof beams. It’s the kind of magic that makes life livable.”

I nodded slowly. “That sounds like the kind of magic I need.”

Naerel studied me again. I got the sense she was watching not just my face but the way I sat, the way I breathed, the tension I carried in my shoulders. When she finally spoke, it was with the air of someone issuing both a challenge and an invitation.

“You can stay,” she said. “You’ll take the guest room, if you’re tidy. You’ll earn your place by working. Forage when I ask. Clean what needs cleaning. Help me prepare tinctures and balms, and in return, I’ll begin teaching you the basics.”

“Thank you,” I said, relief mixing with excitement. “Truly.”

“This isn’t a favor,” she added briskly. “You’ll share what you know too. I may be older, but I haven’t seen every plant or every remedy the land has to offer. If you know something useful, speak up.”

“I will.”

She stood then and crossed the room to a tall cabinet set into the wall. When she opened it, the scent of rosemary and dust drifted out. Inside were shelves lined with stone slates and wooden tiles, each etched with faintly glowing runes.

“You’ll start learning runecraft tomorrow,” she said, carefully selecting a blank piece of slate, its surface smooth and cool to the touch, and setting it gently on the table beside the spiral stone. “We begin with the shape of intention. The line is just a line, until you understand why it moves.”

“I understand,” I replied, my voice steady but my mind racing with anticipation.

Naerel had barely closed the creaky cabinet, its wooden doors groaning as if sharing an ancient secret, before she turned back toward me. Her sharp gaze, piercing and precise, seemed to weigh and measure me anew.

“Good,” she said, as if deciding to keep me was a matter already settled in the annals of history. “Then you can make yourself useful straight away.”

I blinked, taken aback. “Now?”

“No time like the present,” she replied, her steps brisk as she moved toward a cluttered shelf by the door, piled high with an assortment of mysterious jars and vials. “The light’s just right, and I’ve not the knees anymore to chase moss up a slope. There are things that only show themselves at dusk—plants that shimmer with an ethereal glow when the sun dips just so. Since you're here, you’ll fetch them.”

She handed me a small canvas pouch and a curved, narrow-bladed knife. The handle was worn smooth with use, and the edge gleamed. “Nothing larger than your palm. Don’t tear—cut. Collect only the healthy ones, and don’t overharvest. Leave more than you take.”

I nodded instinctively. “What am I looking for?”

“Glowroot moss, for one. Grows on the north sides of stones, bright green with a bioluminescent sheen when disturbed. Harvest it with a light touch and tuck it into moss if you have any, or wrapped damp cloth. Then starpetal—white flowers, thin as silk, open only at twilight. They gather moonlight and store it. You’ll know them by the way they catch your eye even when you’re not looking. And if you’re lucky, a bit of dusk thistle. The bloom looks like a flame at its edge. Good for calming spells.”

“Any idea where to start?”

She gave me a dry look. “You’ve got the staff, the satchel, and the legs for walking. You’ll figure it out.”

“Right,” I said, managing a smile. “I'll be careful.”

“See that you are. Stay to the forest edge—no deeper than the lower ridge. It’ll be dark soon enough.”

I stepped outside, and the scent of the earth rose to greet me, damp and grounding. The sun had dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows that pooled like ink between the roots. I adjusted the strap of my satchel and took hold of my staff, grounding it briefly against the flagstone step.

“Lumos minor,” I murmured, and the crystal orb set into the head of the staff flickered to life, casting a soft amber glow that bled into the twilight.

The light was warm, not harsh—enough to guide my feet without disrupting the magic of the dusk. I followed the path Naerel had pointed out, a narrow foot-trail that wound behind the garden wall and up toward the ridge that hugged the village’s northern side.

The sounds of the day were fading. Birdsong gave way to the quiet chirr of crickets and the rustle of nocturnal life beginning to stir. The wind moved through the leaves in a low hush, like a lullaby sung by the forest itself. The amber glow of my staff caught the shimmer of dew on grass blades and reflected off bark slick with damp. I moved slowly. Dusk was not the hour for speed.

The first sign of glowroot emerged as a flicker—a delicate spill of moonlight quivering beneath the edge of a half-buried stone, like a secret waiting to be discovered. I crouched down, lowering my staff so its light dimmed to a soft whisper, then carefully used my fingers to gently lift the velvety edge of the moss. It pulsed faintly beneath my touch, not with warmth, but with a palpable presence, its bioluminescence casting a steady, serene glow that seemed to breathe with the earth itself.

Following the instructions with precision, I used the knife to gently ease it beneath the edge, lifting only a small portion with the utmost care. The glowroot slid into the damp cloth I had prepared, its sheen captured like a fragment of starlight. I wrapped it tightly, ensuring its safety, and placed it gingerly into the satchel, feeling the weight of my discovery nestled securely within.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the moss, brushing my fingertips over the stone before I rose and moved on.

Further along, the narrow path gradually sloped upward, and the dense trees began to thin out, allowing the soft, ethereal twilight to spill across the forest floor like a silken veil. It was in this serene clearing that I discovered them—clusters of starpetals, their delicate forms catching the low light as if they were lit from within by some mysterious glow.

They were exactly as Naerel had described: pure white like fresh milk, each petal impossibly thin and fragile, their surfaces holding a soft, elusive shimmer that danced just at the edge of visibility. They seemed to emit a gentle hum in the stillness of the forest—not a sound, but a sensation, like being quietly observed by something ancient and benevolent.

I crouched down again, this time using both hands to gather the blossoms. The flowers came free with a gentle twist and the softest pressure from the blade, each one seeming to release a soft, contented sigh into my palm as I carefully placed it into the pouch. I gathered six of these ethereal blooms before stopping, not daring to take more. The air felt thinner here, imbued with a sense of reverence and quietude, as if the very atmosphere demanded respect and restraint.

Farther down the winding path, my eyes caught sight of a flicker—a vibrant orange-red, reminiscent of a coal stirred to life in the depths of a hearth. Nestled snugly beneath the arch of a half-fallen branch lay a single dusk thistle. Its flame-tinged bloom unfurled like delicate fingers grasping a glowing heart. I paused, captivated by its beauty.

"Alright, you," I murmured softly, lowering myself with deliberate care.

The plant was a fortress of prickles, its stems adorned with fine, silvery hairs that shimmered in the gentle glow emanating from my staff. I wielded the blade with precision, slicing just above the base, and observed as the luminescence dimmed ever so slightly—almost as if it were mourning the severance. I nestled the bloom into a second cloth-wrapped bundle, cushioning it with a bed of soft moss.

As I rose to my feet once more, the surrounding light had deepened into the rich hues of true twilight. The orb perched atop my staff pulsed gently, casting a kaleidoscope of overlapping shadows that danced through the trees. The air was thick with the scent of fresh sap and bark, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of crushed petals.

I turned back toward the path, allowing instinct and the slow, sweeping arc of my light to guide my way homeward. The quietude was almost sacred, enveloping me like a cherished embrace. No birds sang now, only the distant croak of frogs and the occasional snap of a twig somewhere far off in the darkness.

I started heading back to Naerel's cottage but stopped when I noticed a glimmer of light in the treetops ahead. Curious, I navigated through the densely packed trees to investigate. There, I found clusters of berries that shimmered softly in the faint light, surrounded by dancing fireflies. Since I had never encountered these berries before, I recorded the spot in my journal and collected both ripe and unripe ones to take back to Naerel, hoping she could identify them.

By the time I stepped back through the gate, the moon had risen behind the trees, casting silver over the garden roof. Naerel’s windows glowed warmly, and I saw her silhouette moving near the workbench.

When I pushed open the door, she looked up. “Well?”

I slipped the satchel from my shoulder and began unpacking it with care. First, the wrapped glowroot—still faintly pulsing. Then the starpetals, laid gently across a clean cloth on the table. Last, the dusk thistle, its glow now dim but not extinguished.

Naerel leaned over and examined each without speaking. She unwrapped the glowroot and sniffed it, checked the stem cut on the starpetals, and gently turned the thistle bloom over in her hand.

“Well done,” she said finally. “You didn’t just grab the prettiest ones. You picked with purpose.”

I gave a small shrug, hiding the swell of pride in my chest. “I tried to be respectful. They felt... alive. More than usual.”

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“They are,” she said simply, setting the thistle into a small ceramic bowl. “Twilight draws magic close to the surface. Some plants hold that better than others. You’ll learn which, and when.”

I pulled out the berries next, still glittering in the dim light of the cottage and Naerel caught her breath. Naerel’s eyes narrowed the moment I placed the cluster of glowing berries on the worktable.

She didn’t speak at first—just leaned in, hands braced on either side of the table, eyes flicking from stem to skin, taking in every shimmer and speckle. The berries pulsed softly in the light of the room, their skin a mottled green and blue with a subtle iridescence that caught the eye if you looked just past them, never quite directly.

“Where did you find these?” she asked, her voice low.

“Near the ridge,” I said. “There was a glimmer in the trees, and I followed it. They were growing at eye height, clustered around a patch of moss with fireflies dancing nearby. I’ve never seen them before.”

Naerel reached out and plucked one free with delicate precision. She held it close to her nose, inhaling gently, then rolled it between her fingertips. Her expression shifted—something between recognition and the quiet urgency of a rare discovery.

“Moondrop berries,” she murmured. “Or at least, the cultivated term. Wild ones like these are rarer still.”

She gestured for me to bring her a clean knife. I passed it wordlessly. With practiced care, she sliced the berry in half lengthwise. A soft glow clung to the blade as the juice wept out, thick and silvery like syrup. Inside, the tiny pit was almond-shaped and dark, cradled in pale, luminous pulp.

“These only show themselves at dusk, just before full dark,” Naerel said, inspecting the halves. “And they must be harvested under moonlight if you want their medicinal properties to hold. Too early or too late, and they go dull—just tart fruit, nothing more.”

I leaned in, fascinated. “What do they do?”

Naerel tapped the juicy flesh with one fingertip, then wiped her hands on a cloth. “The pulp is soporific. A mild sleep-inducer in small doses, but in proper quantities, it can send someone into a deep, steady sleep. Not unlike dreamwort, but cleaner, smoother—no hallucinations, no lingering grogginess. It’s ideal for when a patient needs stitches or... gods forbid, surgery.”

“And the pits?” I asked, noting the way she’d separated them carefully.

She held one up between thumb and forefinger. “Crush them, dry them, and grind into powder. When mixed with warm water, they become a purgative. Gentle but effective. Induces vomiting without the violent spasms other herbs tend to cause. We used them back when I was apprenticing in the borderlands. Haven’t seen a fresh cluster in decades.”

I blinked. “I didn’t realize they were so useful.”

“Useful?” Her eyebrows rose. “These are a gift. A blessing disguised in fruit. And you,” she added, fixing me with a pointed look, “are going to go back out and get as many as you can carry.”

I hesitated. “Now?”

“The moon’s still up, isn’t it?”

I glanced to the window. A silver glow still pooled outside the sill.

“Yes, but—”

“Then go. They won’t hold their properties if you pick them in the morning.” She was already reaching for a basket from the wall, one lined with soft moss and felted cloth to keep the berries from bruising. She handed it to me briskly.

“Take your light, watch your step, and for the love of the earth, don’t eat any. The juice stains, and too much will put you to sleep right in the moss.”

I shouldered the satchel again, now light from the earlier harvest, and cradled the basket in the crook of one arm.

“How many should I take?”

“As many as are ripe and easy to reach,” she said. “Avoid the undergrowth. The ones that grow high and clean are the ones we want. If you can fill the basket, I’ll sleep easier knowing we have them stored.”

I nodded and turned toward the door.

“And Elara?” she added, just as I reached the threshold.

I paused and looked back.

“Well done. You didn’t just bring me something curious—you brought something important. That’s the kind of healer worth keeping around.”

Her praise settled in my chest like warmth from a hearth. I smiled and stepped back into the moonlight.

The night air kissed my cheeks with cool fingers as I stepped beyond the threshold. A hush had settled over the village, broken only by the occasional chirr of insects or the distant croak of frogs tucked into reeds along the creek. The moon hung low, a pale disc behind a gauze of high clouds, just bright enough to silver the path ahead.

I adjusted the strap of my satchel and shifted the basket carefully into both hands, keeping it close to my chest as I walked. The glowstones along the garden’s edge flickered faintly, dimmed for the night, but I didn’t need them. I remembered the way. My boots brushed over packed dirt and dewy grass, following the worn track between Naerel’s cottage and the treeline beyond.

As I reached the edge of the woods, the air changed—richer somehow, scented with damp leaves, bark, and something sweet and floral that I hadn’t noticed earlier. I paused, letting the sounds of the forest settle around me, and then stepped beneath the boughs.

Everything shimmered.

The moonlight caught on the moss, on ferns still beaded with water, and on a thousand dancing motes—fireflies drifting like embers in a slow spiral. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It was beautiful. Unworldly. The kind of quiet magic that made you feel small in the best possible way.

I found the patch again with ease—tucked near a low rise, where the roots of two trees formed a natural cradle. The berries were just as I remembered: round, luminous, hanging in small clusters along the outer branches. Some pulsed gently in the dark, while others had already dulled, their glow faded with the passing minutes.

I knelt beside them, basket on the moss at my side, and reached with slow, careful fingers. Each one I plucked gave a soft resistance, then let go with a sigh, dropping into my hand like a weightless pearl. I worked by touch and instinct, collecting only the ones that seemed to shimmer with that inner light. Naerel’s words echoed in my mind—avoid the undergrowth, don’t overreach. Respect the harvest. Leave enough for the wild to remain wild.

The basket began to fill, layer by glowing layer. Occasionally, I paused to admire them—the silvery juice beading at a stem, the way the light passed through the pulp when I held one up. It felt like gathering fragments of moonlight itself.

A soft rustle in the underbrush drew my attention. I froze, breath catching, but it was only a pair of horned rabbits bounding off into the thickets, their fur catching the light like lavender silk. I smiled and let the quiet return.

By the time the basket was nearly full, the moon had begun its slow descent behind the ridge. The glow was dimming. Not gone, but softened. I took that as my sign.

I stood, legs tingling from crouching, and stretched carefully before lifting the basket again. My fingers tingled where juice had touched them—warm, a little numb. I made a note to wash them before I did anything else. The last thing I needed was to fall asleep halfway through returning.

As I left the grove, I glanced back once. The fireflies still danced, and the remaining berries glowed like tiny lanterns swaying in the dark. I felt a ripple of quiet reverence pass through me. Not every night gave something so rare. So needed.

By the time I reached the edge of the woods, the sky was beginning to grey at the edges. I picked up my pace.

Naerel was still awake. She opened the door before I could knock, lantern in hand, casting a warm arc of light across the porch.

I lifted the basket, smiling despite my tired limbs. “Will this do?”

She looked inside and gave a low, appreciative hum. “More than. Come in—we’ll start preserving them before the light fades entirely. I’ll make tea. Something with sharp ginger, to keep you awake.”

I walked by her and entered the cozy space, where the aroma of brewing herbs immediately surrounded me. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had genuinely accomplished something good.

Naerel guided me to the workbench, already cleared except for a stack of clean cloths and a few wide-mouthed glass jars that caught the lanternlight like captured stars. The hearth was low, just embers now, but she knelt to stoke it without comment. Soon, the fire returned to life with a few careful pokes and a sprinkle of dry moss. She hung a kettle above the flames and glanced back at me.

“Set the basket there,” she said, nodding to the smooth slate counter near the window. “And fetch that green jar on the second shelf. The ginger root’s inside.”

I moved slowly, still absorbing the calm buzz of purposeful activity that settled over the cottage. My fingers tingled faintly, but I ignored it. The woven basket made a soft rustle as I set it down. In the firelight, the moondrop berries shimmered even more brilliantly than they had in the woods.

“Here,” I said, passing her the ginger jar. “Do you want it grated or steeped whole?”

“Grated,” she replied, already pulling a bundle of dried valerian from a hook near the hearth. “A finger’s worth should do. Strong, but not harsh.”

I sat down at the small table and took out my little grater from the satchel, a palm-sized tool of polished steel and wood. The ginger was crisp and fibrous, sharp-scented. As I worked, the familiar smell of heat and earth rose, grounding me. Sleep tugged at the edges of my thoughts, but the ginger helped hold it back.

Naerel brewed the tea quickly and poured two steaming cups, sliding one toward me without fanfare. I wrapped my fingers around it, grateful for the warmth, and took a careful sip. Heat bloomed across my tongue, followed by a brightness that woke up the inside of my skull.

“You’ll want to keep sipping as we work,” she advised, already slipping on a pair of thin gloves. “The juice is potent, and the scent can lull you faster than you think.”

I nodded and took another mouthful, then reached for my own gloves. The preservation setup was simple—cloth-lined trays for drying the pits, jars for storing the pulp, and a narrow copper funnel for pouring juice into small vials. A clean ceramic blade waited near the berries, beside a bowl of water to rinse between slices.

We worked in silence for a while, the kind of silence that hums with companionship. I sliced each berry down the center, careful to let the juice spill cleanly into a funnel, where it trickled into waiting bottles like liquid moonlight. The pulp we scraped into a shallow bowl and packed with moss to be dried later. The pits, once freed, were laid out on cloths to be washed and dried for powdering.

“You’ve done this before,” Naerel noted after a while, her voice low, almost casual.

“Only once,” I admitted. “A cluster of blackseed pods. I helped dry them and press the oil. Mostly watched.”

She nodded. “Still—good instincts. Steady hands.”

I smiled faintly and kept working, letting her words settle in the quiet space they deserved.

Eventually, we had filled six small vials with juice, enough to last through a dozen emergencies, Naerel said. The pulp would dry overnight, and the pits would need grinding once fully cured. She labeled everything in her precise, slanted hand and tucked the vials into a padded drawer beside her tinctures.

The tea was gone. The hearth had dimmed again, and my body buzzed with the tension of near-sleep, held back only by the ginger’s bite.

Naerel sat heavily on the bench, stretching her fingers. “You’ll make a good herbalist. Not just a forager—there’s discipline in this part of the work. Quiet care. Not everyone has the patience.”

“I like this part,” I said softly. “It feels… deliberate. Like I’m making something lasting.”

Her expression turned thoughtful. “That’s exactly it.”

She rose, moved to a cupboard, and came back with a square tin. From inside, she pulled a pair of soft cloth sachets, stitched with runes along the edge. She passed one to me.

“For your satchel,” she said. “Fill it with dried pulp once it’s ready. When you’re traveling, keep it near your teas or healing herbs. Even if you can’t brew it, the scent will help soothe panicked patients.”

I ran my fingers over the embroidery. “Did you make these?”

“Years ago,” she said, with a shrug. “Before my hands got stiff. There are better ones in the city, no doubt. But these hold up.”

“I love it,” I said honestly. “Thank you.”

She waved me off, but her mouth twitched in a smile. “You’ve earned it tonight.”

Together, we tidied the bench, rinsed the blades, and left the remaining berries wrapped and resting in cool cloths. By the time we were done, dawn was brushing the sky with a pale smear of color.

Naerel set a hand on my shoulder. “Go sleep. You’ve done more than enough.”

I hesitated. “What about you?”

She smirked. “I’ll nap once I’ve checked the east beds for slugwort. That rain last night will have tempted them out.”

“Of course,” I said, trying not to smile too much. “Good luck.”

I climbed the narrow ladder to the loft and crawled into the guest bed tucked beneath the sloping roof. The sachet lay near my pillow. The scent of dried herbs and faint silver juice still clung to my skin and gloves, and the quiet pride of the night’s work lingered in my chest. As I curled beneath the blanket, sleep came softly, without resistance. Like moonlight falling on moss.

I woke to the soft clink of dishes and the smell of roasted squash, warm and nutty, mingling with the rich scent of bacon fat crisping in a cast-iron pan. Light filtered through the loft’s small round window, dappled and golden. My limbs protested as I shifted beneath the covers—shoulders tight, legs a little stiff from crouching too long in the grove—but the ache was earned, a quiet thrum of satisfaction beneath my skin.

I stretched slowly and swung my feet over the edge, still in yesterday’s tunic, now wrinkled and slightly sweet-smelling from the berries. A faint silver stain ghosted the tips of my gloves where I hadn’t scrubbed hard enough. Proof of the night’s work.

Downstairs, Naerel stood at the hearth in her long grey tunic, turning thick slices of squash in a pan beside the eggs and bacon. Her hair was plaited back, and she moved with practiced ease, humming softly under her breath.

She glanced over her shoulder as I descended the ladder. “Good. You’re up. Sit—before I eat all your share.”

I obeyed, sinking into the bench with a grateful sigh. The table was already set: two earthen mugs of tea, a jar of berry jam, and thick slices of nut bread still warm from the oven. My stomach rumbled.

Naerel plated generous portions and passed me mine without fanfare. “Eat. You’ll need it. Today’s a study day.”

I blinked. “Already?”

“You’ve had a day to forage, a night to process. Time to use your head.”

I dug in without argument. The eggs were soft and rich, the bacon crisp, and the roasted squash sweetened with a touch of herb salt and honey. It was the sort of meal that left you content down to your bones.

Once we’d finished and cleaned up, Naerel led me to the workbench again—cleared now of berry traces. She placed a thick, leather-bound book in front of me with a soft thud.

“Sigils and Warding: Fundamentals,” she said. “Start with Chapter One and don’t skip. These aren’t just pictures to memorize. They’re shapes with rules. Intention. Balance.”

I opened the book reverently. Each page displayed a single rune in clean, precise strokes, followed by diagrams showing its structure, common pairings, and notes on magical flow. Some looked like delicate loops of ribbon; others were jagged, geometric things full of tension.

Naerel handed me a piece of chalk and gestured to the slate board leaning against the wall. “You’ll copy the first ten. Slowly. No shortcuts.”

I nodded and got to work.

The first sigil—Aetherbind—was simple in theory, a curved crescent atop a triangle, but getting the lines to match the diagram’s proportions took more tries than I expected. I drew, erased, redrew. Naerel watched without interrupting.

“You’re holding your breath,” she said at one point. “Don’t. Magic’s a flow, not a fight.”

The chalk dust began to coat my fingers. My second sigil came more naturally, the third even better. As the morning passed, I found a rhythm—study the form, understand the meaning, and then trace it. By the time I reached the tenth rune, I could feel the structure of each one in my body as well as my mind, like learning dance steps in sequence.

“Now comes the fun part,” Naerel said, placing a smooth black slate tile in front of me. “Choose one sigil. Doesn’t matter which. Redraw it carefully, and when you're ready, push your magic into it.”

I chose the seventh sigil—Emberhold—because it felt closest to how my magic behaved: a steady warmth, restrained and focused. I redrew it on the slate, this time with deliberate care. The lines came more easily now.

Then I sat, closed my eyes, and breathed deep.

The magic wasn’t far. It never was. It lived just beneath my skin, a quiet flicker, like the sensation of standing too close to a stove. I pictured the rune in my mind—every loop, every angle—and let that warmth flow outward through my fingertips and into the chalk lines.

A soft pulse. The rune shimmered faintly, then faded back to normal.

I opened my eyes.

The rune still held. Not glowing, not flashy—but the edges were sealed now, crisp and unbroken. The magic had stuck.

Naerel leaned in and inspected it. “Well done. You have control. Better than most beginners.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “It felt… familiar. Like a switch I already knew how to flip.”

“You’ve had practice shaping magic. Cantrips use the same pathways—just less structure.” She handed me a slim journal with a blank leather cover. “This is yours now. Copy each rune into it by hand. Include notes—what they do, how they feel. You’ll hit your limit soon on how many you can hold in memory. Writing helps extend that.”

I flipped through the pages, already imagining what it would look like filled with neat rows of sigils and my own messy commentary. I smiled. “Thank you.”

She returned to the shelves, pulling down a small wooden case of chalks in varying colors. “We’ll test your memory tomorrow. For now—copy, draw, breathe. Don’t burn yourself out.”

As she walked away, I opened my new journal and began to write.

I didn’t mean to lose the day.

At first, I worked with intention—drawing each sigil slowly in my journal, copying the name and core function beside it in my neatest hand. I paused to annotate when something felt important: Requires steadier breath control, This one stung when I pressed magic into it, Possible use in light-warding applications. My chalk hand grew dusty, my fingertips smudged grey, but I barely noticed.

One sigil led to the next. I tested their shapes first in the journal, then redrew them on the slate, murmuring their names under my breath, matching their forms to imagined uses. I found myself returning to a few again and again—Glaspin, a sealing rune with a clean snap of closure when infused, and Flickerend, a charm for redirecting light, which felt like chasing fireflies in a jar.

Pages filled. The afternoon light shifted, slanting across the workbench in golden stripes. At some point, Naerel returned and set down a small plate—boiled egg halves, pickled root slices, a thick wedge of honeyed oat cake. I nodded my thanks without looking up, my eyes locked on the angle of a looping sigil that didn’t want to stay symmetrical.

Later, the plate was empty, and I couldn’t even remember eating.

The chalk snapped between my fingers, worn down to a nub. I blinked, finally noticing the stiffness in my shoulders, the dryness in my throat. My tea was cold.

I turned toward the window. Dusk had settled quietly over the village, painting the sky in watercolor purples and smoky blue. Somewhere outside, a nightjar trilled. The oil lanterns had been lit—one on the hearth, one beside the bookshelf. Naerel must have returned again without a word, letting me work.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps came from the hearth corner.

“You’re done for the day,” Naerel said simply, not unkind. “Come sit. You’ve earned another proper meal.”

I hesitated, still half in the grip of the work. The rune I’d been drawing—Whisperbind, delicate and complex—remained half-finished on the page.

“I was just—”

She gave me a look that brooked no argument. “It’ll still be there tomorrow. But you won’t be much good to the work if you collapse on it.”

I stood, slowly, carefully, as though stepping out of a spell. My fingers cramped a little from gripping the chalk too long. I flexed them as I walked toward the hearth.

Dinner was a warm lentil stew, full of roasted garlic and soft root vegetables, served with coarse brown bread and a pat of herbed butter. The bench creaked under me as I sat. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I stopped moving.

“You get like that when you focus, don’t you?” Naerel said as she ladled out stew. “Quiet. Still. Everything else fades.”

I gave her a sheepish smile. “I forget to stop. I always have.”

She didn’t laugh. Just nodded. “It’s not a flaw, Elara. Not if you learn to listen to your body, too.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. The fire crackled. My shoulders slowly began to relax.

“I think I’ve got a quarter of the book copied,” I said eventually, breaking a piece of bread in half. “And maybe half of those I can draw without looking now.”

Naerel took a sip of her tea, eyes thoughtful. “Tomorrow we’ll test that. I’ll name them—you draw. No book.”

I swallowed, suddenly nervous. “All right.”

“But tonight,” she added, “you rest. And before bed, you soak those hands.”

I glanced down. Chalk dust still smudged my knuckles, the creases of my skin lined pale. I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t even noticed the sting.

“Yes, healer,” I said with mock solemnity, which earned me a short, amused grunt.

We finished the meal slowly, each lost in our own thoughts. Outside, the night deepened. The scent of the stew lingered, mingling with the fire’s warmth and the faint sharpness of dried herbs from the rafters. My journal sat open on the workbench, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from the window.

It had been a good day. The kind of day that passed in quiet purpose, where the work felt like it mattered.

And tomorrow, I would do it all again.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL NOTES: RUNECRAFT FOUNDATIONS

* Rune Slate TechniqueDescription: Smooth, flat pieces of slate used as a base for inscribing magical sigils. Chalk is used for practice; rune paste for final casting.Use: Runes are drawn, then activated by focusing magical energy into the slate. The rune “holds” if drawn properly and charged with intent.Notes: Begin with breath control and mental centering. Runes must be memorized before casting. Layering multiple runes requires precision and order. Clean slate before reuse.

* Repelling Rune – InsectsDescription: A ward symbol designed to repel flying and crawling pests within a small radiusUse: Applied to cellar corners, pantries, or garden borders to prevent infestationNotes: Loses effectiveness if overlapping with strong food scents or open windows. Reinforce every season.

* Repelling Rune – Mold & DampDescription: Curved and spined rune that disperses damp air and fungal sporesUse: Common in storage cellars, beneath floorboards, or near underground wallsNotes: Best layered second after insect repellent rune. Slight shimmer when active in humid air.

* Stasis Rune – PreservationDescription: A lattice-like rune pattern that slows time for stored goodsUse: Used in root cellars and larders to extend the freshness of food and herbsNotes: Cast last in sequence. Requires precise edges and steady pressure when inscribing. Can dull if drawn too faintly.