Chapter 6: The Celler Test

I woke to the scent of woodsmoke and roasting squash, my limbs heavy with the kind of soreness that meant I’d worked hard the day before. The light filtering through the loft window was soft and golden, the air cool against my skin. I stretched under the blanket, fingers aching slightly from too many hours gripping chalk and scribbling notes.

Downstairs, I heard the familiar clatter of a pan and Naerel’s quiet footsteps as she moved about the kitchen.

I climbed down the ladder and was greeted with a mug of barley tea and a warm plate of roasted squash, eggs, and bacon already waiting at the table. She gave a short nod in greeting but said nothing else until I was halfway through my meal.

“Today you’re getting your quiz,” she said evenly, slicing her own bread.

I paused with a forkful of squash halfway to my mouth. “Already?”

“You’ve copied runes, drawn them on slate, pushed magic into them. Now we see what’s stuck.”

She didn’t sound impatient, just matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing the weather.

After breakfast, she cleared the dishes while I wiped chalk dust from my journal and tried to settle my nerves. When she returned, she handed me a fresh slate and a new stick of chalk.

“No notes. Just memory. Draw the ones you know. Name them. Write their function.”

I sat at the workbench, palms a little damp, and got to work.

Some flowed easily—Emberhold, Repelkin, Aetherbind. I wrote them down with practiced care. Others I remembered only halfway, their lines fuzzy or their names just out of reach. I pushed on, drawing until the slate was nearly full.

Naerel reviewed it with a slow nod. “Twenty-two remembered. Eighteen correct. Seventeen fully understood.”

I frowned. “That’s not… great.”

“It’s your second day,” she said. “You’re not being graded. You’re being assessed.”

Then she handed me a neatly folded cloth bundle and a small jar of rune paste that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Pack your things. Time to use them.”

I blinked at her. “Use them where?”

She turned toward the door, tying her long outer wrap over her tunic. “The Oakhearth Inn. Mira’s cellar needs warding—mold, pests, storage problems. You’re going to set the runes.”

I straightened from the bench, alarm prickling at the edge of my throat. “Me? But I—I’ve barely practiced. Shouldn’t I wait until I’ve studied longer?”

Naerel’s tone didn’t change. “You’ve learned the forms. You know the effects. Either the magic will hold, or it won’t.”

“But what if I do it wrong?”

“Then we’ll fix it. But you won’t know until you try. A healer who only studies never learns to act. This is simple magic, Elara. Practical and quiet. There’s no danger here—only proof of learning.”

I hesitated, clutching the cloth bundle tighter. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel ready.

But instead, I nodded, slowly. “All right.”

“Good,” she said. “Get your boots.”

We walked through the village in a hush of early light, dew still clinging to the grass and rooftops. The bundle of tools felt heavy under my arm, though it weighed next to nothing. My fingers tightened around it as we approached the Oakhearth Inn.

Mira Talgren stood at the front stoop in her usual flour-dusted apron, wiping her hands on a cloth as we approached. Her greying braid was wrapped around her crown like a practical circlet, and her smile was quick and warm.

“Morning, Naerel,” she said, then her gaze landed on me. “And Elara. You’ve got the serious look of someone about to attempt magic before their tea.”

“She’s ready to try her first warding,” Naerel said. “I’m just observing.”

Mira’s smile softened into something kinder. “You’ll do just fine, dear. The cellar’s yours. I lit a lantern and cleared the back wall. Let me know if you need anything.”

The trapdoor creaked as I opened it, revealing the stone steps down into the cool, earthy dark. I glanced back once more at Naerel.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just watched.

I took a breath and descended into the cellar.

The air changed instantly—damp and heavy, tinged with the scent of root vegetables, old earth, and something faintly sour. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars and baskets, and a few hanging garlic ropes swayed slightly in the draft. A low hum of gnats gathered near the far corner where moisture darkened the stones.

I set down my bundle on a crate and unrolled it slowly. Parchment slips, soft brushes, the small jar of rune paste. I’d practiced each component, drawn every sigil on slate and in my journal, but this was different. This was real. My heart thudded in my ribs. I looked up toward the stairwell again—Naerel stood silhouetted at the top, her arms folded across her chest.

She didn’t say a word. Right. No help. I took a steadying breath and knelt near the first corner. Repelkin was the first sigil—simple spiral within a square frame, used to keep pests at bay. I dipped the brush into the paste and let my magic rise just enough to feel the warmth in my fingers.

The spiral smeared on the second curve. I hissed quietly and wiped it clean. Focus. No one’s rushing you. I drew it again—slower, smoother. The strokes held. I whispered the rune’s name under my breath and pushed a thread of magic into the paste as it dried. The mark hummed softly. It held. One down.

I moved to the second corner. Dampbind. This one had a longer curve and sharp downward strokes, like a breaking wave. I remembered how my hand needed to turn just slightly to keep the angle right. This time the rune came easily—clean and whole. The infusion settled with a gentle pulse, like a drying breeze through stone. By the third corner, my hands had stopped trembling.

Stasismark—the rune to slow time in small pockets, to keep stored food from spoiling. It was the most complex of the three: a triskelion pattern ending in a closed circle. I drew it with care, not rushing the final lines. The moment I infused it, the entire rune gave off a steady vibration—light, but complete. Balanced.

I stood and stepped back, breath still shallow, and looked around. The cellar felt… different. Less musty. Calmer. The gnats had vanished. A soft stillness hung in the air, like a held breath finally released. I turned toward the stairs. Naerel descended silently, her gaze sweeping the corners, then lingering on the sigils.

“They’ll hold,” she said simply.

Just that. No praise. No critique. But something in her tone settled the nerves still coiled in my belly.

Mira leaned down through the trapdoor. “Everything all right down there?”

I smiled up at her. “I think so. The runes are in place.”

Mira grinned. “Well then. You’ve earned this.” She passed me a bundle wrapped in warm cloth. “Fresh apple bread. Still hot.”

I cradled it with both hands, the warmth seeping into my fingers like thanks.

As I stepped out into the morning light beside Naerel, I allowed myself a quiet exhale. I’d stumbled, yes. But I’d done the work. And the work had held.

Back at the cottage, the air was still and cool, the hearth down to its resting embers. Naerel hung her wrap by the door and moved without a word to stir the fire back to life. A few deft motions with kindling and tinder, a whisper of heat magic from her fingertips, and the flames caught again with a quiet crackle. She fetched the blackened kettle from its hook and filled it from the pitcher on the sideboard before settling it back onto the hearth’s swing-arm bracket. The clunk of iron against iron echoed softly through the room. I sank into my usual seat at the table, the apple bread bundle still warm in my hands. The scent had deepened on the walk home—cinnamon, cooked fruit, and a hint of sweet glaze that stuck to the cloth.

Naerel moved around me, adding dried orange peel, mint, and a pinch of chopped root to the pot with quiet familiarity. She didn’t speak until the kettle began its slow, soft whistle.

Finally, she poured two mugs and set one in front of me. “You did better than expected.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“You stumbled. Corrected. Finished. That’s the work. Precision matters—but so does recovery.”

I let that settle. “It wasn’t… perfect.”

“It doesn’t have to be. It has to hold.” She took a long sip. “And it did.”

We sat for a while in companionable silence, sipping tea. I let the warmth seep into my hands and chest. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed it—something still, something grounding.

Then Naerel stood and went to the shelves. “Next job.”

I looked up warily. “Already?”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Wards don’t care if you’re tired. They expire when they’re ready.”

She handed me a thick leather-bound ledger. The spine was cracked from use, and the pages inside were dense with diagrams, annotations, and tidy script.

“This is the ward register for the cottage and the grounds. You’ll find where they are, what they do, and when they were last renewed. Most are overdue.”

I flipped through the pages. Each ward was described in methodical detail: function, location, rune configuration, reinforcement notes. Many entries were marked refresh within season—and a few had been crossed through and rewritten with urgent notations.

“You’ll check each one,” she continued. “Walk the perimeter. The garden. The shed. The interior corners. See if they hold. If not, redo them.”

“All of them?” I asked.

She nodded once. “All of them.”

“You’re not going to help?”

She gave me a thin smile. “No. But I’ll know if you missed one.”

I glanced toward the door, then back at the register. The pages crackled faintly in my hands.

Naerel pointed toward the window. “Start with the herb garden. There’s a small pest-repelling sigil set in the ground near the rosemary. You’ll feel if it’s still strong.”

I drained the last of my tea and tucked the journal under my arm. The morning mist had lifted by the time I stepped outside, replaced with soft sun and birdsong. The scent of mint and thyme drifted on the breeze as I made my way to the garden, the register pressed close to my chest. This was more than practice now. This was someone’s home. No more slate. No more chalk dust. Just the real thing.

I stepped into the herb garden with the ward ledger tucked under my arm, the early sun warm on my shoulders. Bees buzzed lazily around the lavender, and the rosemary bush rustled softly in the breeze. I turned the pages until I found the first entry. Pest repellent—Repelkin. Set in slate. Buried near base of rosemary. Refresh every three months. Status: 9 days overdue.

I knelt by the bush and brushed my fingers through the soil until I felt the flat, cool surface of the stone. It had sunk slightly over time, and a mat of old roots clung to the top edge. I dug it free and held it up to the light. The rune etched into the slate was barely visible—chalk-thin lines faded to little more than scratches, no hum of magic left in them. I pulled a cloth from my kit and carefully wiped the stone clean, then laid it across my knee.

Drawing the rune came easier now. I had memorized the spiral-square pattern, and the slate offered a smoother surface than bark or soil. I etched the lines with my chalk, then placed my hand over the center and pushed a slow, steady thread of magic into the stone. The rune shimmered faintly, then settled—anchored, humming with quiet strength. I buried it again, flush with the roots, and jotted a quick note in the margin of the ledger: Fully refreshed. Magic held clean. Roots didn’t interfere. One down.

Behind the cottage, by the stone wall of the shed, the next entry waited. Dampbind—Moisture barrier. Set upright behind the rain barrel. Slate cracked. Redraw on replacement stone if needed. I found the old slate leaning awkwardly against a patch of moss. The crack through its center was clean but deep—probably from last winter’s frost. The rune had flaked off almost entirely, no more than ghosted lines now. I tried to lift it, and the whole thing split in two in my hands.

“Well,” I muttered, “guess that’s a clear answer.”

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a fresh blank slate. This one was rounder, a little heavier. I placed it on the edge of the path and crouched beside it. I redrew the layered ripple shapes of Dampbind, adjusted slightly to curve with the stone’s surface. It took me two tries—the first time, the arc wobbled too far inward and collapsed the symmetry. I erased it with my cloth and started over, breathing slowly, steadying my hand. The second time it held. When I pressed magic into it, the stone warmed faintly beneath my palm. I slid it upright behind the barrel and checked it with a slow pass of magic. It pulsed back: gentle, sure.

I spent the better part of the day this way. One by one, I found the old runestones—wedged under eaves, behind pantry shelves, tucked beneath loose stones in the garden wall. Most were worn but intact. A few were broken or sunken, or had grown moss so thick that I had to scrape them clean with a brush. Some still held a faint hum of old magic, clinging to the stone like the smell of smoke in old fabric. Others were long gone, their runes nothing more than weathered grooves.

The pantry Stasismark was the hardest. The rune on that one had faded unevenly, and when I tried to refresh it, my magic pulled too sharply. The spell snapped back, inert. I had to scrub the slate, recenter my lines, and try again—this time slower, with more intention. When it clicked into place, the air around the stone felt cooler, more stable.

Each ward taught me something—about line weight, or how much magic to use, or how texture and curve could affect spellbinding. I updated the ledger with every change, adding small notes like shifted angle for better drainage or replaced with smaller stone, reinforcement added.

By late afternoon, I reached the final stone—set along the garden path, near the old tree stump. Boundary deterrent—Repelkin layered under Sensebind. Set flat beneath the moss stone. Refresh both. Priority: High. The moss had grown thick over the boundary stone, and I had to carefully peel it back, revealing a flat oval of slate buried nearly flush with the earth. The runes were completely washed away—only the faintest dips in the stone remained. I wiped it clean and sat cross-legged beside it. Repelkin first, clean and simple, then Sensebind, nested above in a triplet arc that curled in toward itself. I redrew both, whispering the names under my breath as I pressed magic into the stone in two slow waves.

The air shifted. Not a sound, but a sensation—like the soft thrum of alertness in the back of the mind. A signal waiting quietly for something to cross its line. I exhaled and leaned back on my hands, blinking up at the sky. The sun had shifted, low and golden now. My legs were sore, fingers stained with chalk and earth. But the wards were in place. My wards. My work. When I stepped back inside, dusty and tired, Naerel looked up from where she was chopping roots at the counter.

“Well?”

“Seven stones found. Five replaced. Two refreshed.”

“Failures?”

“Two false starts. One broken slate. I made notes.”

She nodded. “Any surprises?”

“A few. But nothing I couldn’t fix.”

Naerel gestured to the kettle, already waiting for heat. “Then put water on and clean your hands. You’ve earned your evening.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I smiled and moved to the hearth. The fire had gone low again, but a little spark and breath brought it back to life. I set the kettle in place and rinsed my hands in the basin, watching the streaks of chalk and moss run off like river water.

Behind me, the cottage was quiet, the walls solid, the air calm. Everything was holding. The stew was thick with lentils, garlic, and carrots pulled from the garden that morning. I tore off a piece of bread and dipped it absently, watching the way the candlelight flickered across the inside of my journal, still open between us. Naerel didn’t speak at first. She ate slowly, carefully, like she did everything—with a kind of deliberate attention that made silence feel natural.

After a while, she set her spoon down and reached for her tea. “You handled the wards well. Clean lines, good layering. You didn’t rush.”

I nodded, but didn’t smile. “It helped, having something solid to follow. But it’s not the only thing I came here to learn.”

Her eyes flicked toward me over the rim of her mug. “Go on.”

“I want more herbal lore. Deeper knowledge.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “I stayed a few weeks with Rennet. Just long enough to learn how to keep someone breathing in the woods, how to stop a fever with pine bark and hope, how to guess at a wound by the way someone winces.”

Naerel gave a knowing grunt. “Sounds like him.”

"He taught me to be resourceful,” I said. “To treat with what’s on hand. But it was all so fast, and we were always moving. I didn’t get to stay anywhere and learn how things grow through a full season. Or how to prepare remedies the right way, not just… smash and steep and pray.”

Naerel tore off a piece of bread, thoughtful. “So you want refinement.”

I nodded. “And depth. I want to know the plants I’ve seen, and the ones I haven’t. What to gather, when to harvest. The difference between something that soothes and something that masks.”

She reached for my journal and flipped to the herbal section without asking. She’d seen it earlier, but this time she really read. Her fingertip traced a page where I’d sketched bloodleaf and scribbled three different ratios for burn salve, trying to remember which had stung the least.

“Some good instincts,” she said. “Some Rennet shortcuts, too.”

“I know.” I smiled faintly. “I’ve learned to ask, ‘Is this safe?’ Now I want to learn to ask, ‘Is this best?’”

She nodded once, a slow, considered movement. Then handed the journal back. “We’ll start with the stillroom tomorrow. You’ll label what you know from sight. We’ll talk through what you think you know. Then we’ll brew a few basics—digestive tonic, bruise balm, maybe a calming oil if we have time.”

I folded the journal closed and cradled my tea. “I’d like that.”

Naerel rose to refill the kettle. “And you’ll keep notes. Proper ones. No more shorthand from half a trail lesson.”

I gave a mock salute. “Yes, healer.”

She gave a rare smirk. “Smart mouth. That’s how I know you’re still awake.”

We cleaned the table together, moving quietly around each other in the practiced rhythm of people who both preferred silence to small talk. The fire settled low behind the hearth grate, and outside, the wind carried the scent of mint and loam through the cracked window. As I crawled into bed in the loft later, I kept the journal beside me, open to a blank page. Tomorrow, I’d start writing everything I wanted to remember.

The scent of lemon balm and dried nettle hit me the moment I stirred. Not sharp or overpowering, just present—a hint of sunlight trapped in green leaves, mingled with something earthy and faintly sweet. Morning had come quietly. The soft warmth of the hearth's lingering embers still clung to the air, and a faint draft stirred the hanging bundles overhead. My legs were sore in a satisfying way, not from strain, but from steady use. Practice and repetition. I’d forgotten how good that could feel.

Naerel was already at the table, sipping something from a clay cup, her silver hair plaited neatly down her back. She didn’t look up as I came downstairs, just gestured to the kettle and a set of herb tins left open beside it.

“Mix your own this morning,” she said. “What you think your body needs.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and padded over to the hearth. The kettle was hot but not boiling. I selected lemon balm, nettle, and a pinch of dried raspberry leaf—something gentle and balancing. The scent rose as I steeped the mixture, coaxing a quiet comfort into the day. We didn’t speak as we drank. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just was.

When I finished my cup, Naerel finally glanced at me. “Time to return to your roots,” she said with the faintest quirk of a smile. “Before you lose yourself in slates and symbols. Come.”

She led me into the stillroom—a narrow side room filled with shelves, baskets, jars, bundles, and the dusty scent of hundreds of dried things. My fingers tingled just stepping into it.

“You’ve been collecting. Sketching. Naming. Time to see what you actually remember.”

My stomach gave a small flip.

Naerel handed me a leather-bound journal—blank pages, no labels—and a charcoal pencil.

“Your task is to identify everything on these two shelves by name and purpose. One morning’s work. No books. No labels. Use your senses. Sight, scent, touch.”

“What if I get something wrong?” I asked.

“Then we correct it,” she said. “You can’t hurt anyone with dry leaves and caution.”

With that, she stepped back, arms folded, and gave me space.

I started slow. My fingers hovered over the first jar—a curled-up set of yellowed leaves that smelled faintly of cloves and pine. I turned the jar carefully, feeling the brittle texture. Comfrey? No, too sharp. Goldbrush. I wrote it down: Goldbrush. Wound binder. Apply as poultice, especially with heat.

One down.

The next few came more easily. Dried yarrow, with its feathered white blooms and faintly sweet scent. Spiderleaf, leathery and curled. Nettle, unmistakable in its sting that lingered even when dried. But then came a row of seeds I didn’t know. Small, dark purple, smooth. I turned the jar slowly and sniffed—something bitter and clean. My gut whispered bitternut, but I wasn’t certain. I wrote: Unknown seed. Possibly bitternut. Digestive or purgative? Ask. I moved on.

Hour passed quietly. I crouched, stood, leaned. My hands dusted with herbs. My fingertips tingled from contact. I surprised myself with how much I did remember. But more than once, I stared at a bundle or a jar and felt blank. Not ignorant. Just aware of how vast this work really was. By midday, Naerel brought me a slice of seedcake and a mug of broth. She didn’t ask how it was going. Just set them down beside me and walked away again. I munched and scribbled. The act of writing seemed to help—putting each piece into a shape I could carry forward.

By the end of the second shelf, my legs were sore again. My mind buzzed with half-remembered notes and lessons I’d overheard in Rennel’s kitchen. It had only been a few weeks with him, but the rhythm of his work had clearly settled in me. I remembered how he talked to plants before cutting them. How he never used the same knife twice in a row. How he tested tinctures by smell before taste.

I finished with one last jar of dried mushroom caps—deep brown, shriveled, with a cinnamon-wood scent. Oakcap. Used for grounding teas and body restoration. Don’t mix with cloudwort. When I finally looked up, Naerel had returned. She said nothing at first, just picked up the journal and flipped through. A single nod.

“You remember more than I thought.”

I smiled, tired and content. “I remember enough to want to remember better.”

“Good,” she said. “Before we dive into blending, we eat.”

She turned toward the kitchen and began pulling down plates. “There’s leftover squash in the larder, and I refuse to go hungry just because you’re eager.”

Grinning, I stood and stretched. My mind was still full of herbs and guesses, but the thought of warm food was grounding.

“Go out to the garden,” Naerel added. “Gather something bright for seasoning. Nothing bitter. Think of what pairs well with squash.”

I took a basket and stepped out into the garden. The sun had risen high, warming the soil and sending the scent of herbs into the air. Bees hovered lazily over lavender and sage, and the gentle breeze stirred the tops of marjoram and mint.

After a thoughtful circuit, I clipped sprigs of lemon thyme, a few broad leaves of sweet sage, and petals from the marigolds by the fence. Their soft honey scent would round the squash’s sweetness nicely. Back inside, Naerel was slicing the squash and setting it to roast over the hearth in a cast-iron pan. I set my herbs down on a wooden board beside her.

“Good choices,” she said, eyeing the marigold with particular approval. “Starting to think like a cook. Or a healer who likes her food.”

We ate in companionable quiet, the roasted squash buttery and fragrant, lifted by the brightness of herbs and served with slices of flatbread to soak up the oil. When we were finished, Naerel stood, wiped her hands, and gestured toward the stillroom again.

“Now,” she said. “Let’s see what you can make of all that knowledge. We’re starting simple. Salves and tinctures.”

The afternoon sunlight angled through the windows as we returned to the stillroom. She laid out a tray of ingredients and pointed to a set of labeled drawers containing dried herbs.

“Your task: prepare three remedies. One balm for bruises, one tincture for digestion, and one salve for minor burns. No step-by-step guidance. You choose the herbs, the base, the method. I’ll watch.”

My heart beat faster, but I nodded. I could do this. As I worked, Naerel asked quiet questions now and then. What happens to arnica root when boiled too long? How does mint behave differently in alcohol versus honey infusions? What binds better with beeswax: plantain or comfrey? I answered where I could and took careful notes where I couldn’t. The room filled with scent—sweet, sharp, pungent, warm. Oil melted in the double boiler as I stirred in crushed leaves. Alcohol tinctures caught the light in glinting amber. The beeswax smelled faintly of smoke and flowers as I folded it into the balm. By the time we finished, the light was beginning to fade. Naerel inspected each preparation, said nothing for a long while, and then finally nodded.

“Good foundation,” she said. “You’ve more instinct than I expected. But instinct only takes you so far. Tomorrow, we begin refining. Side effects. Interactions. Shelf life. Ratios.”

I looked down at the soft green balm I’d poured into a jar, proud and already itching to do better.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I want to know it all.”

That night, I barely slept. Not from nerves or restlessness, but from anticipation. My dreams were a drifting haze of herbs and formulas, colors and textures dancing behind my eyes. When the light of morning finally reached the stillroom window, I was already up and washing my hands in the cold basin by the hearth. Naerel met me with a quiet nod and a steaming cup of the same herb blend I’d made the day before. We drank in silence, and then she gestured to the bench where I’d left my journal.

“Today, we begin refinement. It’s one thing to know what a plant can do. It’s another to understand what it might also do if you aren’t careful.”

She cleared a space on the table and laid out a series of jars. Each held something familiar—nettle, yarrow, elderflower, mint, plantain—but beside each was a second jar, smaller, labeled in Naerel’s careful hand. I leaned in and read:

Nettle – Infusion: Restorative / Overuse: Fluid retention

Yarrow – Poultice: Clotting aid / Ingestion: Stomach upset in sensitive individuals

Elderflower – Steam: Fever relief / Tincture: Risky for children under 6

Mint – Tincture: Digestive / Oversteeped: Heartburn

Plantain – Salve: Skin healing / Spoils fast if base isn’t hot enough

She handed me my journal. “You’ll add your own notes beside these. You’ll brew, test, steep, stir—and we’ll talk. It’s not about memorizing lists. It’s about pattern. Understanding why something works, and when it might stop working.”

So I did. One herb at a time, I took what I knew, then layered in what I hadn’t. With Naerel watching and prompting gently, I steeped a concentrated mint tincture, tasted it, and felt the burn creep up my throat—too long. I compared a quick-heat plantain salve with a cold-blended version and watched the latter spoil before sunset. I cataloged not just uses but thresholds, tolerances, shelf life, and reactions.

By midday, my pages were a patchwork of tidy writing and frantic corrections. Arrows pointed to “double-check this with honey base?” and “too strong for small children?” and “combine with marshroot to offset bitterness.”

We paused only for a short lunch—fresh bread, dried tomatoes in oil, and water with muddled citrus peel and sage.

As I chewed, Naerel asked, “What did Rennel teach you about this part?”

I swallowed and smiled a little. “He was careful. Measured. I think he saw too many people rush to help and cause more harm.”

She nodded. “He wasn’t wrong.”

After lunch, we returned to the stillroom. I spent the rest of the afternoon drawing side-by-side entries for each herb I knew. On one side, my original notes. On the other, new observations. We made test batches—some under different heat, some with different infusions. I was encouraged to fail and then reflect. By sundown, the stillroom smelled of layered herbs, alcohol, beeswax, and scorched lemon balm. My hands were stained, and my hair had bits of dried yarrow in it. But I had learned. And tomorrow, I’d learn more.

The next morning, I woke to the creak of the cottage settling and the quiet clink of crockery in the kitchen. Naerel was already awake, steam curling from the cup in her hands. She glanced at me over the rim and gave a small nod.

“Up, are you? Good. No stillroom today.”

I blinked, mid-stretch. “No?”

“You’re going for a walk,” she said. “A long one.”

That got my attention. She turned toward the shelf and tapped an almost-empty jar.

“Purplecaps. We’re nearly out.”

I padded over to look. Inside were the remnants of a few curled, dusky mushrooms, their caps a faint dusty violet. I knew the name, but I’d never foraged them myself.

“They’re edible, right?” I asked.

“Perfectly,” Naerel replied. “Most townsfolk stew them when they’re fresh. But when dried and rehydrated, they release a gentle compound that settles the stomach. Excellent for those recovering from illness, or for travel-weary bellies. Not flashy, but useful. That’s the kind of remedy worth knowing.”

She handed me a forager’s basket lined with soft cloth and a narrow-bladed knife. “You’ll find them in deep shade. Only under fallen trees or near rotting logs, where the light barely reaches. They bruise easily, so pack with care.”

I grinned. After so many days in the stillroom, I couldn’t deny how much I missed the hush of the woods.

“I’ll be back before supper,” I promised, slinging my satchel over one shoulder.

“Take your time,” she said, already returning to her notes. “It’s not about speed. It’s about the right ones.”

Outside, the air was cool and damp, full of birdsong and the scent of wet bark. I wandered deep into the forest behind the cottage, skirting brambles and climbing over mossy stones. I looked for the dim places—the hollows beneath leaning trunks, the dark side of fallen branches. The kind of places where things softened and grew quietly.

It was nearly midday when I found the first one. Nestled under the curved root of a toppled cedar, a small cluster of violet caps peeked through the loam. Their edges were ruffled like tiny skirts, the color richer where the soil was damp. I knelt, cutting them free with care, and laid them gently in the basket.

From there, I found more—never many in one place, but enough. Each discovery gave me a small pulse of satisfaction. There was something deeply grounding about it—being alone in the green, hands in the earth, seeking something both humble and healing.

By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, the basket was nearly full. I made my way home slowly, the familiar path taking on a golden glow as dusk settled in.

Naerel looked up when I entered, covered in leaf mold and carrying the basket like a prize.

“Didn’t expect you back with that many,” she said, pulling back the cloth. “These are excellent. No bruises, no rot.”

“They were growing like little secrets under every other log,” I said, setting the basket down with a pleased sigh.

She nodded once, approving. “We’ll dry them in the morning. Good to have them back in stock. You’ll be glad you did when someone comes in with belly trouble and no appetite.”

I sat, poured myself a glass of water, and stretched out my sore legs. It felt good to have earned the ache. Dinner that evening was quiet but warm—roasted root vegetables drizzled with herb oil, slices of flatbread, and a thick stew full of beans and dried squash. We didn’t talk much at first. My muscles hummed pleasantly from the day’s foraging, and the scent of the meal filled the cottage like a comforting blanket. Naerel finally broke the silence as she set down her bowl and leaned back in her chair.

“You’ve come far in a short time,” she said.

I looked up, caught off guard by the softness in her tone.

“You’ve got instincts, a good hand, and better sense than most apprentices I’ve had. But I think I’ve taken you as far as I can.”

I blinked. “Already?”

She gave a small shrug, more resigned than surprised. “You don’t need another week of repeating what you already know. What you need now are new challenges. New plants. New people. Different landscapes to learn from.”

She stood, crossed the room, and returned with a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth. She placed it gently on the table.

“Some of my old journals. Notes from when I was younger. Most of them are from this region, and I don’t need them anymore. But don’t rely on them too much—reference, not gospel. You’ve already started your own, and that’s where your true learning lives.”

I ran my fingers along the edge of the bundle, both honored and a little overwhelmed.

Naerel smiled faintly. “Don’t look like that. I’m not kicking you out tonight. But tomorrow, you should begin planning. There’s a village south of here, deep in the old forests. Takes weeks by foot, but there are local carriages that travel between villages—you can pay to ride part of the way.”

“What’s the village called?” I asked.

She hesitated, then chuckled to herself. “Doesn’t really have one name. Locals just call it the Deeproot Crossing, or Old Hollow. Doesn’t matter. It’s... unique.”

“Unique how?” I asked warily.

Naerel’s eyes gleamed. “Multicultural. Mixed. Not like the towns up here, where everyone’s got the same face and the same assumptions. You’ll see elves, dwarves, humans, gnomes, fellborn. People who wanted to leave city life behind and found their own way. You’ll learn a lot if you keep your ears open and your mouth closed.”

She went quiet for a moment, then reached for a piece of parchment from a nearby shelf and began writing. Her hand moved with steady grace, the tip of her charcoal scratching across the page.

“I’ll give you a letter of introduction. There’s someone there I trust. An old friend.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Old Bitty. Lives just past the market square in a green stone cottage with a copper weathervane. You’ll know it when you see it.”

I grinned. “Old Bitty?”

Naerel didn’t bother to hide her amusement. “It started as a joke. She liked it. It stuck.”

She folded the letter neatly, sealed it with a pressed wax stamp of a fern, and handed it to me.

“We don’t travel anymore. Neither of us wants to leave our gardens for fear something will happen while we’re gone. But we still exchange letters now and then. Recipes. Remedies. Rants. She’ll teach you if you show her you’re worth the time.”

I held the letter with both hands, the weight of it sinking in. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

Naerel nodded. “You’ve earned it. Finish the drying tomorrow. Rest. Then you go.”

The thought of leaving brought a strange ache to my chest—part fear, part excitement. But even as the fire crackled low in the hearth and shadows lengthened across the beams above, I knew it was time. The world was wide, and I had so much more to learn. Later that night, I found myself curled in the chair by the hearth, a mug of steeped chamomile and fennel cradled in my hands. The fire had been banked low, its soft glow flickering across the stone walls, casting slow-moving shadows that made the stillroom beyond look deeper than it was. Naerel had gone to bed already, leaving me to my thoughts. The letter sat on the table beside me, wax seal still unbroken. The journals, too, wrapped neatly in their cloth. They hadn’t moved since dinner, but I felt their presence like gravity—steady, quiet, pulling me forward.

I let out a slow breath, staring into the fire. I wasn’t ready. That was the first thing that surfaced—sharp and defensive. I hadn’t learned everything yet. There were still side effects to memorize, recipes to practice, tinctures to refine. But then the other truth rose to meet it. I had learned a great deal. More than I thought I could in just a short time. I could identify herbs by scent and feel. I’d prepared salves, layered wards, harvested in moonlight and silence. I’d felt the rhythm of healing in my hands. And I wanted more. Not just more practice, but more depth. More variety. More understanding. I wasn’t finished. But I was ready to keep going.

I sipped the tea, letting its warmth root me in the moment. Outside, the wind stirred faintly through the trees, rustling the eaves like a whisper. The garden would still be there in the morning. So would Naerel, quietly brewing tea and pretending not to watch me pack. I smiled to myself, a small curve of the lips, and leaned back in the chair. Tomorrow, I’d begin again. New soil. New herbs. New questions. But for tonight, I let myself be still, steeped in all I had learned—and all I was becoming.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL NOTES

Purplecap Mushrooms

Location: Shaded hollows beneath fallen trees in dense forest.

Description: Smooth caps with a dusky violet hue, thick white stems, and a faint nutty scent.

Use: Edible. When dried and later rehydrated, aids digestion and soothes upset stomachs. Commonly added to stews or teas.

Notes: Must be harvested carefully to avoid damaging the gills. Prefer cool, moist conditions. Often overlooked due to their camouflaged appearance.

Goldbrush Leaves

Location: Collected, dried, and stored in the stillroom.

Description: Yellowed, slightly curled leaves with a clove-pine aroma.

Use: Wound binding when applied warm as a poultice. Speeds clotting and eases bruising.

Notes: Easily confused with comfrey at first glance—use scent to confirm identity.

Oakcap Mushrooms

Location: Dried and stored; origin unknown.

Description: Deep brown shriveled caps, earthy cinnamon scent.

Use: Grounding tea ingredient, restorative for fatigue and magical depletion.

Notes: Do not mix with cloudwort. Interaction causes disorientation.

Marigold Petals

Location: Garden, along the southern fence.

Description: Bright golden-orange flowers with soft, rounded petals and a honeyed scent.

Use: Digestive and anti-inflammatory properties. Used in salves and to brighten dishes.

Notes: Excellent pairing with squash. Attracts bees and beneficial insects.

Lemon Thyme & Sweet Sage

Location: Herb garden, western patch.

Description: Small-leaved thyme with citrus overtones; broad, soft sage leaves with a mild, sweet aroma.

Use: Culinary and medicinal. Soothe the stomach and boost appetite.

Notes: Sage pairs well with root vegetables. Thyme best used fresh.