The chill of the night air sank deep into Akilliz’s bones as he stepped away from the hearth’s fading warmth. He closed the door with a soft creak, peering back into the cottage one last time. Torin carried Elowen to bed, her frail form swallowed by the shadows, her face paler than he’d ever seen. She had never looked so sick, he thought, a tear glistening in his eye. The hearth’s glow flickered, a cruel reminder of the home he was leaving behind. With a shaky breath, he turned and set forth through their humble village, the weight of her life pressing on his shoulders.

  “She’s strong. We can do this—but I have to hurry!” he muttered, his quickened footsteps crunching on the frost-dusted path. He glanced up at a sky full of stars, the sun long set, the moon casting a silver sheen over Lumara. “At least there’s enough light to see,” he shivered, his breath clouding in the frigid air. A single snowflake drifted down, catching the moonlight, and he blinked as more followed, a gentle flurry whispering through the night.

  As he trekked through the village, he peered into the homes of his neighbors. Families settled beside glowing hearths, dousing lanterns to prepare for sleep, their laughter muffled through the windows. He wished that’s what he was doing tonight—curled up with his parents, safe and warm. They meant everything to him, and Elowen was his world. His heart ached at the thought of her sickness, at how long she must have hidden it, her smile masking the pain.

  Up ahead, the market square lay silent, its stalls shuttered under a thin layer of snow. Akilliz forced himself to focus. “I need to pass Old Cobb’s house and head into the forest,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “There’s a path that takes me higher. How far up is this flower, anyway?” He’d never been on Frosthelm at night. Children’s tales of red-eyed demons lurking in the shadows echoed in his mind. No one traveled at night without weapons, lanterns, and two sets of eyes—but there was no time for fear, only for what must happen. He had to reach the trees, find the path, and climb the mountain.

  The end of the village came into view, the last cottages fading behind him as the tall trees of Frosthelm’s forest loomed closer, their dark silhouettes clawing at the starry sky. Snowflakes thickened, dusting his shoulders and catching in his sandy hair, the cold biting deeper under the forest’s shadow. He paused at the clearing’s edge, the warmth of Lumara now a distant glow, the icy wind howling softly through the pines ahead.

  “It’ll be easy to find a glowing plant, right?” he muttered, his voice small against the vastness. “I’ve never seen one before… Aurelia has a shrine near the summit—surely it’s not that far? Ugh, I should’ve asked for more details.” He glanced at the journal tucked in his pack, its weight a quiet comfort. “Maybe Ma left hints on where to find it. No time to look now, but if I can’t spot it quick, I’ll dig it out.”

  A gust of wind swept through, snow swirling around him as he took his first step into the forest. The trees closed in, their branches creaking like ancient whispers, the moonlight dimming under the dense canopy. The cold deepened, frost crackling beneath his boots, and Akilliz pulled his tattered tunic tighter, his heart pounding with both fear and resolve.

  The snow fell heavier now, a relentless curtain that stung Akilliz’s cheeks like tiny needles, each flake a reminder of how unprepared he was. He trudged deeper into Frosthelm’s forest, the tall pines towering over him, their branches sagging under fresh powder, blotting out the moonlight. His boots sank into the deepening snow, now knee-high, the sound of his steps muffled by the eerie stillness. He pulled his tattered tunic tighter, the thin fabric doing little against the biting cold, shivers wracking his body as his fingers grew numb, his breath clouding in the frigid air. He’d never felt so small, so alone, the weight of Elowen’s life pressing harder with every step.

  “I have to hurry,” he muttered, his voice trembling, barely audible over the howling wind. “She needs this.” The thought of her pale face, her shallow breaths, drove him forward, but it also made him reckless. He scanned the darkness for the path she had once described—a narrow trail winding up the mountain—but the snow blurred everything, and his haste made him careless. He stumbled over a hidden root, catching himself on a tree, the rough bark scraping his palm. “Focus!” he hissed, but fear gnawed at him, whispering tales of red-eyed demons lurking in the shadows. What if he was too late? What if he never found the Bloom?

  The trail appeared at last, a faint break in the trees marked by a gnarled pine bent like an old man’s cane, but it climbed steeply, forcing him to scramble over icy rocks and duck under low branches heavy with snow. His legs burned, the cold seeping into his bones, and his worn boots slipped on the frost, each step a battle against the mountain’s wrath. A rickety bridge loomed ahead, its wooden planks slick with ice, spanning a narrow ravine where a frozen stream glittered below. He hesitated, the wind howling through the gap, shaking the bridge like a living thing. “I don’t have time for this,” he growled, urgency overriding caution. He gripped the fraying rope railing and stepped onto the bridge, his heart pounding as it groaned under his weight. Halfway across, a plank snapped beneath his foot, and he lurched forward, barely catching himself as the rope burned his hands. He scrambled to the other side, collapsing in the snow, his breath ragged, his body trembling from cold and fear. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill, and he knew it would only make things worse—damp clothes in this cold could be deadly.

  Still, he pressed on, the path growing narrower, the air thinner, the snow now up to his knees. A rustle in the underbrush made him freeze—a small, red-furred fox darted out, its eyes glinting in the dim moonlight, weaving through the deep snow with ease. It circled him, drawn by the scent of his last piece of dried meat in his pack, its movements quick and teasing. Akilliz clutched the pack to his chest, trying to protect it as the fox darted in and out, nipping at the edges, its teeth grazing the leather. “Get away!” he shouted, spinning to face it, but he couldn’t turn fast enough in the heavy snow. He drew his small dagger, his numb fingers clumsy, and swung at the fox, but his foot caught on a hidden stone, and he stumbled, falling to one knee. The fox pounced, its jaws tearing into the pack, ripping through the fabric to snatch the dried meat before bolting into the storm. Akilliz lunged after it, but the snow dragged at his legs, and the fox vanished, leaving him with nothing but a torn pack and a gnawing hunger. “I needed that,” he whispered, his voice cracking, his stomach growling as he hauled himself up, his hands numb, his body aching, and kept climbing.

  The trail twisted higher, the wind a relentless howl, and Akilliz’s fear grew with every step. He was shivering uncontrollably now, the sweat from his earlier exertion freezing against his skin, sapping what little warmth he had left. He hadn’t eaten since morning, and hunger clawed at his insides, his strength fading with every step. Magic relied on a person’s strength, and his legs burned from the trek, his body growing tired, numb all over. His fingers felt like ice, his toes barely registering in his boots, and each breath was a struggle against the thinning air. He was unprepared—no lantern, no proper cloak, no weapons beyond a small knife. The stories of demons felt all too real now, the shadows shifting with every gust, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. “I can’t stop,” he muttered, his teeth chattering so hard he could barely speak. “Ma needs me.” But the urgency made him reckless again. He spotted a shortcut—a steep, rocky incline that might cut time off his climb—and in his haste, he took it, ignoring the slick ice coating the stones.

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  The mistake was immediate. His boot slipped, and he slid down the cliff, a cry tearing from his throat as he clawed at the snow, trying to stop his fall. He hit a jagged outcrop, pain exploding in his leg as he tumbled into a snowbank below. For a moment, he lay there, stunned, the cold seeping deeper, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He sat up, wincing, and touched his leg—a gash on his shin bled freely, staining the snow red, and his ankle throbbed, twisted from the fall. “Stupid,” he choked, tears freezing on his cheeks. “I’m so stupid.” He wallowed in the snow, the weight of his failure crushing him. He was too slow, too weak, too unprepared. Elowen was suffering, and he was failing her, just like he’d failed to notice her illness sooner. “I can’t do this,” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not strong enough.”

  Still pouting, Akilliz opened his pack, the cold wet seeping into his clothes and bones, making him shiver harder. He pulled out Elowen’s journal, its leather cover worn but precious, and angled it under the faint moonlight, careful not to let the snow dampen the pages. His fingers trembled as he flipped to a page marked with her neat handwriting, a herblore entry on the Lightspire Bloom. “Found near the Lady’s shrine, the Lightspire blooms only for a fleeting hour after dusk, its petals glowing with her divine light,” she’d written. “When the glow fades, the flower closes until the next day, unharvestable. To gather, hum the Song of Dawn—three notes, soft and pure—while cutting the stem at its base with a single, steady stroke. Disturb its roots, and the light will die.” Akilliz’s heart sank. Dusk had long passed—had he missed his chance? The snow fell harder, burying him in its icy embrace, and for a moment, he wanted to give up, to let the cold take him.

  But a faint glow caught his eye through the storm—a soft, golden light emanating from a small stone shrine just up the path. It was a statue of Aurelia herself, her elven features carved with serene beauty, her hands outstretched as if watching over the mountain. A cryptic inscription at its base read, “She who lights the peaks sees all.” Akilliz crawled toward it, his injured leg dragging, his body screaming with every movement, the storm thickening around him, snow swirling in blinding gusts. He collapsed against the shrine, the stone warm beneath his touch, a comforting heat that seeped into his frozen hands. He embraced it, clinging to the statue as if it were Elowen herself, and cried, his tears mixing with the snow. “Aurelia, please… help me save her,” he whispered through chattering teeth. “I can’t lose her. I’ll do anything.”

  As if in answer, the storm stood still for a moment, the wind dying, the snow parting like a curtain. Akilliz sniffled, opening his eyes, and there, nestled in a crevice between two boulders near the shrine, glowed a cluster of flowers, their petals a radiant white, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. The Lightspire Bloom, its light still shining, a miracle in the darkness. “It’s real,” Akilliz breathed, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his leg, and limped toward the flowers, humming the Song of Dawn—three soft, pure notes, his voice shaky but determined. With a single, steady stroke of his knife, he cut the stem at its base, careful not to disturb the roots, and the Bloom’s glow held steady as he tucked it into his pack.

  But a low growl froze him in place. A shadow-touched wolf emerged from the darkness, its fur black as night, eyes burning with a sickly yellow light, the air around it shimmering with an unnatural haze. Akilliz’s heart pounded—the demons were real, and he was in no shape to fight. The wolf stalked closer, its growl deepening, each step a deliberate threat, its claws scraping the icy ground. He backed away, his injured leg trembling beneath him, his breath coming in panicked gasps. The wolf lunged, jaws snapping, and he dove to the side, his leg buckling as he hit the snow, pain searing through him. He fumbled for his knife, but it slipped from his numb fingers, skittering across the ice.

  The wolf circled, its eyes locked on him, saliva dripping from its fangs, the tension building as it prepared to strike again. Desperate, Akilliz grabbed a handful of snow and crushed the last of his dried herbs—nettle and sage—into it, muttering a spell Elowen had taught him. “Burn!” he shouted, his voice raw, throwing the mixture at the wolf. The herbs sparked, a weak burst of flame flaring in the air, catching the wolf’s flank. It yelped, its fur singed, and retreated into the shadows, giving Akilliz just enough time to scramble to his feet, clutching the pack with the Bloom.

  He didn’t stop to catch his breath. Elowen’s time was running out. He stumbled back down the mountain, the snow a blinding flurry, his injured leg dragging, each step a jolt of agony that felt like it took ten times longer than the trek up. The path was a nightmare of ice and darkness, his vision blurring, exhaustion and cold threatening to pull him under. He slipped again, tumbling down a snowy slope, his body battered against rocks, his gash reopening, blood soaking his leg. But he clung to the pack, protecting the Bloom at all costs, his mother’s frail smile driving him forward through the endless, torturous descent.

  Lumara’s lights came into view at last, a faint glow through the storm, and Akilliz barely made it back in one piece, his body bruised, his leg bleeding, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He burst through the door of the cottage, snow falling from his shoulders, his chest heaving. “Ma! I got it!” he cried, holding up the Lightspire Bloom, its glow illuminating the dim room, his voice raw with desperation.

  Torin looked up from Elowen’s bedside, his face etched with grief. Elowen lay still, her breath shallow, her skin ashen, but a faint smile touched her lips as she coughed weakly. “Aki… your leg,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes flickering with concern. “Torin… mend it…”

  “We’ll get to that, love,” Torin said, his voice trembling but firm, his eyes on the Bloom. “First, how does he make the potion?” Elowen, too tired to speak, pointed a shaky finger at the journal on the table, her strength fading.

  Torin grabbed Akilliz, pulling him into a fierce embrace, his voice thick with pride. “You made it, lad. I knew you could. Focus now—try your best.” Akilliz nodded, tears in his eyes, and dropped to his knees beside her, the journal already open to the page he’d found on the mountain. The recipe called for Lightspire Bloom, moondew, and a drop of honey, boiled under a whispered charm. His hands shook as he gathered the ingredients, his knife slipping as he chopped the Bloom, its glow fading with each cut. He lit the hearth—“Up!”—but his magic faltered, the flame flickering weakly, his strength sapped from the climb. He tried again and again, presenting the potion to Elowen each time, but she shook her head, her coughs growing weaker, the liquid discolored—gray, then brown, never the pure white it needed to be.

  Akilliz was crying now, his tears falling as he attempted one final time, his supplies nearly gone. He cut the last of the Bloom with precision, added the moondew drop by drop, and a single drop of honey, adjusting the temperature with care, lowering the flame to a simmer. He sang the charm—a soft, lilting tune Elowen had taught him—fighting to keep his voice steady despite the sobs threatening to break through. He was so weak, his magic barely sparking the flame, but he kept trying, pouring every ounce of himself into the potion. The liquid shimmered, a faint white, but still not pure, and Elowen shook her head one last time, her eyes full of love but fading fast.

  The family drew together, holding Elowen in a tender embrace, her frail hand tousling Akilliz’s hair one final time. She looked into his eyes, a soft smile on her lips, and whispered, “My brave boy…” Her breath stilled, her chest no longer rising, and she passed, the light leaving her eyes. Akilliz and Torin cried, their sobs filling the room, their grief a shared weight as they clung to her, unwilling to let go.

  Torin fell to his knees, clutching the pendant of Aurelia around his neck, a small golden charm he’d worn since their wedding day. He wailed out a plea, his voice raw with anguish. “Aurelia, mercy! Heal her—I’ll do anything, sacrifice myself if I must!” His cries echoed in the silence, the room heavy with their sorrow. Akilliz buried his face in Elowen’s hand, his tears soaking her cold skin, the weight of his failure crushing him.

  A warm feeling embraced the room, a golden light cutting through the darkness, followed by an ethereal presence. Aurelia appeared, her form radiant, her elven features sharp yet gentle, her eyes glowing with divine light. She spoke in the elven tongue, her voice short but commanding, a melody that resonated with power: “Shal’ethar, vyn’ara.” Be at peace. The soul of Elowen rose, a shimmering figure, her smile soft and serene as she looked at her family one last time. Aurelia laid a hand on Akilliz’s shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “Your mother is needed, child. Do not worry—I will watch over you,” she said, her voice a soothing balm. Akilliz tried to speak, his voice breaking, but she smiled softly, turning to Torin. “It was her time,” she said, her tone final yet kind. The presence faded, the room returning to its dim stillness, leaving a quiet solace in their hearts.

  Torin bowed his head, a quiet acceptance in his eyes, finding peace in Aurelia’s words. But Akilliz’s heart burned with rage and guilt. He’d failed. The Lightspire Bloom, the climb, the wolf—it was all for nothing. He turned away, fists clenched, the weight of his failure a fire that would drive him forward.