Morning light filtered through the tall glass panels of the greenhouse, diffused by a thin veil of condensation that clung to the ceiling. Droplets gathered and fell in slow intervals, landing softly against broad leaves below. The air was warm and heavy with moisture, thick with the scent of damp soil, crushed stems, and something faintly bitter beneath it all.
Rows of plants stood in disciplined order, each in its designated place. Some bore delicate blossoms, others carried jagged leaves edged in silver.
Students positioned themselves along the curved tables, instructed to observe rather than touch.
Cael stood near the far end, hands clasped behind his back, gaze steady and analytical. Varric leaned slightly against the table's edge, studying a vine curling around a thin iron rod.
The wooden door opened with a restrained creak.
Ms. Frostvale entered.
She moved with composed precision, dark robes brushing lightly against the stone floor. In her gloved hand, she carried a tall stem crowned with a cascade of bell-shaped flowers soft violet fading into pale pink throats dusted with deeper speckles.
She stopped at the center.
"This," she began evenly,
lifting the plant slightly, "is foxglove."
The flowers trembled faintly as she adjusted her grip.
"Beautiful, is it not?"
Several students nodded.
"It grows freely along forest edges and open fields. It attracts admiration easily."
Her fingers traced the curve of one bell-shaped bloom.
"And yet, every part of this plant carries a potent toxin."
A murmur rippled across the room.
Aeloria raised her hand.
"Then why cultivate it here?"
Ms. Frostvale's eyes shifted to her.
"An excellent question."
She placed the foxglove into a prepared clay pot at the center table.
"In precise, measured doses, the compounds within foxglove are used to create medicine that regulates the heart. It can steady a failing rhythm. It can prolong a life that would otherwise slip away."
She paused.
"But in excess," she continued calmly, "the same compound will disrupt the heart's rhythm entirely."
Silence deepened.
"Too much," she said softly, "and it does not heal. It stops."
Varric straightened slightly.
"So the difference between remedy and poison is only the dose?"
"Partially,"
Ms. Frostvale replied.
"Dose. Preparation. Intention. Knowledge."
She began walking slowly between them.
"Many plants defend themselves with toxins. Some warn you with thorns or vivid colors. Others rely on deception."
She stopped beside the foxglove again.
"This one relies on beauty."
Cael's gaze sharpened.
"And how do we distinguish between what heals and what harms?" he asked.
Ms. Frostvale regarded him for a measured second.
"By study,"
she answered. "By observation. By understanding not only the structure of the plant, but its scent, its habitat, the way it responds to light and soil."
She turned back to the group.
"You cannot judge safety by appearance alone. A smooth leaf does not guarantee mercy. A thorn does not always mean danger."
Mireya glanced again at the foxglove.
"So it depends on how it's used."
"It depends on who is using it," Ms. Frostvale corrected gently.
The statement lingered.
A drop of water fell from above, striking one of the violet bells. It swayed slightly, delicate and unthreatening
.
"Today," she continued, "you will each document the plants before you. Note their structure, their scent, the texture of their leaves. Identify which may be medicinal, which may be toxic, and which may be both."
Her gaze moved across the room slowly.
"Misidentification,"
she said, voice lowering just enough to command attention,
"can cost a life."
No one spoke after that.
The greenhouse felt smaller somehow.
The foxglove stood at the center elegant, fragile looking, and entirely capable of stopping a human heart.
And for reasons none of them voiced aloud, the lesson felt less like botany… and more like warning.
The students dispersed among the tables, each drawn toward a different cluster of leaves and stems. Some bent closer, inhaling cautiously. Others examined the veins running through petals, tracing patterns without touching.
The differences were impossible to ignore.
Some plants released a pleasant fragrance the moment their leaves were brushed sweet, almost comforting. Others carried a sharp, bitter scent that stung faintly at the back of the throat. A few stood in striking contrast, their petals split between two distinct colors, as though undecided about what they wished to be. And then there were those that seemed entirely ordinary muted green, simple structure—yet somehow more unsettling than the rest.
Cael paused before one with narrow silver-edged leaves. It appeared harmless. Too harmless.
Varric leaned over a cluster of pale blue blossoms.
"This one smells almost medicinal,"
he muttered.
"Or deceptively mild,"
Cael replied without looking up.
Across the room, Aeloria carefully documented the texture of a broad-leafed specimen, pressing her quill to parchment with focused attention.
The quiet concentration was interrupted by the measured sound of footsteps.
Ms. Frostvale returned.
This time, she carried a thick, leather-bound book pressed firmly against her side. The cover was worn, edges slightly darkened with age, as if it had been opened countless times over many years.
She stepped to the center table and placed the book down with deliberate care.
The sound alone drew every gaze toward her.
"This,"
she said evenly, resting her palm over the cover, "is the compendium that holds the knowledge of these plants."
Her eyes moved from one student to another.
"It contains structure diagrams, habitat records,
compound descriptions, and documented effects."
She opened it slowly.
The faint scent of aged parchment mixed with the greenhouse air.
"You will listen carefully,"
she continued.
"You will write precisely. And if there is anything you do not understand"
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"You will ask."
No one shifted.
She turned a page, revealing detailed illustrations of foxglove its bell-shaped blooms carefully inked, roots mapped with almost surgical precision.
"Observation without knowledge is assumption," she said calmly.
"And assumption in this field is dangerous."
She began reading, not in a rushed manner, but in a steady cadence that demanded attention. The origin of foxglove. Its natural growth along forest clearings. The extraction process of its active compounds. The precise measurement required to transform toxin into treatment.
Quills moved quickly now.
The only sounds were scratching ink and the faint rustle of turning pages.
Ms. Frostvale paused mid-sentence and looked up suddenly.
"Tell me,"
she said, closing the book halfway,
"if two plants appear identical in structure but grow in different soil conditions, will their potency remain the same?"
A few students hesitated.
Eylra answered first.
"No, ma'am. Soil composition can alter chemical concentration."
"Correct."
Ms. Frostvale nodded once.
"Environment shapes strength."
Her eyes flickered briefly toward Cael and Varric before returning to the text.
The lesson resumed.
Outside, the sunlight shifted higher, refracting through the glass and casting fractured patterns over leaves and faces alike.
Inside, knowledge settled heavier than the humidity.
This was no longer simply about plants.
It was about discernment.
And about the cost of being wrong.
The lesson continued for hours.
Ms. Frostvale moved from table to table, correcting posture, adjusting grip, occasionally asking abrupt questions that forced them to think beyond their notes. Pages filled steadily. Ink smudged against fingers. The humidity that had felt pleasant in the morning now clung heavily to skin and fabric alike.
By the time the sunlight shifted toward afternoon, fatigue had begun to settle in.
At last, Ms. Frostvale closed the heavy book with a firm, decisive sound.
"That will be all for today,"
she announced calmly.
"You may leave for now."
No one spoke immediately, as if confirming she truly meant it.
She gathered the book beneath her arm and walked toward the exit without another word. The greenhouse door opened, then shut behind her, restoring the soft hum of the enclosed space.
A collective exhale followed.
Thessa was still examining a narrow-leafed plant when Mireya leaned toward her, holding up a pot.
"Thessa, look at this one,"
Mireya said.
"Tell me about it."
"Let me see."
Thessa stepped closer, brushing aside a loose strand of hair as she studied the leaves.
"The edges are slightly curled. See the faint discoloration near the stem? It thrives in damp soil but doesn't tolerate direct heat. Likely mildly toxic if crushed."
Mireya watched her carefully.
"So not immediately dangerous?"
"Not unless you misuse it,"
Thessa replied matter-of-factly.
Nivel and Rowan drifted over, drawn more by conversation than curiosity.
"What are we diagnosing now?"
Rowan asked lightly.
Mireya straightened.
"Just making sure I didn't miss anything."
Nivel folded his arms.
"You look like you've been at war with parchment."
"I have,"
Mireya said dryly.
Across the room, Eylra remained where she was, still writing. Her movements were precise, controlled. She reviewed each line before moving to the next, as if the world beyond the page did not exist.
A few minutes later, Mireya dropped her quill back into her satchel.
"Finally. Done."
"Good,"
Rowan said with a faint approving nod.
Mireya offered him a small smile in return—brief but genuine.
Nivel stepped forward slightly.
"So. Shall we go for lunch, then?"
Mireya did not answer immediately. She focused instead on fastening the clasp of her bag, adjusting the strap over her shoulder as though she had not heard him at all.
Rowan noticed.
He said nothing.
"I'm starving,"
Rowan added casually, breaking the slight pause. "Let's go before the hall empties."
Mireya turned toward Thessa and Eylra instead. "Are you two finished?"
Nivel glanced at Rowan, who merely shrugged.
"Yes," Thessa replied at once.
"Yes," Eylra echoed the same moment, though her tone was quieter more distant, less animated.
The difference did not go unnoticed.
"Then let's go,"
Nivel said, attempting to reclaim momentum.
This time, Mireya gave a short nod.
They began moving toward the exit together, Outside, the corridor felt cooler, the air sharper.
They had barely stepped into the corridor when Eylra slowed slightly, her gaze scanning the space behind them.
"Where is Cael?"
she asked, looking from one face to another.
"Does anyone know?"
The question settled differently than expected.
Nivel frowned faintly.
"I was busy. I didn't notice when he left also varric"
Mireya adjusted her hair.then said
"If he finished early, he probably went ahead to the mess hall."
Thessa stopped walking.
"No," she said firmly.
"Cael doesn't leave without saying something."
Eylra gave a quiet nod in agreement.
"He wouldn't."
There was no drama in her tone just certainty.
Rowan's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Maybe he stepped outside,"
Nivel suggested, though it sounded more like an attempt to dismiss the thought than a belief.
Mireya inhaled once.
"Let's just check the mess hall."
No one argued.
They exited the greenhouse, the warm humidity replaced by the cooler stone corridors of the academy. Their footsteps echoed softly as they moved together, though the earlier lightness in their mood had thinned.
Eylra walked slightly ahead now, scanning each intersecting hallway as they passed. Students drifted by in small groups, conversations overlapping, the scent of food faintly detectable from a distance.
"See?" Nivel said after a moment, attempting reassurance.
"If he's hungry, he's there."
Thessa didn't respond.
Rowan remained quiet, observant as always.
They descended the short staircase leading toward the mess hall. The large wooden doors stood open, noise spilling outward laughter, clatter of plates, the low hum of midday conversation.
Mireya stepped inside first.
Her eyes moved quickly across the long rows of tables.
Eylra followed, searching more carefully this time.
Students filled nearly every bench.
But not him.
Thessa scanned the far end of the hall.
"He's not here."
Nivel's jaw tightened slightly.
"Maybe he's in the courtyard."
Rowan added
I think I know where Cael is,"
he said, voice lower now.
Every face turned toward him.
"What do you mean?"
Eylra asked, already tense.
"He went to the battleground,"
Rowan replied.
"For a sword fighting challenge."
A visible shift passed across the group.
"Sword fighting? What kind of challenge?"
Eylra demanded.
Rowan hesitated only a second.
"Last night, when I was crossing the campus, I overheard them. Cael and Varric. It wasn't casual." He paused briefly.
"They agreed to face each other on the battleground after today's training."
"Face each other for what?"
Nivel asked sharply.
Rowan shook his head.
"I didn't hear everything. But it wasn't a discussion. It was a challenge."
Rowan shook his head.
"Didn't hear that part. But the tone wasn't friendly."
Thessa's expression hardened.
"If a Master finds out, this will not end well. Especially for Varric."
Eylra turned to her.
"Why especially him?"
"Because Varric isn't noble,"
Thessa said quietly.
"He doesn't carry a family name that shields him. Cael does. If punishment comes… it won't fall evenly."
The implication lingered.
Before the silence could deepen, Nivel stepped forward.
"We find them. Now. Before this turns into something bigger."
"Where?" Eylra pressed.
"The battleground,"
Rowan answered.
"They said after training."
That was enough.
They broke into a run.
Bootsteps echoed through the long stone corridor, robes brushing against walls as they turned sharply at the arches. Their breathing grew heavier, urgency replacing earlier doubt.
And then
Mireya collided into someone at the corner.
The impact was solid.
She stumbled, barely regaining balance.
"I'm sorry, mr.kaeric,"
she said immediately, bowing her head.
The Master's expression was severe, brows drawn tight.
"You run through corridors?" he said coldly.
"Has discipline become optional?"
Mireya opened her mouth
"It was my fault, mr.kaeric "
Nivel interrupted smoothly from behind her.
"I told her there was a spider on her shoulder. She panicked."
Mireya turned slightly in surprise.
The Master's gaze sharpened.
"And now you invent stories to justify chaos?"
"No, mr kaeric "
Nivel replied evenly.
"It won't happen again."
"I'm sorry, mr .kaeric"
Mireya repeated.
The Master stepped closer, presence heavy.
"You will remember where you are. This academy does not tolerate disorder."
A long pause.
"Consider this your only warning."
He turned and walked away, robes swaying sharply.
Around the corner, Rowan, Eylra, and Thessa reappeared. They had heard everything.
Nivel gave a brief signal.
"Move," he said.
This time, no one slowed.
They ran harder.
Within minutes, the battleground came into view—wide, open, dust-covered earth under an unforgiving sky.
And at its center
Steel clashed violently.
Cael and Varric were already deep into combat.
This was no spar.
Their strikes were faster than training pace. Heavier. Intentional.
Varric pressed forward with relentless force, driving Cael backward step by step. His jaw was tight, eyes burning not wild, but focused with something dangerously personal.
Cael moved with controlled precision, deflecting, redirecting, conserving energy. But even he was being forced onto the defensive.
Clang.
Clash.
Dust kicked up around their boots.
Varric pivoted sharply and struck low, then immediately reversed into a high diagonal swing. Cael blocked but the impact forced his arm wide.
In that opening
Varric struck again.
The blade sliced across Cael's upper arm.
Fabric tore.
A sharp breath escaped Cael's lips.
Blood surfaced.
"Cael ...." Eylra started.
Varric didn't pause.
He advanced again, raising his blade for another downward strike this one heavier, aimed to break through guard entirely.
Eylra ran.
She didn't calculate. Didn't hesitate.
She entered the field just as Varric's sword descended
And drew her own in one swift motion.
Steel met steel with explosive force.
The shock ran through her bones, but she held.
Boots dug into dust. Her stance lowered instinctively, absorbing the blow.
"STEP BACK, VARRIC!"
Author:KRIS