The morning mist clung to the lower ridges of Verdant Hollow like damp skin. Kael followed a group of three initiates—Bren among them—down a winding trail toward one of the outer herb patches. Their task was simple: gather moonshade petals before the sun rose too high. The plant's potency waned with light.
Simple—but not safe.
The herb patch nestled in a narrow gully, shaded by jagged cliffs and laced with creeping vines. Dew glittered on every surface, but so did danger. Some plants looked identical to others, disguising poison beneath beauty.
Bren crouched by a cluster of pale-blue blossoms.
"These?" he asked, pointing to a stalk with wide, fanned leaves.
Kael shook his head. "Too veined. That's ghostshade. Similar color, but the petals curl inward when touched. Toxic when crushed."
The third boy—Tan, lean with darting eyes—rolled his shoulders. "I've picked these before. Just wear gloves."
Kael didn't argue. But his fingers tightened slightly around the cloth pouch at his belt.
They spread out to harvest.
Kael moved slowly, methodically, feeling each plant's texture, checking root thickness and stem split. He had just begun cutting a cluster of real moonshade when he felt it.
A thrum.
Not heat. Not pain. Something subtler.
A rhythm—like a breath that wasn't his.
His satchel pulsed.
He froze.
His hand moved instinctively.
He opened the flap just enough to glimpse the bottle.
A faint green shimmer curled against the glass—like breath fogging from within.
He looked up.
Tan was kneeling near a patch of crimson-veined blossoms, already slicing stems into his basket.
"Stop!" Kael called.
Tan paused, annoyed. "What now?"
"That's not moonshade."
Tan snorted. "It's a hybrid. I've seen it used in paralytics."
Kael stepped forward. "That's ironblood bloom. Similar look—but it releases toxic dust when agitated."
Tan rolled his eyes and sliced another stalk.
A puff of red shimmered in the air.
Then he coughed.
Staggered.
Fell to one knee, clutching his throat.
Bren ran over.
"Spirits—what the hell?"
Kael was already beside Tan, tearing open his pouch.
He grabbed a pinch of crushed frostleaf and a vial of coagulant resin. Mixed them with a drop of spit. Smeared the paste across Tan's lips, then forced the rest under his tongue.
Tan thrashed.
Then stilled.
Breathing ragged—but breathing.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Tan blinked.
Color slowly returned to his cheeks.
Bren let out a low breath. "Where the hell did you learn that?"
Kael didn't answer.
He looked down at his satchel.
The bottle was no longer glowing.
But it had known.
Before he had.
And it hadn't warned him—it had acted.
That afternoon, a report was sent to Master Elric.
He didn't respond immediately.
But when the assistant finished speaking, Elric turned to the herb racks behind him, selecting a thin stalk of dried thornroot.
He twirled it slowly between his fingers.
"Three lives in one week," he murmured.
The assistant hesitated. "You mean the fever girl, Rell, and now Tan?"
"No," Elric said.
He set the stalk down gently.
"I mean Kael."
He paused.
Then, with a voice barely above breath:
"Something is choosing through him."
He stared into the simmering pot for a long while, and then muttered beneath his breath:
"...Reaction this strong isn't normal. It's like something's entering its pre-binding state."
His eyes narrowed—not in surprise.
But in suspicion.
Then he added, almost absently, "I've seen what comes after this… once."
He said nothing more. But his fingers brushed the edge of an old scar beneath his collar—an old burn, nearly faded.