Elara dragged herself back to her cramped room, every muscle screaming in protest.
She didn't bother with a wash or even changing out of her grimy clothes.
The moment her head hit the rough pillow, exhaustion swallowed her whole.
The sun had barely climbed when a chirpy voice nudged Elara awake.
"Elara! Come on, get up! Today's going to be amazing!"
Elara groaned, blinking against the bright light. Mira was already bouncing on the balls of her feet, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Dragging herself from the bed, Elara stumbled toward the shower room, muscles stiff and sore.
The cold water hit like a slap—sharp, biting, making her flinch and cringe.
When she stepped out, teeth chattering, Mira was waiting with a sly smile.
"How do you stay so chipper? Don't you hurt anywhere?" Elara asked, wrapping a towel around herself.
Mira laughed, a musical sound. "That's what herbal botany class is for. You'll learn to make potions and salves that'll fix you right up."
She winked and bounced off down the hall. "See you in class!"
Elara shook her head with a small smile, feeling the first real spark of hope since arriving.
The Botany Hall smelled of damp earth, crushed leaves, and sunlight. It was a welcome change from the clang of swords and the sweat-soaked stench of the training grounds. Rows of greenhouses stretched above like glass temples, each panel casting shards of golden light across stone floors and blooming growth. Tables overflowed with jars, dried roots, and living specimens—some glowing faintly with internal luminescence, others curling in slow, strange movements like they were thinking.
Elara followed the murmuring line of students through the arched doorway, Fig perched alert on her shoulder. The winged fox sniffed the air with faint suspicion.
"I smell danger," he muttered. "And mold."
"Shush," Elara whispered back, already regretting skipping breakfast.
At the front of the glass-domed classroom stood Professor Selene—tall, robed in flowing purple, her auburn hair tied in a single braid down her back. Her eyes—green, sharp, unreadable—swept the room as the students settled onto stools and pulled satchels close.
"Welcome to herbal botany," she said. Her voice was crisp but melodic. "The art of healing and harm. What you learn in this greenhouse may one day save your life—or end another's. Never forget that plants, like blades, can cut both ways."
Elara straightened in her seat, trying to look attentive. She blinked down at the station before her: pestle and mortar, a vial rack, small labeled trays of herbs—moonleaf, firethorn, duskroot, and silvermoss.
Beside her, Mira leaned in and whispered, "Professor Selene's a legend. Trained healers for three kings and once stopped a plague in the Eastern Isles. She also made an admiral hallucinate for four days after he called her 'plant lady,'"
Fig snorted. "My kind of teacher."
Professor Selene continued. "We begin with a simple salve. Moonleaf and firethorn berries, crushed into a base of distilled water and ground silvermoss. Meant to dull pain and draw out minor poisons. Follow the measurements carefully. One misstep and you may render it useless—or worse."
She clapped her hands once, and the class moved into motion.
Elara rolled her shoulders and reached for the moonleaf. Her fingers were still trembling, not from fear, but from fatigue. She tried to steady herself. This was just a recipe. Nothing like the chaos of sparring or the cold scrutiny of strategy lectures. She could handle this.
Right?
She crushed the leaves too quickly. The pestle slipped. A bit of juice spattered her sleeve. She winced, then moved on to the berries. They were soft, overripe. She hesitated, glanced at the instructions again, then shrugged and mashed them into the mix.
The mortar hissed.
And then, with a sudden pop!, a burst of purple smoke exploded in her face.
Elara staggered back, coughing, blinking soot from her lashes. Fig shrieked and ducked into her collar. Across the room, a few students laughed. She heard Mira stifle a gasp—and then the unmistakable sound of Lyssandra's smug, slow clap.
"Oh dear," Lyssandra drawled from three tables down. Her dark curls were perfectly tied back, her posture straight as a tower guard. "Looks like the golden girl of the trials can't tell a salve from snake bile."
Heat rushed to Elara's cheeks. She reached for a rag to wipe her face, refusing to look up.
"Careful," Lyssandra continued, loud enough for the room to hear. "Some of us were actually hoping for a competent partner in survival drills. Turns out all she's good for is looking fierce with a blade. The real world's not a battlefield, Elara."
Elara bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Professor Selene strode over, eyes cool but not unkind. "Mistakes are a necessary part of mastery," she said, addressing the room. "However, when your mistake fills the greenhouse with unknown vapors, you'll be expected to rectify it."
"Yes, ma'am," Elara muttered, head down.
Selene pointed to the ragged mess in her mortar. "Clean your station. Begin again when you're ready. And breathe next time before you start."
As the professor turned away, Fig climbed back onto Elara's shoulder and whispered, "You're turning 'herbal disaster' into an art form. I'm genuinely impressed."
She didn't answer. Her jaw was locked too tight.
The next attempt went worse.
She over-compensated, grinding the duskroot too finely, and didn't realize her vial rack was unbalanced. As she poured the silvermoss extract into the salve, her elbow knocked a flask of acidic cleanser, which tipped and shattered with a sickening crack.
A thick cloud of sulfurous vapor whooshed upward. The stink was immediate—rotten eggs and bile. Students gagged and ducked away, several running for the open greenhouse doors, coughing and waving their hands.
"Oh come on," Fig wheezed from her hair. "You've invented chemical warfare."
Professor Selene snapped her fingers and several vents slid open from the ceiling, drawing out the worst of the fumes. She approached again, this time slowly.
"Elara," she said, expression still calm but now slightly pinched. "You'll need to retrieve a replacement cleanser and wipe down this bench—twice. Do you remember the safety ventilation sigil?"
"Yes, ma'am," Elara whispered. Her stomach churned. She could feel Lyssandra's smirk burning into the back of her skull.
And sure enough, the girl murmured just loudly enough to reach her:
"Stick to swords, Trial Girl. You clearly can't tell one plant from another."
Elara gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles whitened. She wanted to snap back. To stand up, to fight, to do something.
But she didn't.
She fetched the supplies. Cleaned the station. Twice. In silence.
By the time she sat down again, half the lesson had passed and her nerves were frayed to threads. The bench smelled faintly of vinegar and failure. Her third attempt was cautious, slow. She double-checked everything. Triple-checked. Her mixture didn't explode or melt anything, but it also didn't react the way it should. Instead of pale green, it turned a lukewarm brown. The texture was sludge.
"Still useless," Lyssandra murmured without looking up.
Selene didn't approach again. She passed behind Elara once, cast a glance at the concoction, and said nothing.
That silence was worse than any scolding.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, most students packed up eagerly and rushed for the sunlit path outside.
Elara stayed behind to dispose of her third failed attempt. As she poured the slop into the compost chute, Fig was uncharacteristically quiet. She scrubbed her bench a third time, more to busy her hands than anything else.
"You know," he finally said, softer than usual, "you don't have to be the best at everything on the first try."
"I wasn't trying to be the best," she muttered.
Fig tilted his head. "Then why does it sting so much?"
She didn't have an answer.
Mira paused by the door. "Hey. Don't let Lyssandra get in your head. She's just mad you placed higher than her in the Trials."
"She's not wrong, though," Elara replied without turning. "I'm good with a blade. That's it."
Mira hesitated. "You're not just good with a blade. You're a fighter. That means learning to take hits, even the ones you land on yourself."
Elara finally looked up. Mira gave her a lopsided smile, then left.
The greenhouse was quiet now. The last rays of sun trickled in through the high glass dome, casting her in golden light that made even the brown sludge in her beaker look almost beautiful.
Almost.
Tomorrow she'd be better.
Not because she had to prove anything to Lyssandra. But because she wanted to prove something to herself.
With slow, tired hands, Elara packed her satchel, wiped the last smear from her sleeve, and walked out into the late-afternoon sun.