The next morning, word spread quickly through the dormitories and classrooms—Teacher Gabriella would begin elemental training sessions at the grounds beyond the orchard. There was a ripple of excitement through the students, mixed with nervous whispers and quiet boasting. Lira heard Dominica laugh loudly in the hallway, spinning her staff with flair.
"They'll finally see how real elements behave," Dominica said to her friends. "I hope the vines don't trip her again."
Lira ignored the jab, clutching her notebook tighter. She had read pieces of the old Guardian journal each night, its cryptic phrases slowly starting to make sense. Some words shimmered faintly when her fingers passed over them, like the page recognized her touch. It felt like a memory trying to awaken.
On the first day of training, they stood in the grassy clearing. Circles had been marked on the earth for each element group. Air students practiced wind forms, water flowed through gentle streams shaped by will, fire crackled in controlled sparks, and earth students… planted seeds.
Lira knelt with the others, her hands in the soil, trying not to feel the sting of judgment in Dominica's eyes as the wind wielder danced her gusts like blades.
But Lira wasn't there to impress. Not today.
Teacher Ardan walked among them, tall and quiet. When he reached Lira, he paused. "Your touch is steady," he said. "Let the earth feel you. Not just your hands—but your intent."
Lira nodded. She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Thought of the way her hands had glowed by the flower, of the animal healed, of the vines that shielded her without command.
And then she whispered—not a chant, not a command—just a soft feeling of needing to connect.
The soil beneath her hand stirred. Just faintly. A curl of a green sprout pushed up, faster than it should. Her fingers tingled with a light hum.
Ardan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He moved on.
Dominica glanced over, frowning.
---
In the days that followed, Lira made a quiet habit of slipping away to the back end of the training grounds after classes. While the others competed in bursts of flame and spirals of wind, she knelt near the trees, pressing her palms into the dirt, whispering songs to the seeds she'd brought from the greenhouse. Sometimes, they sprouted. Most times, they didn't. But she kept coming back.
During group training, the others flourished. The fire students lit their staffs like torches and spun them in bold arcs. Water elementals shaped perfect orbs, floating them above their palms before splashing them like skipping stones. Wind students took turns lifting off the ground, laughing as the breeze caught their robes.
Lira stayed grounded—literally. She was the only earth student in this class. Teacher Gabriella always gave her a quiet nod, but offered no special praise. She didn't need it. Her focus was deeper than the others knew.
Sometimes, they laughed.
"Maybe next time she'll sprout carrots," someone joked after her small vine coiled timidly around a pebble.
"Or maybe a daisy crown!" another chimed in, giggling.
Dominica smirked, arms crossed. "Looks like earth's only useful for picnics."
Lira didn't reply. She didn't need to. Instead, she returned to the greenhouse every afternoon, where Thara offered quiet encouragement and the fairy watched with curiosity.
It was there, among the soil and leaves, that she truly began to feel her power whispering. A soft pulse beneath her fingers. A shimmer in the roots. The rhythm of life was slower here—but steady, ancient, and growing.
As golden sunlight streamed through the glass panes of the greenhouse, Lira knelt beside a row of delicate blossoms, softly humming while she adjusted the soil. The warm scent of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming flowers.
As she reached for a fallen leaf, a flicker of pale blue caught her eye. Between two tall stalks of silverpetal blooms, a tiny creature peeked out. Its wings shimmered like morning frost, and it seemed to tremble slightly, half-hidden by petals.
Lira blinked in surprise and leaned forward gently, careful not to startle it. "Hello…" she whispered softly.
The small fairy stepped out, still hesitant, clutching a tiny sprig of lavender in its arms. Its eyes were wide, the color of a quiet lake, and its voice was barely a breath. "I… I've been watching you."
Lira tilted her head. "Me?"
The fairy nodded shyly. "You're kind to the plants. You talk to them… and they listen."
A warmth stirred in Lira's chest. "I didn't know anyone noticed."
The blue fairy smiled, just a little. "We see more than you think. I just… didn't know how to say hello."
Lira offered a gentle smile in return. "Well… hello. I'm glad you did."
---
The blue fairy fluttered a little closer, her wings making a soft, crystalline sound, like snow falling on glass.
"My name is Sielae," she said, her voice gentle and cool like a mountain breeze. "It means frost-lily in our tongue."
Lira smiled and dipped her head politely. "I'm Lira. It's really nice to meet you."
They looked at each other for a moment in a quiet stillness, a rare, delicate kind of peace forming between them. The leaves rustled softly, and a faint glow shimmered on the petals around them.
Then, as if a thought had bubbled up suddenly, Sielae tilted her head and said, "You know… that Ice Lotus growing in the pond at the far end of the greenhouse?"
Lira nodded. She had seen it—a single pale bloom floating in the center of the still water, untouched and mysterious.
"You could use it," Sielae whispered, "if you have special gloves. It's delicate and cold to the touch. But it holds healing magic—stronger than most flowers we have here."
Lira's eyes widened. "I can really use it?"
Sielae gave a shy nod, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. "We fairies would share some with you. Because you care for the plants… and because you truly see us."
A quiet joy bloomed inside Lira at the fairy's words, warmer than sunlight. "Thank you," she said with honest wonder. "I won't waste it."
Sielae smiled and settled gently on a nearby stem, her wings folding softly behind her. "We know."
Lira looked back toward the pond where the Ice Lotus floated, its shimmering petals untouched by the warmth of the sun. A thought tugged at her curiosity.
"What kind of gloves would I need?" she asked, turning back to Sielae.
The fairy gently hovered above a lavender stalk, her soft blue glow lighting the leaves. "You'll need special forged gloves," she said. "Ones that keep your hands warm, so the chill of the Ice Lotus doesn't burn your skin. They must be made with care… usually by someone who can work with fire."
"Fire?" Lira tilted her head thoughtfully, then her face lit up with a warm smile. "Maelin… she just joined the forge class last week."
Sielae nodded, her delicate face thoughtful. "If she is skilled or guided well, she might be able to help you. Just… tell her to use tempered coresteel, not ordinary metal. It holds warmth without burning the bloom."
Lira tucked that detail away carefully. "Thank you. I'll ask her. She's kind… I think she'll try."
"You have many gifts, Lira," Sielae said, floating a little closer. "Not just with plants. You bring out gentleness in others."
Lira felt her cheeks flush slightly, and sh e bowed her head, touched. "That means more than you know."
With a grateful wave to both Sielae and the cheerful green and golden fairy Ivvie tending to a patch of thyme, Lira stepped out of the greenhouse, the warmth and floral scent trailing behind her. The sun had tilted slightly west, casting long golden rays across the academy grounds.
She felt a quiet excitement stir in her chest. She had been curious about Maelin's progress since joining the forge class—how her hands that once cradled seedlings now shaped metal and fire. And now, with the Ice Lotus in mind, that curiosity took on new purpose.
"I wonder how she's doing with the flames," Lira murmured, brushing a leaf from her sleeve as she made her way toward the stone path leading to the forge hall.
Sparks occasionally flew up into the sky from the training chimneys, and the clang of hammers echoed faintly in the distance.
"I hope she's there today," she thought, picking up her pace, the bottle of nectar from the greenhouse still nestled safely in her satchel.
The forge hall loomed ahead, its heavy stone archway buzzing with heat and energy. As Lira stepped inside, the air shifted—thick with smoke, glowing embers, and the sharp tang of molten metal. She squinted slightly against the orange light pouring from the many hearths.
Hammers clanged rhythmically, echoing against the high, soot-darkened ceilings. Sparks danced in the air like fireflies, and students moved with purpose—aprons dusted with ash, sleeves rolled up, eyes focused.
And there, near the central anvil, stood Maelin.
Her long braid was tucked neatly under a kerchief, and her face shone with sweat and concentration. She gripped a glowing piece of iron with tongs, muscles in her arms taut as she hammered with precision. The firelight brought a golden sheen to her skin, and her normally soft gaze was sharpened by focus.
Lira paused at the threshold, struck by how different Maelin looked in this place—stronger, surer, and somehow… brighter.
She didn't want to interrupt, not yet.
So she stood quietly and watched, the hum of the forge echoing the quiet thrum of pride and curiosity in her chest.