His full lips pulled into a frown as the dim tavern light danced over his dark skin. He ran a hand over his head, his once beautiful black coils cut close and cropped to his scalp, the style all recruits of the Solerian Army wore. While I had apprenticed with his mother since the age of seven, Bran had never taken to Potions. Claiming it to be boring and far too difficult, he instead joined the ranks at sixteen, training to be a soldier—much to his mother’s dismay. It offered fair wages and a steady, structured life, something I knew he craved. I think it also made him feel closer to his father, the man he lost so young to war, a soldier himself.
His own trials started a week prior, as did all recruits who turned twenty-one within the last six months. After an apprentice or recruit turned of age, our trials for Mastery would begin. Whether we trained in potions, magic, scullery, the art of war, healing—it didn’t matter. We all would take the trials before we were truly accepted into the fold of our chosen profession. Some even became Masters of multiple chosen professions, if they had enough dedication.
My twenty-first birthday had come the month before, and the notice that my trial would start next week a few days after.
Reassurance filled his voice as he spoke once more, “You’re apprenticed to one of the greatest Potion Masters Tavari has ever seen, Sy. You think my mother would allow you to walk into the Institute unprepared and embarrass you both?” His warm calloused hand closed over my own, his tone growing teasing towards the end of the declaration.
Yet he didn’t understand how his words cut my insecurity even deeper. It burrowed into my soul like razor sharp slashes of worry and anxiety. Yes, Merle spentyearstraining me, but that meant the pressure to pass weighed even heavier upon my shoulders. She had taken me in, shownme off to everyone she could, a Potionary prodigy blessed by Soli herself. Like the dutiful little Solerian child I was supposed to be. I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing Merle, not when I owed hereverything.
I lost a mother once, I didn’t think I could withstand the disappointment of another.
I turned to Bran then, my nerves singing beneath my veins, a restless chaos stirring within me. “Why don’t we go out to the forest tonight, get some sparring in? I need to let out some of this energy.”
I needed tomove,to avoid sitting here wallowing in my own self pity. Perhaps I was the one firemead turned into a sap after all.
Ever since Bran began his training within the army ranks, I pleaded for him to teach me everything that he learned. Eventually, my incessant begging wore him down, he had never been able to deny me whatever I wanted anyway. So the exercises he learned, I too learned. The survival and stealth training he was taught, he taught to me. The swordsmanship, dagger handling, hand to hand, and archery lessons he took—he reiterated them for me. While gaining adequacy in each skill over the years, it was the daggers I took to the most, the steel light and perfect in my quick hands. We practiced with his fathers weapons hidden away in a closet, unbeknownst to Merle.
It was on my eighteenth birthday when Bran gifted me my very own daggers. A worn golden pair, made of strong Solerian steel, the handle intricately laid with fading opals. When I asked where he had gotten the funds, he merely shrugged. Merle’s shop earned well, but not well enough that she would have given him the coin for such a gift. I later learned, from Merle, that he spent months taking side jobs scrubbing the kitchen floors of the barracks and polishing the silverware of the palace to earn it. I hadn’t loved anyone more than I did Bran that day. My cousin, my brother, my best friend.
So potions I learned by trade, but the art of fighting is what I waited for, what I craved. I made a vow to myself once, as a little girl shaking before a blazing fire and wrapped in blankets, that I would never again allow another to make me feel powerless. To never again feel weak or helpless.
“By the Goddess,” Bran grumbled, rubbing tiredly between his brows as if I was causing him some immense stress. “You’re drunk, Sy. We’re not going brawling through the woods. My mother will have my head and the barracks curfew is soon.”
Indignation burned through me as I thrust a pointed finger into his muscled chest, my eyes narrowing. “I’mnotdrunk you bumbling prick, you’re the one who’s drunk.”
Sighing, Bran stood, large hands scooping beneath my arms as he pulled me to my feet. “On that note, I believe it’s time to go home. I’ll walk you back.”
His voice was teasing, despite his exasperation, but that just annoyed me all the further. I wasn’t achildto keep an eye upon. He carved a path through the tavern patrons as I followed sullenly behind.
A soft gasp escaped my lips when the chilly breeze of autumn hit my skin, goosebumps sprouting instantly along my tanned arms. The cold air chased away the warmth that had settled heavily upon my alcohol-ridden body, my steps stumbling as we started down the cobbled street.
I felt the weight of a heavy arm settle over my shoulders, both warming and steadying me all at once.
“I don’t need you to babysit me home,” the words came out muttered, my voice icy as the wind that blew over us.
“Have I ever told you that firemead makes you mean,Sy?” I frowned at my words from earlier being thrown back at me. Squirming out frombeneath his arm, I shoved him lightly away as his laughter broke across the frosty night air.
“For the love of Soli, can you shut up?” My grumbled response had him laughing all the harder as he jogged to catch up with my quick, albeit shaky, steps.
By the time we made it back to the shop, the air had grown far colder, both of us cursing our lack of coat or cloak. We puffed breath into our hands, trying to warm our frozen fingers. It was Bran who pulled a key from his pocket, fumbling as he tried to unlock the shop door.
I stared up at the sign hung above the entrance, eyes watery against the wind that pelted me now. I read the familiar script,The Golden Apothecary,the same as it always was.
“Soli’s wrath,” I cursed as he finally unlocked the door. Shoving past him, I attempted to dance the cold from my limbs, steps shuffling upon the wooden floor. “Why couldn’t you have been blessed with fire magic, at least then our walks home would be warm.”
The familiar scent of rich spices and herbs filled my nose, a sense of comfort settling over me as Bran scoffed. “The Sun Goddess knew that if she blessed me with a face this handsomeandfire magic, I’d simply be irresistible.”
Rolling my eyes and unable to stop my laughter, I shoved at his arm, the shit eating grin upon his face only deepening my mirth.
A creak of floorboards had it abruptly ceasing, my eyes trailing to the second floor landing where Merle looked down on us, hands upon her hips.
I winced at the fury written across her face. “Do you two haveany ideawhat time it is?”
I backed into Bran as she came down the stairs. My gaze flitted from the shelves of bottled potions alongthe walls, to the counter where customers paid, to the entrance at the back of the shop where we brewed potions. Anywhere but the wrath that I knew lay within those brown eyes, so similar to her son’s.
Her usual tangle of loose black curls was frizzed as if she had been tugging it all night. She pointed a threatening finger at Bran, who stood behind me. Practically using me as a shield from his mothers wrath.Coward.
“I will deal with you this weekend, Branson. It’s far too late and you’ll miss barracks curfew if you don’t hurry back,” she seethed, and I felt my cheeks burn with anger as he scurried out the door without a word.
