Felor was impatient.

He ignored the burning throb in his hands as he worked to smooth the wood, his obsidian paring knife dipping ever so slightly at a frequent chip in the surface. Each pass sent splinters flying, threatening to penetrate his palm, but they stood no chance against his hard-earned calluses. The slick of his sweat coated the knife’s handle, causing him to lose his grip for just a moment, his index finger dangerously close to its dark edge. The rasp of stone against wood echoed off the cave’s walls, filling his ears like a melody. Setting the obsidian down, Felor ran his thumb along the flat of the wood, welcoming its coolness against his heated skin.

The sword melded with the shadows, its form almost invisible amidst the darkness of the cave. Blossom, as Felor called her, was crafted from one of the countless deep-brown wooded Kiiritan trees native to his Isle of Xylovar. Thin lines and grooves naturally ingrained in the timber ran the length of the blade, swirling and intersecting like the capricious dance of the wind; persistent regardless of any attempt at sanding. The grip’s spiral-patterned grain fit seamlessly with the roughness of Felor’s hands, her weight perfect for a boy who had just seen his seventeenth blue moon. Imperfectly perfect, Felor thought.

Felor gazed at the work in his hands with a conflicting mix of sorrow and pride. Blossom was supposed to be his Eshara; the clasp on his left hip burned with the desire to wear it there, and if it could, it would weep like a frostbitten child yearning for warmth just out of reach. Traditionally, one’s parents would etch a name onto the blade in both Ilfrit and Unelan script, one for each language—a privilege denied to Felor. Only then did a wooden sword become an Eshara. What he held was no Eshara; it was a wooden sword.

Felor knew it was childlike hopefulness. Perhaps he wanted to fit in, or perhaps he wanted to prove that he wasn’t some monster, that he too had Ilfrinian blood coursing through his veins, and that he was just a child plagued by a curse he had no control over. However, Felor knew no matter how many wooden swords he made, to others, he was no Ilfrinian. After all, what he held was no Eshara; it was just that: a wooden sword. Still, it was that childlike hopefulness that kept him awake at night, laboring away, caked in sweat and soil to create Blossom. He harbored no regrets.

Felor closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling the tension rush out of him like a river. A calm settled over him. He felt his heart beat slow and steady in his chest, like droplets falling into a puddle. Then it quickened. Faster. To hell with the Kalthorin. Felor reigned in his rage, preventing it from spiraling out of control; he held it in check, an ember on the verge of igniting a wildfire. His heart pounded with a ferocious tempo, yet remained steady. He was in control.

Though it was half the length of a longsword, Felor wrapped both his hands around its grip, right pinky overlapping with the left index, and leveled Blossom in front of him. The ember within him was blazing and impatient.

Stepping forward with his left foot, Felor slashed diagonally upwards in an arc, his blade slicing through the air with practiced precision.

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The Blossom Unfolds.

Fueled by the intensity of the flame within him, Felor made a quick pivot with his left foot, bringing his blade down to—

A sudden cough a few feet away shocked him out of his reverie, extinguishing his fire. Felor stumbled, caught out of rhythm.

He turned his head toward the sound and saw a woman on the ground. Felor ran over, stupefied that he had forgotten about his mother. The furs that wrapped around her had come undone, leaving her body exposed to the early morning chill. Her black hair was a mess—long, unkempt, and matted like a bird’s nest. Her eyes, which Felor remembered as a vibrant blue from long ago, appeared sunken into her face and had turned a dull gray color. He gazed at her with pity; his mother, no doubt beautiful in her prime, now lay like a discarded toy. She looked so old, yet she was barely in her thirty-fifth year.

She was muttering something under her breath, and that’s when Felor saw it: A line of orange fluid trailing from the corner of her lips towards the ground. Bringing his nose closer to the fluid, Felor sniffed; the scent of potent alcohol and the sweet aroma of Alara flowers tainted her breath. He understood immediately; this was a common side effect of ingesting too much Alarathil. Felor grimaced; it was a cheap reprieve, but one he couldn’t blame—the euphoria was like a fleeting glow in a room with no windows. When did she take it? He thought.

Felor sighed and wiped away the liquid with the back of his thumb. At this, his mother’s eyes shot towards him. They were frantic, as if she were looking at fourteen different places at once. But Felor knew she was focusing on him, slowly recognizing and taking in the shape of her son. Gradually, the corners of her mouth curled into a toothy grin. Her lips were quivering.

“Felor, is that you?” She asked, her voice weak. “Gods, it’s beautiful. Come, give your mother a hug.”

Felor stared at his mother, expressionless. “Yes, Ma, it’s me,” he replied, but he did not take her into his arms. Instead, he reached into the sack tied at his belt and pulled out a vial, crushed willowbark, poppyseeds, and the sapphire-colored extract of blue-moon-soaked Somminaria grass. He mixed the ingredients into the vial, then dipped his finger into his water-filled canteen and held it over the mixture, letting five drops fall in. He closed the opening with his thumb and shook the vial until everything homogenized into a milky-blue liquid.

“Felor?”

“Mm. I’m coming.”

Felor leaned in towards his mother and poured the vial’s contents into her mouth. “Dreamspice,” he said. To his surprise, his mother offered no resistance. Minutes later, her eyes slid closed, and she lay still as a corpse, save for the rise and fall of her chest.

“She’ll sleep through the Falloff period,” Felor said to no one in particular. Never would’ve thought ‘spice could react so well with Alarathil. I should give Raena my thanks the next time I see her.

Felor froze at his mind’s mention of the name. He spun. A shallow pond, spanning about thirty feet, lay between him and the mouth of the cave. Rocks protruded from the water’s surface, creating a pathway to the outside. They stood like small barriers, resisting the gentle ripples stirred by the winter wind’s soft breath. Plush verdant grass and freckles of pale lilacs covered the banks, while pink moss crept along the surrounding walls; longer strands hung over the water, reaching out like delicate fingers. Outside, dark-wooded Kiiritan trees lined a dirt path, their purple leaves a stark contrast to the golden hues of sunrise. The view reflected onto the water, filling the entrance with a subtle glow.

One foot in front of the other, Felor trudged atop the stones, careful not to fall into the water beneath him. Only until he was outside of the cave, his pony-tailed hair dancing in the wind, did he glance at the sword in his hand and the wooden clasp on his left waist. It was like a mouth wide open—crying out—longing for something to hold on to. Felor forced his eyes away from it, focusing on the purple leaves and dirt path ahead. He continued on, not once glancing back at the woman asleep in the shadows of the cave.