Chadwick Rye

The mountain winds howled against the observatory tower’s stained glass windows, their fury matching the storm brewing within Magister Elias Thornfield’s chest. He had been standing motionless for nearly an hour, watching sunset bleed into twilight as he gripped the worn stone parapet, his knuckles white with tension. Behind him, the correspondence that had shattered his composure lay scattered across his desk—official notification that the Arcanum Council had rejected his proposal for the third time.

Three years of research. Countless sleepless nights. Resources drained to dangerous levels. All dismissed in a single paragraph of flowery academic condescension.

The familiar pressure built behind his eyes, a molten mixture of rage and humiliation that threatened to consume him entirely. Once, in his younger years, he would have surrendered to it—reducing his laboratory to splinters, hurling rare components against walls, allowing the inferno of his disappointment to burn unchecked until nothing remained but ash and regret.

Instead, Elias closed his eyes and reached for the worn leather pouch at his belt.

“First breath for acknowledgment,” he whispered, the ritual words familiar on his tongue as he withdrew a small crystal vial filled with luminescent blue liquid. The glass felt cool against his skin, its contents swirling with tiny motes of light like captured stars.

He unstoppered the vial and inhaled deeply, letting the essence of distilled moonflower fill his senses. Not consuming it—merely allowing its calming properties to register through scent alone.

The practice had been taught to him by Mistress Yavari of the Eastern Sanctum after he’d destroyed an irreplaceable grimoire during a particularly volatile episode. “Your emotions are neither enemies to vanquish nor weaknesses to hide,” she had told him, pressing the first vial into his trembling hands. “They are alchemical elements requiring proper vessels and transformative catalysts.”

Elias moved to his workbench, where a small copper brazier waited. With practiced movements, he struck a match and lit the carefully arranged herbs within—sage for clarity, lavender for balance, and a single rare cinnamon leaf that released a spice-laden warmth as it curled into ember.

“Second breath for transmutation,” he continued, focusing on the smoke that rose in delicate spirals.

He dipped his quill into azure ink and began writing on parchment, giving form to the formless turmoil within. Each stroke drained a measure of poison from his spirit—his disappointment rendered in elegant script, his anger transformed into precisely articulated criticism, his wounded pride examined with unflinching honesty.

The words flowed until three pages lay before him, no longer chaotic emotions but ordered thoughts. Some would be incorporated into his revised proposal. Others would remain private, buried in his personal archives—evidence that he had faced his darkness rather than allowing it to consume him.

As the final paragraph took shape, Elias felt the tightness in his chest begin to loosen. The storm hadn’t disappeared, but it had been channeled, its destructive potential redirected toward creation.

He set down his quill and moved to the eastern window, where an arrangement of small crystal containers caught the fading light. Each held water from a different source—mountain springs, morning dew, sacred wells, ocean depths—collected during his travels.

Selecting a vial of water from the Weeping Caverns, known for its regenerative properties, Elias removed the stopper and poured three drops into a silver bowl engraved with ancient symbols.

“Final breath for restoration,” he murmured, bringing the bowl to his lips.

The water tasted of mineral depths and forgotten places, cool clarity washing through him as he completed the ritual. He placed the empty bowl on the windowsill where moonlight now streamed through colored glass, casting prismatic patterns across his chambers.

Outside, the physical storm had begun to subside, mirroring his internal weather. Elias turned back to his desk, gathering the scattered Council papers with steady hands. Their rejection still stung, but the sting had purpose now—a clarity that would fuel refinement rather than retreat.

His gaze fell upon the small shelf behind his writing desk, where seven identical journals stood in a neat row, their spines marked with alchemical symbols representing different emotional states—anger, grief, fear, doubt, jealousy, shame, and despair. For fifteen years, he had filled their pages during moments when those emotions threatened to overwhelm his reason.

Beside them stood a more ornate volume bound in midnight blue leather with silver clasps—his Codex of Restoration, containing every insight and breakthrough that had emerged from those darker contemplations. Its pages held some of his most valuable discoveries, innovations born from properly processed pain.

“Master Thornfield?” A tentative voice accompanied a soft knock. His apprentice, Lyra, stood in the doorway, concern evident in her expression. She had witnessed his earlier reaction to the Council’s letter, had wisely given him space to implement his practices.

“I’m well, Lyra,” he assured her, gesturing to the workbench where his ritual implements still smoldered gently. “The process is complete.”

Relief softened her features. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing alternative approaches to the Council. There are three other funding bodies that might—”

“Tomorrow,” Elias interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “We’ll begin fresh approaches tomorrow. Tonight, I need one more component of my practice.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “The night gardens?”

He nodded, reaching for his cloak. “The night gardens.”

Together they descended the spiral staircase that led to Elias’s most private creation—a walled garden accessible only through his tower. Unlike the formal botanical collections that surrounded the Arcanum’s main buildings, this space followed no rigid design. Plants from disparate environments coexisted in carefully maintained microclimates, many blooming only under moonlight or releasing their essential oils exclusively after sunset.

As they entered, luminescent fungi cast a gentle blue glow across the pathways. Night-blooming jasmine released its intoxicating fragrance into the cool air. In the center, a small pond reflected the stars, its surface occasionally disturbed by the movement of rare silver koi.

“Final stage of the practice,” Elias explained, though Lyra already knew. “Immersion in beauty that exists independent of my troubles.”

They settled on a stone bench beneath a canopy of weeping moonvines. For nearly an hour, they sat in companionable silence, allowing the garden’s quiet magic to complete what the ritual had begun—restoration of perspective, reconnection to purpose beyond momentary setback.

“The Council is wrong,” Lyra finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Elias agreed, surprise coloring his tone as he realized the admission carried no bitterness. “But being correct isn’t always sufficient. We’ll find another path.”

As midnight approached, he felt the familiar sense of equilibrium that always marked his practice’s completion. The rejection remained a reality, but it had been stripped of its power to define him. His emotions, properly acknowledged and channeled, had transformed from obstacles into allies.

“Master Varin once told me that negative feelings are like rainwater,” Elias mused as they prepared to return inside. “Destructive when they flood unchecked, life-giving when properly channeled.”

Lyra nodded, her eyes reflecting the garden’s gentle illumination. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” he confirmed, his voice steady with renewed purpose. “We begin again.”

Above them, the last storm clouds parted, revealing a sky brilliant with stars—each one a reminder that light persisted even in darkness, that setbacks were merely redirections on a longer journey, and that properly tended wounds eventually became sources of unexpected strength.