The First Brew and a Shattered Dream

The Hollow was a place where dreams went to die. Mud-brick houses leaned precariously against one another, their roofs patched with scraps of wood and tar. Smoke rose from makeshift alchemy stations, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and failed potions. The streets were narrow and uneven, littered with broken crates and discarded vials. Winter had come early this year, and a thin layer of frost coated the ground, crunching underfoot as Lyra Faelan hurried home, her breath visible in the cold air.

Her home—a crumbling cottage at the edge of the district—was barely holding together. The wooden beams groaned under the weight of the snow, and the windows were covered with tattered cloth to keep out the cold. Inside, the air was damp and heavy, the faint scent of mildew mixing with the earthy aroma of herbs. A single candle flickered on the wooden table, casting long shadows across the room. The fireplace, barely large enough to hold a few logs, sputtered weakly, offering little warmth.

Lyra stood at the table, her soft, wavy auburn hair tied back in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. A few strands had escaped, framing her pale face and bright green eyes, which were fixed on the bubbling copper pot in front of her. She wore a patched-up cloak of faded brown wool, its edges frayed and singed from countless experiments. Beneath it, her simple woolen dress was a dull gray, the hem worn thin from years of use. Her hands trembled as she measured a pinch of crushed moonthorn petals, her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration.

"Please work this time…" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

From the corner of the room, her younger brother Finn coughed in his sleep, curled up on a pile of blankets near the fireplace. His messy brown hair stuck up in all directions, and his face was smudged with dirt. He wore a threadbare tunic and trousers that were too short for his growing frame, his feet poking out from under the blanket, red from the cold.

In the next room, their mother, Mira Faelan, lay in bed, her silver hair spread across the pillow like a halo. Her once-vibrant blue eyes were now sunken and dull, her frail frame barely visible under the threadbare blankets. A faint wheeze escaped her lips with each breath, a reminder of the illness that had taken hold of her.

Lyra's father, Edran, had left before dawn to haul crates at the docks. His thick black hair, streaked with gray, was often hidden under a worn cap, and his hands were calloused and cracked from years of manual labor. He wore a heavy, patched coat over a simple tunic and trousers, the fabric stained and frayed at the edges.

The Faelan family had once been respected potion merchants, but a false accusation of fraud by the Alchemy Guild had ruined their reputation and left them destitute. Now, Lyra was their only hope.

The potion in the pot hissed softly, the color deepening to a shimmering silver. Lyra's heart leaped. It's working! She poured the liquid into a small glass vial, her hands shaking with excitement. Tiny, star-like flecks swirled inside, and for a moment, she allowed herself to hope.

But hope was a dangerous thing.

She brought the vial to her lips, hesitating only for a second before taking a small sip. The moment the liquid touched her tongue, a searing pain shot through her body. Lyra gasped, her vision darkening as her limbs locked up. It felt like her veins were on fire, like a wildfire had erupted inside her.

Then—

CRASH!

The vial slipped from her hand, shattering against the floor.

---

The Alchemy Market

The streets of Verdantia's market district were alive with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares. The scent of baked bread and sizzling meats mingled with the earthy aroma of dried herbs and fresh fruits. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets, their tables overflowing with glowing vials, bubbling cauldrons, and jars of rare ingredients. The air was thick with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Lyra clutched a small pouch of copper coins in her hand, barely enough to buy scraps. Her mother's condition was worsening. If she didn't find the right ingredients today, she might not have another chance.

She approached a wooden stall run by Tarin Roswell, a short, round-faced merchant with a perpetual smirk. His thinning brown hair was combed over his balding scalp, and his clothes—a mismatched ensemble of a green tunic and brown trousers—were stained with splashes of potion and herb residue. His stall was cluttered with jars of rare herbs, glowing crystals, and bubbling vials of potions. A sign above the stall read,

"Roswell's Rare Ingredients: Best Prices in Verdantia!"

—a claim Lyra knew was far from true.

"Back again, Lyra?" Tarin said, scratching his stubbly chin. "You're buying a lot of moonthorn petals lately. Planning to open a shop?"

"I just… need some more," Lyra said quietly, her fingers tightening around her pouch.

Tarin snorted. "Expensive."

"I'll take the smallest bundle."

The merchant eyed her, then tossed a small packet onto the counter. "That'll be ten silvers."

Lyra's stomach twisted. That was more than double the price from last week.

"Please… that's all I have," she said, placing her few remaining coins on the counter.

Tarin leaned back, unimpressed. "Not my problem."

Before she could argue, a smooth, mocking voice cut through the air.

"She'll take it, and you'll take the coins."

Lyra's breath caught in her throat.

Standing beside her was a young man with sharp golden eyes and a confident smirk. He was dressed in fine black robes lined with silver embroidery, the fabric shimmering faintly in the sunlight. A dagger with an ornate hilt was strapped to his belt, and a crimson earring dangled from one ear. His platinum blond hair was cut short and styled perfectly, not a strand out of place. The faint scent of lavender perfume wafted from him, a stark contrast to the earthy smells of the market.

Riven Caelum.

Her first rival.

Riven glanced at her with a smirk. "Trying to make another failure, Faelan?"

Lyra bristled. He knows…

She grabbed the packet of petals and turned away. "It's none of your business."

Riven chuckled. "It is when you're embarrassing our craft. Watching you mix potions is like watching a blindfolded child play with fire."

Heat flared in Lyra's cheeks, but she clenched her fists and marched away.

She wouldn't let him get to her.

She wouldn't let anyone stop her.

Even if the whole world thought she was a failure—she would prove them wrong.

---

A Risky Success

Back in her makeshift alchemy station, Lyra carefully measured the ingredients. She added the moonthorn petals, a drop of phoenix ash, and a pinch of starroot powder. The mixture began to glow—a deep, shimmering gold.

She poured the elixir into a vial and held it up to the light. It was perfect. But before she could celebrate, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Her vision blurred, and she slumped to the floor.

As darkness closed in, she heard heavy boots approaching.

"You there! Stop!"

Lyra's heart sank. A guild enforcer stood in the doorway, his uniform pristine, his voice cold and final.

"You're under arrest for stealing an elixir formula."