The Sap Cascade

Vael eases the apothecary door shut behind him, wincing at the faint creak of hinges. Dawn is just a suggestion on the horizon—a pale smudge against black. He tugs his coat tighter and plucks three apples from the barrel by the door, tucking them into his satchel. The village sleeps. Only the baker’s chimney trails smoke into the star-flecked sky.

The dirt path to the Alexeeva farm is a ribbon of shadow. Two miles of gentle curves and scattered stones. The Awakening Ceremony still lingers beneath his skin, a persistent hum that kept him tossing through the night. He bites into an apple, its crisp tartness chasing away the last dregs of sleep.

He whispers the words to the dawn: “Metal and Air.” The affinities had revealed themselves not as abstract concepts but as living forces—razor-edged steel singing against his thoughts, gusts that could lift or slice with equal measure. The texts he’d seen hadn’t prepared him for this raw, untamed reality that now fizzed beneath his skin.

The sky lightens as the Alexeeva farm comes into view. Unlike the cramped village houses, their property sprawls: a neatly painted farmhouse with climbing roses, two weathered outbuildings with fresh thatch, above the small stone cellar where Marina works her magic with milk and culture. Chickens scratch in the yard. Beyond the fence, he spots Vasiliy and Vovo moving milk stools near the goat pen, their silver-augmented arms catching the first rays of sun.

“Morning!” Vael calls, lifting a hand. Both men turn, their movements synchronized like clockwork.

Vasiliy nods, solemn as always. “The awakened one arrives,” he says, but there’s warmth beneath the formal greeting. The silver filigree etched into his forearms gleams as he adjusts a milk pail. “My daughter is not yet ready. She sleeps like the dead.”

“Unlike some of us who must work regardless,” Vovo adds, but his grin softens the complaint. He’s broader than his father, built for the mine, with the same silver streaking his hair. 

“Is Marina in the cellar?”

“Where else?” Vasiliy gestures toward the half-sunken stone structure. “The morning’s work waits for no one.”

Vael follows the worn path to the cellar door. The temperature drops as he descends the stone steps, at the end of the farmhouse. The smell hits him first—milk and salt, the faint tang of cultures working their slow transformation. Marina stands before a row of wooden vats, her sleeves rolled up, pressing curds through cloth-lined moulds. Silver lines trace delicate patterns up her arms, less pronounced than her husband’s but unmistakably Artificer.

“Good morning,” Vael says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

Marina looks up, her face brightening. “Ah! The man of the hour.” She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving damp streaks across the worn fabric. 

She turns back to her work, hands never idle. “The morning’s batch is nearly ready for pressing. We’ll be loading for market soon.”

“Can I help?”

“You can pass me those moulds.” She points to a shelf lined with perforated wooden circles. “Frosya should be up soon. She was tossing all night—too excited to sleep probably.”

Vael hands her the moulds one by one, watching as she lines each with clean muslin, then ladles curds with practiced precision. Her movements are efficient, almost musical.

“How do your augmentations help with the cheese?” he asks, genuinely curious. The Artificers’ silver modifications had always fascinated him—visible magic etched into skin.

Marina smiles. “Watch.” She passes her palm over a fresh-filled mould, and the silver lines on her wrist pulse once. Water begins to flow from the curds more rapidly, the cheese visibly firming. “Just a little push. Speeds the draining by hours.”

“Vovo uses his for the milk,” Vasiliy explains, appearing in the doorway. “Strengthens the pumping motion, keeps it rhythmic. Better yield. I use mine for the curdling—perfect timing, perfect temperature.”

“Artificer wisdom in farm work,” Vovo adds, leaning against the doorframe. “Mother could make cheese the old way, but this—” he taps his silver-lined forearm “—this gives us the edge at market. Why else would people line up for our stall when there are three other cheesemakers?”

“Because Marina’s cheese would be superior even without your fancy arms,” Vael counters, earning a pleased nod from Marina.

“True enough,” Vasiliy concedes. “But we adapt. We improve. This is the Artificer way.”

Vovo stretches, silver gleaming along his muscular arms. “I need porridge before the mine shift. Heavy digging today.” He claps Vael on the shoulder as he passes. “Don’t let my sister make you late for the Guild. She’ll spend hours packing, then forget her boots.”

“I heard that!” Frosya’s voice calls from above, followed by the sound of a door slamming.

Marina chuckles, pressing another mould. “Four wheels for the market today. Two Kestrel, one Blueshard, one soft for the tavern.” Her hands never falter, even as she speaks. “The goats gave less this morning. Finicky creatures. The cows are more reliable—two gallons each, like clockwork.”

Vasiliy moves with practiced ease, helping Marina hoist the heavy wheel onto the wooden slats of the drying rack.
“Shouldn’t be too late,” Marina says, counting off her obligations on fingers dusted white with dried whey. “The evening batch needs pressing, and I must prepare tomorrow’s cultures.” She pauses, concern crossing her face. “The pregnant nanny—could you look in on her while I’m gone? Her time is near.”

Vael listens to the rhythmic harmony of a family that works together each day. Frosya moved from Nordkova, an Artificer territory, to Rivenholt when she was fourteen because her father was offered a position as a mining foreman at the Imperial mine. She and Vael were thrown together by chance at the Rivenholt School and have been close friends ever since. She worked part-time at Vael’s family apothecary, learning about herbs, potions, and healing. Frosya has always been torn between tradition and curiosity, wanting to master wizardry, folk healing, and alchemy. Though he has known them since they arrived in Rivenholt, the synchronized efficiency of the Alexeevas continues to impress him. By contrast, his own family’s apothecary is an organized chaos.

“Cart’s ready when you are,” Vasiliy says, heading back up the steps. “Good luck with your registration, maybe we’ll see you later, Frosya”

The cellar fills with morning light as the door above opens wider. Vael helps Marina wrap the final cheese in cloth, then carries two wheels up to the waiting cart. A new day. A new path. The weight of cheese in his arms—solid, real. The path ahead—unknown, exhilarating.

The wooden crates land with soft thuds on the cart bed, each one filled with Marina’s labours. Vael arranges them carefully, making sure none will topple during the journey. The mare hitched to the front snorts, pawing the ground. She knows market day means a long haul and treats at the end.

“Last one,” Marina says, handing him a small crate of soft cheese wrapped in wet cloth. “This needs to stay cool. Put it underneath.”

He slides it beneath the cart’s bench, into the shadowed space Marina has created with a canvas drape. The spring morning still holds the night’s chill.

The farmhouse door creaks open and Frosya steps out, a breeze catching her hair—blonde and threaded with silver, shimmering faintly in the morning light. The metallic lines on her arms, her Silverweave Circuit, pulse gently as she moves. She’s dressed in a simple dress with practical boots, her gaze alert and already searching the yard for Vael.

“Ready?” her mother calls.

Frosya grins over her shoulder. “Just making sure we have everything. And trying not to overthink,” she says, waving a hand as if to scatter the restless thoughts still buzzing around her.

Vael gives her a knowing nod. Since the ceremony, the world seems changed for both of them—colours brighter, sounds sharper, as if a veil has finally lifted.

“Backpacks?” Marina asked.

“Here.” Frosya lifts two worn packs from beside the door. 

Vael takes his, checking the contents once more—clean clothes, sleeping roll, a short sword wrapped in cloth, his Mother’s small healing potion for emergencies. His stomach flips. Today they’ll officially become adventurers. If all goes well.

They secure their packs beside the cheese barrels and climb onto the bench. 

Marina takes the reins, clicking her tongue. The mare responds instantly, pulling them down the rutted lane toward the main road to Nexara. 

The horizon blooms pink and gold as they leave Rivenholt behind. Fields stretch on either side, new wheat barely ankle-high, swaying in the morning breeze. The cart’s wooden wheels creak a steady rhythm.

Marina glances at the two of them, the morning sun glinting off the silver in her hair. “Did you manage any sleep after all the excitement of the last couple of days?” she teases gently. “You two looked as if your heads were still half in the clouds when we said goodnight.” Vael grins, catching Frosya’s eye. “I did my best. Still feels strange, thinking about everything. But I’m pretty sure about my path—adventuring.”

Marina’s smile is approving. “Ready to show Nexara what you can do?”

He nods. “If I can master the basics first. Swordsmanship, then maybe… something more.”

“And you?” Marina turns slightly toward her daughter.
Frosya’s eyes gleam with excitement. “Water affinity feels perfect for me.” She traces a silver line on her arm, “I think my augmentation will help me control it.”

“Water affinity,” Marina reflects, smiling warmly. “Your father will be impossible to deal with. He’s bursting with pride.”

Since childhood, they’ve talked of adventure—of leaving Rivenholt to see what lies beyond the hills. Now it’s happening. The reality of it settles in his chest, heavy and bright.

“I’ll start small,” he says. “Local assignments. Build experience.”

“And coin,” Frosya adds pragmatically. “I’ll need better equipment eventually.”

Marina chuckles. “Always the practical one—just like your father.” She snaps the reins lightly, casting a fond glance at her daughter. “But remember, it’s okay to take things slow.”

The cart crests a hill, and Nexara spreads before them. The Empire’s Capital of the Argast Continent, with its stone walls, slate tiled roofs, mining towers, refinery stacks, and the black-glass spires of the Empire’s administration. The morning sun catches on the bell tower of the central temple and the bronze dome of the Governor’s residence.

Farmers and traders converge on the eastern gate, forming a slow-moving stream of people, carts, and the occasional sleek land skimmer humming softly above the ruts. A skimmer glides past on a cushion of light, drawing curious—or envious—glances from those on foot. City guards’ wave everyone through with cursory glances; market day is routine.

Marina, flicking her gaze after the passing skimmer, remarks with a wry smile, “Ah, the City, Civilisation. If our roads weren’t so rutted, and dusty, I’d trade our old cart for one of those in a heartbeat.”

She nudges Vael gently. “The Artificer’s make the best, you know. Maybe someday, eh?” 

The market square buzzes with activity. Stalls rise like mushrooms after rain—canvas tents and wooden tables appearing in designated spots. Merchants call greetings to one another, comparing wares and gossiping about prices.

Marina steers their cart to her usual place near the centre, where the dairy sellers cluster. “Help me set up, then you can be off on your Guild business.”

They work efficiently—unfolding Marina’s table, set up the awning, arranging cheeses, setting out the small sample board and knife. Vael hangs the painted sign: “Alexeeva’s Finest—From Our Pasture to Your Table.” The silver filigree on the sign’s edge marks it as Artificer-made, a subtle advertisement of quality.

“There.” Marina surveys their work. “Perfect.”

Already, early customers drift toward the stall. Marina’s reputation draws them—her Blueshard especially is sought after by the city’s taverns.

“We should go,” Frosya says, glancing at the position of the sun. “Our appointments are quite early.”

Marina pulls her daughter into a tight embrace. “Good luck, my little one. Make us proud.” She releases Frosya and turns to Vael, squeezing his shoulders. “You too”

“I will,” Vael promises.

“And come back here for lunch,” she adds. “I want to hear everything.”

They weave through the thickening market crowd, Vael leading the way toward the western quarter where the Adventurers Guild stands. The city’s central fountain marks their turning point—they pass it, then head up the cobbled street that leads to the government district.

Smells assault them as they walk—fresh bread, sizzling meats, sweet pastries. Vael’s stomach growls, reminding him breakfast was just an apple.

“Wait a moment, I’ll us grab a snack” he says. A vendor grills meat skewers over glowing coals, the aroma making his mouth water. “Two, please,” he tells the woman, handing over small coins from his pocket.

She passes them sizzling sticks of spiced meat. “Here you are dear.”

Vael bites into his skewer. The meat is tender, salty-sweet with a hint of heat. “So tasty,” he mutters through a full mouth.

Frosya laughs, tearing into her own skewer. Grease shines on her lips. “To adventure,” she says, raising the stick like a toast.

“To adventure,” he echoes.

They eat as they walk, the Guild’s stone façade growing larger with each step. Vael’s heart pounds. In his pocket, he fingers a small pouch of coins. The future rushes toward them like a river in spring flood—fast and unstoppable.

Nexara’s western quarter houses the institutions of power—banks with gleaming brass fittings, administrative offices with black-glass spires, flying Imperial banners, and the imposing edifice of the Adventurers Guild. Vael and Frosya approach from West Street, meat sticks finished, wiping greasy fingers on handkerchiefs. The Guild’s stone façade looms ahead, sunlight catching on its polished granite columns.

“Bigger than I remembered,” Frosya murmurs. They’ve passed the building before, but never with purpose, never as potential members.

“Designed to intimidate,” Vael replies, eyeing the carved sigils flanking the high archway—stylized representations of the seven affinities, each glowing faintly with sap-light.

The stone steps are worn smooth from countless boots. Carved into the lintel above: “Order, Expansion, Regulation”—the Empire’s motto. Below it, the Guild’s own creed: “Through Valour, We Rise.”

“Ready?” Vael asks, not quite masking the tremor in his voice.

Frosya squares her shoulders, and nods.

They climb the steps together and pass beneath the arch. The temperature drops immediately—cool stone and ancient magic creating a microclimate separate from the spring warmth outside. The entrance hall stretches before them, vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. Sap light globes hang in wrought-iron brackets, casting a steady, bluish glow.

The Guild’s interior hums with activity. A massive desk dominates the centre of the hall, staffed by six clerks in identical grey tunics. Adventurers of all descriptions mill about—some in elaborate armour bearing the scars of battle, others in simple traveling clothes like themselves. A board to the left display’s notices, with people clustered around reading assignments. To the right, a corridor leads deeper into the building. Vael takes it all in, trying not to stare at a woman whose arms are entirely covered in luminescent tattoos, or the pair of men comparing what appear to be Spirit Stones.

“This way,” Frosya says, pointing to a smaller desk marked “New Registrations.”

A line of hopefuls already waits, clutching papers and small pouches of coins. Most look young, probably freshly awakened like themselves. A few show signs of nervousness—shifting weight from foot to foot, rehearsing words under their breath.

They join the queue, standing behind a tall youth with a shock of red hair who keeps checking a wrinkled appointment slip.

“How long do you think the interviews will take?”

“Depends on how many questions they have, I suppose.” 

“Shall we ask to be interviewed together?” Frosya said.

“Why not, might speed things up.” Vael replied.

Vael pats the pouch of coins in his pocket, mentally calculating. “Twenty silver for registration, another thirty for the bracelet deposit…”

“The Empire reimburses the bracelet cost eventually,” Frosya reminds him. “Part of their recruitment drive.”

The line inches forward. When they reach the desk, a Clerk hands them each a sheaf of papers.

“Fill these out completely,” she says, not looking up from her ledger. “Both sides, all fields. Use the tables by the wall. Return them with your appointment slips and fees.”

They find space at one of the tables where other applicants hunch over forms. The paperwork is extensive—personal information, medical history, emergency contacts, next of kin. Vael frowns at a section labelled “Burial Preferences.”

“That’s encouraging,” he mutters, showing it to Frosya.

She snorts. “Mother always says, ‘Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.’ At least they’re thorough.”

They work through the forms methodically. Vael hesitates at “Prior Combat Experience.”

“Does training with your father’s old sword count?” he asks.

“I’d list it,” Frosya says, already scribbling in her own experience with her mother’s spare wand. “Better than nothing.”

When the forms are complete, they return to the clerk, who reviews them with practiced efficiency. “Your appointments are with the Guildmaster… concurrent interviews” She stamps each page. “Registration fee is twenty silver each, bracelet deposit thirty each.”

Vael counts out the silver coins stamped with the Imperial seal. Nearly two months’ worth of helping at his parents’ apothecary, but worth every coin.

The clerk accepts the payment, making notes in her ledger. “Your bracelets will be prepared during your interviews, pending approval. Take your receipts to the waiting area.” She points to a section of benches near a large sap-crystal embedded in the wall.

“Can we have our interviews together please?” Vael asked

“I don’t see why not,” said the Clerk, “we’re pretty informal here, the Guildmaster will see you shortly.”

Vael pockets the receipts and follows Frosya to the designated area. Other applicants sit in various states of anticipation—a young woman repeatedly practices a wand movement, a broad-shouldered man stares fixedly at the ceiling as if memorizing something.

“I wonder what the test will be like?” Frosya says, sitting on a polished wooden bench. “Mother said they used crystals in her day, but that was back home in Nordkova.”

“Father says it’s straightforward—they measure your sap capacity, purity and affinity resonance.” Vael flexes his fingers, trying to feel the metal affinity that had sparked during his awakening. “No need to demonstrate skills yet.”

“Good, I need more practice.” Frosya quips.

The waiting candidates ahead of them are called, until they are next. A young man emerges from the corridor, reading from a slate. “Linden and Alexeeva?”

They stand, exchanging nervous glances.

The clerk—a skinny man with ink-stained fingers and dishevelled, shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail—beckons them. “The Guildmaster will see you now. Please follow me.”

They fall in step behind him, leaving the bustle of the entrance hall behind. The corridor beyond is quieter, lined with portraits of past Guildmasters and maps of the region marked with mysterious symbols. Vael’s palms sweat. This is it—the moment they’ve worked toward since childhood games of monster-hunting in Rivenholt’s meadows.

The clerk stops before an ornate door. “Wait to be acknowledged before speaking,” he instructs. “Address him as Guildmaster Varrow.” 

With that, he knocks twice.