Arin’s notebook became a problem on the seventh day.
The pencil stub had shortened to the size of his thumb.
The pages were nearly full.
His writing had become smaller, tighter, and increasingly difficult to read.
He needed ink.
The academy sold ink at the apprentice market, but the market would not open until afternoon.
Until then, Arin worked in the potion laboratory.
Mistress Halen had recommended him.
“Do not mistake recommendation for friendship,” she said.
“The laboratory needs someone who can count without lying.” The potion hall was warmer than Herb Hall and far more dangerous.
Glass containers covered every shelf.
Colored liquids bubbled over small rune-stoves.
Metal pipes carried steam across the ceiling.
The air smelled of alcohol, smoke, bitter herbs, and burnt hair.
A man with a shaved head stood beside a long table.
“Grade One,” he said.
“Arin Vale.” “I am Assistant Master Corven.
You will clean equipment, measure ingredients, and carry waste to the disposal room.
You will not touch a sealed container.
You will not taste anything.
You will not ask why a liquid is glowing.” Arin looked at a glowing blue liquid.
“Understood.” “If something changes color, moves without being touched, or begins producing teeth, call me.” “Teeth?” Corven stared at him.
“Did you hear the instruction?” “Yes.” “Good.” Arin was assigned a wooden tray filled with empty glass vials.
He washed them one by one.
The work was repetitive, but it had a clear process.
Rinse.
Inspect.
Dry.
Check for cracks.
Place by size.
Unlike Herb Hall, the laboratory did not tolerate mistakes.
A cracked vial could break during a potion reaction.
A drop of residue could contaminate an entire batch.
Arin inspected each one against the light.
After an hour, Corven walked past.
“You are slow.” “I am checking for cracks.” “They are already clean.” “Clean does not mean intact.” Corven picked up one of the vials and held it toward the lamp.
A thin fracture ran from the rim to the base.
The assistant’s expression tightened.
“Set that aside.” Arin did.
Corven continued down the table.
“You may be less useless than expected.” It was becoming a familiar type of compliment.
Around midday, Corven handed him a small metal scoop.
“Measure powdered ashroot.
Three level scoops per flask.” Arin examined the powder.
“Level according to the rim or the surface?” “The rim.” “The scoop is bent.” Corven looked at it.
The metal edge curved upward on one side.
“That does not matter.” “It changes the quantity.” “It changes it slightly.” “How much?” Corven’s eyes narrowed.
Arin placed the scoop on the table and used a straight piece of wood to estimate the difference.
“Approximately eight percent.” The assistant looked at the scoop again.
Then he handed Arin another one.
“Use this.” The replacement was not bent.
Arin measured the ashroot.
At the next table, two older apprentices prepared a red liquid.
One poured too quickly.
The mixture frothed and climbed the inside of the flask.
“Stop,” Arin said.
The apprentice ignored him.
The foam reached the neck of the flask.
“Stop now.” The apprentice turned angrily.
“Who asked you?” The flask cracked.
A red spray struck the apprentice’s glove.
The material hissed.
He shouted and dropped it.
Corven crossed the room in two steps.
He slapped a gray powder over the spill, then dragged the apprentice toward a basin.
“Remove the glove!” The apprentice struggled.
“It is not burning!” “That is because the glove is burning instead of your hand.” The glove had turned black around the fingers.
Arin stepped away from the table.
The remaining red liquid continued to bubble inside the cracked flask.
A hairline fracture was spreading down the glass.
“Assistant Master,” Arin said.
Corven looked over.
“The flask is going to break.” “Everyone out!” The room erupted into movement.
Corven seized the flask with a pair of metal tongs and dropped it into a stone container.
A moment later, the container sealed itself with a flash of white light.
The laboratory fell silent.
The apprentice with the injured glove was breathing hard.
Corven turned toward the two students.
“What happened?” The taller one pointed at Arin.
“He distracted us.” Arin looked at him.
“You poured too quickly.” “You are a Grade One.” “And you are missing two fingers if that container breaks.” The apprentice took one step toward him.
Corven struck the table with his palm.
“Enough.” The room quieted.
He examined the residue on the table.
“Your mixture was unstable before the interruption,” he said to the older apprentice.
“Do not blame the person who noticed it.” The apprentice looked humiliated.
Arin returned to the ashroot.
His hands were steady, but his heart was beating quickly.
He had made himself visible.
That had been a mistake.
Being useful in Herb Hall was one thing.
Correcting an older apprentice in front of a room full of witnesses was another.
Corven approached him.
“Why did you notice the reaction?” “The foam rose too quickly.” “That is not enough.” “The surface changed from smooth to uneven.
The bubbles became smaller.
The liquid was generating heat.” Corven studied him.
“You observe everything?” “No.” “Only dangerous things?” “I try.” Corven made a sound that might have been approval.
“Finish the measurements.
Then report to the market.” The apprentice market occupied a covered courtyard on the academy’s southern side.
Stalls sold herbs, parchment, spell models, tools, robes, and food.
Apprentices moved between them with guarded expressions.
Arin’s attention went first to the writing supplies.
A small ink bottle cost one copper.
A larger bottle cost three.
A packet of paper cost two.
A proper notebook cost five.
Arin had no money.
He stood before the ink stall, calculating.
A smaller bottle would be enough for several weeks if used carefully.
But buying it meant no food beyond the academy’s basic portions.
The vendor noticed his hesitation.
“First week?” “Yes.” “Grade?” “Four.” The vendor’s interest disappeared.
Arin looked at the shelf beneath the ink bottles.
There were cracked quills, used parchment, and damaged writing boards.
“How much for the leftovers?” “Those are worthless.” “Then you will not mind selling them.” The vendor squinted at him.
“You want scraps?” “I want writing material.” “Half a copper.” Arin placed his last copper on the table.
“That is a full copper.” “Then buy the ink.” Arin examined the scraps.
Some were stained.
One had writing on the reverse side.
Another was torn nearly in half.
The vendor had not bundled them by quality.
Arin sorted them into three piles.
“Two of these are unusable.
Seven are usable on one side.
Three are usable on both sides.” The vendor stared.
“You counted quickly.” “I was standing here.” “Half a copper.” “One quarter.” “You cannot buy paper for a quarter.” “I can if the alternative is throwing it away.” The vendor looked toward the other customers.
Then he pushed the scraps across the table.
“Take them.” Arin picked them up.
“And the ink?” “One copper.” “I have no copper.” “Then you have no ink.” Arin looked at the bottles.
The cheapest ink was made from a dark gray powder suspended in water.
It was probably lower quality, but sufficient for notes.
He needed a solution.
At the far end of the market, a sign caught his eye.
REPAIR WORK.
A young apprentice sat behind a table covered with broken quills, damaged boxes, and cracked rune plates.
Arin approached.
“How much to repair a quill?” The apprentice looked up.
“You have one?” “No.” “Then why ask?” “I can repair objects.
I need ink.” The apprentice laughed.
“You are Grade One.” “Yes.” “Can you repair a spell model?” “No.” “A rune plate?” “Possibly, depending on the damage.” The apprentice picked up a cracked wooden case.
“Repair this.” Arin examined it.
The hinge was broken.
The wood had split near one corner.
A small metal latch had come loose.
He had no tools.
He looked around the stall and found a thin wire, a short nail, and a bottle of resin.
“May I use those?” “If you do not break them.” Arin worked carefully.
He used the wire to reinforce the hinge, pressed resin into the split, and fixed the latch with the nail.
The case would not look new, but it opened and closed.
The apprentice tested it.
“How long will it last?” “Depends on how often you use it.” “That is not an answer.” “It is the accurate one.” The apprentice opened the case again.
“Two repairs for one copper.” “I need ink, not copper.” “You think I will give you ink?” “You have three bottles.” “I need them.” “You need one.
The other two are for sale.” The apprentice narrowed his eyes.
“Three repairs.” “Two.” “Two repairs and you sort this pile of quills.” Arin looked at the broken quills.
“Four.” “Three.” “Agreed.” For the next hour, Arin repaired two cracked boxes, replaced a quill tip, and sorted damaged writing tools by type.
The apprentice gave him a small bottle of gray ink.
“Name?” Arin asked.
“Joren.” “Arin.” “I know.
You told me while bargaining.” Arin placed the scraps of paper inside his robe.
As he left, he saw Leylin at another stall.
Leylin was examining a small metal plate engraved with a spell model.
The vendor spoke rapidly, trying to persuade him.
Leylin listened without expression.
Then he pointed out a flaw in the engraving.
The vendor’s smile vanished.
Leylin walked away without buying anything.
Arin continued toward the dormitory.
His boots were repaired.
His notebook had paper.
His ink bottle was small.
His money was gone.
But the balance sheet had improved.
That evening, he recorded every expense.
Ink: one copper equivalent.
Paper: labor exchange.
Food: academy provision.
Tools: borrowed or improvised.
He stared at the page.
The academy had given him almost nothing.
Still, he had found a way to turn observation into resources.
Not power.
Not yet.
But access.
And access was the first thing a weak apprentice needed.
Outside the window, the towers burned with blue light.
Arin dipped his quill into the new ink and wrote carefully: A useful skill does not need to be impressive.
It only needs to solve a problem someone else is willing to pay for.
He closed the bottle.
Tomorrow, he would return to meditation.
Tonight, he would protect the ink.