On the fifth day, Arin received his first assignment.
It was not a spell lesson.
It was not a laboratory position.
It was herb sorting.
“Grade One apprentices are expected to contribute labor,” said the senior student distributing the assignments.
“The academy provides food and shelter.
You provide useful work.” Arin looked at the paper.
Herb Hall, eastern annex.
Report before second bell.
No payment listed.
Daren read over his shoulder.
“What does herb sorting involve?” “Sorting herbs.” Daren frowned.
“That sounds too simple.” “That is usually when the hidden problem appears.” The eastern annex stood behind the potion laboratories.
Its stone walls were stained green near the windows, and the air smelled of bitter leaves, wet soil, and something sharp enough to sting Arin’s eyes.
Inside, shelves covered every wall.
Bundles of plants hung from the ceiling.
Wooden trays filled with roots, leaves, flowers, and bark occupied the tables.
Some herbs were ordinary enough to recognize.
Others twitched when approached.
A woman with red hair stood behind the largest table.
“You are the new Grade One?” “Yes.” “Name?” “Arin Vale.” “Can you read?” “Yes.” “Can you count?” “Yes.” “Can you follow instructions?” “Usually.” She looked at him.
Arin corrected himself.
“Yes.” “Good.
I am Mistress Halen.
You will sort the morning delivery.
Red-marked trays go to the potion hall.
Blue-marked trays go to storage.
Black-marked trays are waste.
Do not mix them.” She pointed to a stack of wooden trays.
“Some herbs are poisonous.
Some are alive.
Some are both.
If you are bitten, report it.
If you begin seeing colors that are not present, report it.
If you hear a plant speaking, do not answer.” Daren, who had been assigned to a different room, stared at her.
“Plants can speak?” “Only the dangerous ones.” “That is not comforting.” “It was not intended to be.” Mistress Halen handed Arin a pair of leather gloves.
They were too large.
He pulled the straps tight.
“What about these?” he asked, pointing to a tray of pale blue leaves.
“Moonmint.
Blue storage.” “And the black-veined roots?” “Black waste.” “Why waste them?” “Because they are rotten.” Arin leaned closer.
The roots were dark, but not rotten.
Their surface was dry and cracked.
A thin red line ran through the center of each one.
“Are you sure?” Mistress Halen glanced at the tray.
“Yes.” “What causes the red line?” “Contamination.” “From what?” She gave him a hard look.
“You are here to sort herbs, not study them.” Arin lowered his head.
“Yes, Mistress Halen.” She walked away.
Arin waited until she had crossed the room before examining the root again.
He had worked with messy systems before.
Labels were often wrong.
Documentation was often outdated.
People with authority were often too busy to inspect every detail.
That did not mean he should challenge them immediately.
He separated one root from the others and placed it on a clean cloth.
The red line pulsed.
Arin stepped back.
The root had moved.
Only slightly.
But it had moved.
He checked the other roots.
Three of them had red lines.
Two did not.
He took a blank scrap of paper and wrote: Black-veined roots: possible variation within batch.
Confirm before disposal.
Then he began sorting.
The work was repetitive but not easy.
Some herbs changed color when exposed to air.
Some released dust when touched.
One bundle of thin yellow grass attempted to wrap around his wrist.
Arin dropped it into the correct tray and held the lid closed until it stopped moving.
His first hour passed without injury.
His second ended differently.
He had just opened a crate of ordinary-looking green leaves when a cloud of yellow powder burst into his face.
Arin stumbled backward.
His eyes watered.
The room blurred.
Mistress Halen appeared beside him and grabbed his shoulders.
“Breathe through your mouth.” “I am.” “Do not rub your eyes.” “What is it?” “Sleep dust.” “I feel awake.” “You will not for long.” She dragged him toward a basin and pushed his face over it.
“Wash.” Arin splashed water over his eyes.
The burning worsened, then slowly faded.
Mistress Halen examined his pupils.
“How many fingers?” “Three.” She held up two.
“Two.” “That is less reassuring.” “You are fortunate.
The dust was old.” “Old dust is safer?” “Usually.” Arin looked toward the crate.
The label read: Gentleleaf.
He pointed at it.
“That label is wrong.” Mistress Halen’s expression changed.
She returned to the crate, lifted one leaf, and turned it over.
Tiny yellow hairs covered the underside.
“Sleep nettle,” she said.
“Is that common?” “No.
It should not be here.” She examined the rest of the crate.
Most of the leaves were harmless.
Several were not.
Mistress Halen called for another worker.
“Move this crate to isolation.” The worker hesitated.
“All of it?” “All of it.” Arin watched them carry the crate away.
The problem was not one mislabeled leaf.
The entire delivery had been mixed.
He looked at the sorting tables.
The labels were written in different hands.
Some ink was faded.
Several crates had no dates.
The process depended on memory and speed.
That was why mistakes entered the system.
He found a piece of charcoal and drew four columns on the table’s wooden edge.
Name.
Appearance.
Reaction.
Destination.
Then he started a second list beneath them.
Do not trust labels alone.
Check underside.
Check scent.
Check movement.
Check dust.
Check source crate.
By midday, Mistress Halen noticed the marks.
“What are those?” “A checklist.” “I did not ask for one.” “No.” “Then why make it?” “So I can sort correctly.” “You have been sorting correctly.” “I nearly sorted sleep nettle as Gentleleaf.” “You did not.” “Because the powder exposed the error.” Mistress Halen studied him.
“Most apprentices would have complained.” “Complaining does not identify the cause.” The woman’s mouth tightened.
“Careful.
You are beginning to sound useful.” Arin returned to the herbs.
That was not necessarily a good thing.
Useful people attracted requests.
Requests became obligations.
Obligations became visibility.
Still, he continued the checklist.
By the end of the day, he had found six mislabeled bundles, two batches with incorrect dates, and one tray of moonmint that had been stored beside heat-producing bark.
The moonmint had begun to wilt.
Mistress Halen stared at the tray.
“That bark was moved yesterday.” “Then the storage record is outdated.” “Who told you?” “The tray.” She looked at him.
Arin pointed to the leaves.
“They are curling away from the heat.” Mistress Halen picked up a leaf and examined it.
After a moment, she called for the storage assistant.
The assistant arrived looking irritated.
“What now?” “Who moved the ember bark?” “I did.
The old shelf was full.” “Did you update the record?” “No.” “Why?” “I forgot.” Mistress Halen dismissed him with a gesture.
Then she looked at Arin.
“You will return tomorrow.” Arin’s shoulders tightened.
“Am I being punished?” “No.” “Then am I being paid?” “No.” “Then why?” “Because you noticed problems other people ignored.” “That sounds like a reason to pay me.” Mistress Halen stared at him for several seconds.
Then she laughed.
It was the first time Arin had heard her do so.
“You really are strange.” “I have been told.” She took a small pouch from beneath the table and tossed it to him.
Arin caught it.
Inside were three strips of dried meat.
“Payment?” “Do not become ambitious.” He placed the pouch inside his robe.
“Tomorrow, may I use better labels?” “You may use charcoal.” “May I request ink?” “No.” “May I request paper?” “No.” “May I request a smaller pair of gloves?” Mistress Halen looked at his hands.
The oversized gloves hung past his wrists.
“Take the pair from the second drawer.” “Thank you.” “Do not thank me.
They are stained.” Arin found the gloves.
They were stained, cracked, and much too thin.
They fit perfectly.
Before leaving, he looked once more at the black-marked tray.
The three roots with red veins were still there.
He pointed toward them.
“Those were marked for waste.” “They are contaminated.” “Could they be studied?” Mistress Halen’s face became serious.
“Not by you.” “Why?” “Because you do not know what they contain.” “That is why they should be studied.” “That is why they are dangerous.” The answer was reasonable.
Arin did not like it.
He wrote the roots into his notebook anyway.
Possible contaminated plant.
Observed movement.
Red internal vein.
Restricted for study.
When he returned to Dormitory Seven, Daren was waiting by the door.
“How was Herb Hall?” “I was almost put to sleep by a leaf.” Daren’s eyes widened.
“Was it dangerous?” “Yes.” “Did you defeat it?” “No.
I washed my face.” Daren considered this.
“Is that how Magi fight?” “Sometimes the most advanced technique is avoiding the problem.” Arin placed the three strips of dried meat on the table.
He divided them into four equal portions.
Tomas took one without asking.
Pell took one after Arin offered.
Daren stared at his piece.
“You do not have to share.” “I know.” “Why did you?” Arin looked at the meat.
Because supplies were limited.
Because hungry roommates became desperate roommates.
Because small investments could prevent larger problems.
He gave the practical answer.
“Stable systems require maintenance.” Daren smiled.
“I still do not understand what that means.” “Eat before Tomas takes yours.” Daren immediately began eating.
Later, after meditation, Arin added a new section to his error log.
Herb Hall findings: Labels can be wrong.
Records can be outdated.
Small observations prevent larger losses.
People notice results more than effort.
He paused, then wrote one more line.
Useful work may be the first path to resources.
The thought was dangerous.
It meant he might not need to remain completely invisible.
Perhaps he only needed to become visible in a direction nobody considered threatening.
Arin closed the notebook.
In the darkness beneath his bed, something scratched once.
He reached for his knife.
The scratching stopped.
After a moment, a small gray creature pushed its nose through the gap beneath the door.
Arin ignored it.
The creature dragged away a crumb of bread.
This time, no alarm rune flashed.
Arin watched it disappear into the corridor.
The academy was full of rules.
Some were written down.
Some were enforced by runes.
And some, apparently, could be learned only by surviving them.