It was raining outside, but Palk was hot. He was burning coal. When he took a dive on his papers, more like scratches really, the components for a numbing agent blurred. His barely human Thravbon became soft waves of the Chairon Lake. When the back of his neck started to ache, the apprentice reached for his pockets and took out the greenish rubbing oil. It smelled like running water in early spring, home, he thought, and it was cool to the skin. The young apprentice however forgot the passage of time as his own kneading on the sores of his body hummed relief for both space and mind. The sudden cough and the familiar chortle of his Master toppled Palk from his seat, falling with him were the mountains of his papers.

“Doyen Lord Visor… oof, Master!” Palk gathered himself up, his large lenses hang askew on his face. When Palk eventually rose from his woe, he saw the pale boy who stood beside a very animated girl about of the same age. The new apprentices, Palk was told, one who named himself Malrow, the other Mihca. “Apprentices,” he called to them nodding.

And that was where he noticed their stiff faces. Although the girl was smiling, she had creases on her mouth, and the boy, well, the boy was starring blankly at him, not a hint of feelings there. But that was not enough to ruin the Chemist’s lethargic afternoon when he remarked the five Tron stubbed guards whom were circling two other younger students. They had all gathered around Palk’s table, his part of the principal’s office, and not one had bothered to tell him in advance the royals being the new trainees, and the awkward stature of foreign guild students.

His Master hacked again which in turn took Palk’s goggle on the new torment. “You may introduce yourself, apprentice,” his Master said. “You are after all first of their hourly schedule.”

Palk sucked in a gulp of air, followed by the licking of his lips. He regretted the behavior however, when he had routed the last remnants of acmella and caused a small prickle in his mouth. Fortunately, he had a stronger determination to not embarrass himself further. Palk firstly addressed the royals, “Apprentice and Minor Scholar, Palk Adlon Ron, at your service your highnesses.” He bowed and made priority to the next crop to helping his forgiving Master, the guild apprentices, “I am the current sponsor of the Master Zazun, I hope to guide you well for your future service to him.”

Then they were all arranged. With the help of the Master’s eth, they were able to sit themselves on the forsaken laboratories, Palk’s old forgotten vials and pestles, floating away as they made space for the students. With a flick of his Master’s hand, and silent incantation, rust and mud had erased themselves from existence. The gloss and shine of the workshop’s tiles were but a memory in Palk’s younger life. The guards stood at every corner while they watch and listen to Palk’s own introduction to the work and requirements apprentices did.

“As apprentices,” he started, “you are all obligated to creating projects per term as a somewhat review of your achievements.” Palk laid it out, his head buzzing from its growing ache and the eerie and greenish eyes of the princess. Palk was not used to conversing with any other folk, especially when it comes to nobles. So, he struggled to keep on a steady pace of his Thravbon, and somewhat stopping himself from begging for the princess’ help?

He was now sweating, a deep pool on his back had drenched his scholar cloak. He had then wondered where and when should he end his foreword. “As a Minor Scholar, I was given my last two terms to prepare my project before I am to be evaluated for Adept schooling. In notable presentation of sorts, I must prepare well for my new pilot discipline, Chemistry. I am after all still an Apprentice, and only then in Masters can it be fully established and recognized.”

Then the prince’s hand shut up. Palk was appalled from his fast-beating heart. He did, with Thrava’s grace was able to entertain the noble. “Yes, student,” Palk’s throat bulked, he did not like calling any noble below their rank.

“Of what it’s difference to Herbology, Scholar? I have a read one of your works and Herbology, unlike alchemy does not require eth. But what does it differ to studying medicine?”

And that flickered a fire in Palk’s heart. He had now liked the prince. When the prince’s own waiting gaze encouraged Palk to smile, the prince must have known that Palk saw a younger version of him. His new confidence shunned away the quaver of his fatigue. “Chemistry does not rely on plants alone…”

Although Palk’s work revolves around making draughts for the sick or those who are in pain, it was Herbology and the disdain for being ethless drove the young dreamer to excel on altering the properties of substances independent of the realm’s arcane. He had requested new equipment in his own design and even formulas of balancing chemicals. With renown fame in the Eth-Leahn State Section, he even had scholars providing him rare materials to tinker with. It was a small and silent rebellion. One that achieved the Lord Visor’s support and the faith of the common Chusternians.

But Palk had only limited time for children and follies. He was finishing on the materials the apprentices needed for their lessons when both the Lore and Civics Masters entered the room. The Minor Scholar had to give the students a short break, the lot of them, the guild students a little-ways farther from the laboratories and the young monarchs. After curtsying, Palk promptly went to the gathered teachers to appropriately admire their status.

The Doyen Lord Visor was conversing with them when the principal noticed his approach. “Ah, Palk, thank you for settling the new recruits in. I believe you have not properly met the Masters?”

“Apprentice and Minor Scholar, Palk Adlon Ron. Masters.” Palk was giddy. His stomach even sang throughout the excitement.

“I see you have forgotten to eat, Minor Scholar.” The Civics Master chuckled.

“And he might need food and rest right away, Master,” the Lore Master said, a worry in his voice.

“Yes! Yes, I will, Masters, once I clean up.” To them, Palk must have looked like a ghost.

“Or rather, let me clean it up.” The principal jested.

“I preferred to be called Scholar, Scholar Clanadrin. I was not granted the title of Master, as how our society deems me to be.”

“Nonsense dear,” the Lord Visor chaffed. “Chustern may not acknowledge our women on venturing greater ideals, but the Pillar-States will champion you that title. Am I correct, Master Monterpelagious?”

“As it was declared by the Federacy, she is Master of Civics,” Monterpelagious agreed, grinning at the Master of Civics in support.

Steadfast, she replied, “but they will talk, Master.”

“Let them,” the Lord Visor enlivened. “Its time for Chustern to realize where their true strength comes from.”