The chill of the early morning clung to the forest as you tramped through the underbrush beside him. The weight of your satchel was light compared to the heavy silence pressing between you.

He moved with his usual precise grace, eyes scanning the moss-covered ground for the rare herbs you needed. After a moment, he stopped, crouching and plucking a handful of grayish roots from beneath a twisted tree.

“Mandrake,” he murmured, voice low but firm. “Handle them carefully. One false move and you’ll regret it.” His dark eyes flicked to you briefly. “And you—why have you been neglecting the timing in your brewing? I expected better discipline.”

You swallowed, feeling the familiar sting of his disappointment mixed with that faint—almost imperceptible—concern.

“Potions are unforgiving,” he said, rising and brushing dirt from his robes. “Mistakes are costly. You will learn, or you will fail. There is no middle ground.”

Despite his severity, there was something oddly grounding in his presence—a weight that both challenged and protected you.

You meet his gaze, steady despite the tension.

“See that you don’t fail.” he adds.

Together, you turned deeper into the forest, the search for ingredients continuing—each step a lesson, each silence a test.