Rowan gripped his burlap sack and shakily walked up the steps and onto the stage. His heart beat loudly in his chest, a hush forming around Cobalt Square's stone buildings. The memory of his last attempt—the fungus, the screaming, the shame—threatened to overwhelm him. But this time would be different. It had to be.

He approached the slab, averting his eyes from the crowd and the dean, though he couldn't miss how Dean Vayu stepped back, no doubt wincing from the odor emanating from the manure sack. The sharp scent of ammonia mixed with earth didn't exactly inspire confidence, but Rowan knew what he was doing. At least, he hoped he did.

Rowan breathed in and focused only on the slab, ignoring the sea of people watching him. He reached inside, pulling out a wad of wet, grimy manure.

As expected, the crowd groaned. There weren’t many botanical alchemists for a reason, and the people of Neosilica were looking for a spectacle. Rowan had been expecting this.

He started on the sigil, using the manure to craft a large square representing earth. He moved with precision, his hand well practiced despite his tremble. While chalk was the standard medium for most alchemical sigils, bigger or experimental feats often called for the components to be used in the sigil instead of piled nearby. The manure would forge a stronger connection—assuming he didn't mess up the proportions.

For this sigil, the stronger the connection to earth, the better the result. Wavy lines intersected two opposing edges of the square. Each wave represented water, life-giving and essential. Triangles pointed outward from the other two edges, sharp and decisive—the power of fire. Spirals tailed inward, representing aether as they formed the inner circle, the mystical force that bound all elements together.

The crowd's whispers grew louder as he worked. He caught fragments of their discussions—speculation about what the strange botanical alchemist was attempting, whether this would be another disaster like last time. He pushed their voices away, focusing only on his work.

When it was done, he stepped back, running the sigil over in his head one more time. This was the culmination of years of study. It had to be precise, right down to which portion was drawn first. He looked back at the dean, who frowned at the slab, slowly taking notes.

Rowan pulled the last component from his pocket, carefully extracting the tiny metallic blue seed from its jar and placing it in the center of the sigil. He took his position, kneeling down and placing his palms on the edges of the square. He focused, green magic pouring out of him like cold liquid, seamlessly tracing along his drawn lines. His mind stretched and followed, coursing through a labyrinth of turns and curves until it reached the seed. Fractals filled his mind, unending patterns and possibilities flashing. He was the sigil, and the sigil was him. He was the lines, the curves, the manure, and the seed. Magic vibrated in his heart, and energy pulsed from the slab. The sensation filled him, a familiar buzz of life.

First, he heard the crack of stone, which sent murmurs rippling through the crowd. Then came a rush of air as the seed burst.

The connection between him and the sigil broke with an audible snap, and Rowan fell back as roots drilled into the ground. They spread like lightning through the stone, cracking and drilling into it. A trunk twisted up toward the sky, its bark a strange metallic blue that shone in the late morning light.

One moment, the sun looked down on him, and the next branches covered his view, spreading like fingers. Thin, blue leaves sprouted in waves, their sharp, serrated edges stretching long like willow leaves. Each one created a kaleidoscope of blue that painted the ground, and the crowd grew silent.

Then, as quick as it had grown, the leaves trembled. They came clattering to the ground like metallic rain, and the tree—his beautiful, impossible tree—crumbled into dust. His heart sank, hoping the tree would stay a little longer to take in its beauty. But there was still a chance he passed. There had to be.

Rowan looked up at the dean, who sighed and scribbled a note on the paper. Rowan had to move quickly, before the dean announced his failure.

He reached into the pile of dust, feeling the edge of a leaf cut into his skin. He pulled it out and held it up. “This,” Rowan shouted. “Is the final.”

Dean Vayu raised an eyebrow.

“They named Cobalt Square after the rich deposits of Cobalt that have since been mined. However, plants have a way of absorbing trace minerals and metals. I’ve been working on a project that can dredge up and deposit them in the leaves. The process is still unstable and time-consuming, but I believe we can bring botanical alchemy back to Neosilica.”

The crowd burst into laughter, but as Rowan stared out at them, he found several people carefully kicking aside the dust and inspecting the leaves.

He turned to Dean Vayu, who pursed his lips. “You broke my slab,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, Dean Vayu. I didn’t—”

The dean cut him off, quickly drawing a purple sigil in the air and shouting to the crowd, “Rowan Mosswood, you have demonstrated your… abilities in your selected discipline. I hereby grant you with this seal of approval, denoting you as an Alchemist of the Botanical Arts of Flamel University. May you remember the excellence and expectation of all graduates of Flamel University as you step into the world beyond these halls.”

Rowan pocketed his Cobalt leaf and wiped his hands before grabbing his certificate. He'd finally done it; he'd finally passed. Before he could take the certificate, Dean Vayu leaned in and spoke in a smooth, almost paternal voice. "Rowan, about your loans, I may have a solution that could benefit us both."

"Right," Rowan said, biting his lip. "I can pay them back. I promise."

"Actually, the university has an opportunity," Dean Vayu said. "We'd like to put you out on assignment. A small place, a week's travel north by train. Consider it your... postgraduate research."

Rowan's eyes widened. "Assignment? And my debts?"

"Paid in full after you report back to us in a year." The dean's voice dropped lower. "There are... peculiarities up there that need investigation. Things that might interest a botanical alchemist."

“A year?” Rowan asked. “But that far north? Does magic even work there?”

“That is for you to find out, but I need an answer now,” Dean Vayu said, his grip tight on the certificate.

This paper was everything Rowan wanted. Everything his mother wanted for him. He ran the offer through his head, looking over to Marley, who was laughing as she spoke with a businesswoman with a long red braid. Her joy was infectious, even from this distance. She'd made these years bearable, giving him friendship when he needed it most. And now he was considering leaving—not just the city, but everything he knew.

It was only a year away from Neosilica. From the constant hum of automatons and the shine of metal towers. No new silly inventions to try out at the weekend market. And away from Marley and all her unwavering support.

But away from all this, far up in the northern countryside, maybe he could find what his mother had always talked about. People still need healers and botanical alchemy, a place untamed by city walls and mechanical progress. Maybe he could finally become the alchemist she'd believed he could be there.

"I-I," Rowan stuttered. Then, stronger, he said, "I'll take it."