Ferraria Crispa

Content Warning: death, grief, mild violence (poisoning)

“Where are you taking me, Mikhail?” Kwaniki asked as we walked through the forest.

This was my favorite place—where the trees whispered the secrets of the earth to me, where my herbal magic felt strongest. He, however, was an Anarii, born without light, without a whisper of the power my parents and I possessed. My mother and father already disapproved of our bond; today, I was giving him a gift that Queen Lyrielle would execute me for.

“This is my gift to you,” I said softly, leading him down the unmarked path.

The sunlight poked through the canopies and the grass was lush. When we got to an opening, a few feet ahead lay a pond. I had previously set up a picnic to celebrate Kwaniki’s twenty-fifth birthday.

He smiled when he saw the beautiful setup. Though I think he was slightly disappointed with the lack of meat, being that I was vegan. “This is gorgeous,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He sat on the edge of the blanket, feeling the soft ground beneath him.

In Diallo, birthdays were seldom celebrated. But I was determined to make his day as special as he was. “Here,” I said, handing him a small package wrapped in Kente cloth with a satin bow.

Kwaniki hesitated at first, tears welled in his eyes. “Mikhail,” he choked on his words. I placed my hand on his.

“Open it, Kwaniki. Please.” I smiled.

Slowly, he pulled off the ribbon with delicate fingers and unwrapped the Kente cloth. His smile quickly turned to confusion as he stared at the grimoire. For a moment, I was sure he’d toss it into the pond and leave. But instead, he asked, “What is this?”

“Remember when you said, ‘I wish I could conjure like you?’ well,” I nodded to the book with a smile.

He didn’t need to ask why. We both knew the reason lay in the tremors that shook his hands when he tried to lift the mug, the sudden, debilitating cold that settled in his bones no matter the season.

Just last week, I’d had to hold him over a washibasin in my cottage as he coughed, the convulsions leaving him breathless and weak. His skin, usually the rich shade of umber I loved, was ashen, and the faint green pulse of my herbal magic, when I tried to touch him, recoiled from his chest as if meeting resistance.

He would not last another six months. That fear was the root of my crime.

“I know that, but…that’s illegal and dangerous. Queen Lyrielle would have you killed.” He passed the book back to me.

“No, that was her father.” I took the grimoire and opened it to a page I had previously marked. “She wouldn’t dare hurt us.”

“Mikhail.” Kwaniki stood, dusting off his Igbos. “You can’t…”

“I’ve already started. Sit.” I pulled out the ingredients from the picnic basket—my tools for healing, which today felt more like tools for revolution. I arranged the mugs and the small brazier. “All we need is, Sap of moonvine, I collected this last night, heart of rosemary, ash of the first seed, tear of rainstorm and nightshade.”

I reached into the basket to pull out the dried nightshade, my fingers searching the small, marked burlap bag. My heart jumped. It wasn’t there.

A frantic heat rose in my throat. I had spent all of last night studying the grimoire’s forbidden recipe—a powerful, ancient concoction that promised to infuse the inert body of an Anarii with a sustainable, if minor, flow of aether, effectively curing the “light sickness.” But the recipe was unyielding: Do not substitute any ingredient.

I had no time to return to the cottage. Six months was now three days, maybe less.

I closed my eyes, running through the possibilities. I had one other dark, dried herb that shared a similar alchemical profile to nightshade: monkshood. It held similar crystalline structures and possessed the dark, cooling power required to balance the moonvine’s fire. The difference was negligible, a footnote in a lesser text. The grimoire insisted on nightshade, but the writer couldn’t have accounted for my situation, for the desperation of my love.

My hands, usually steady, trembled as I picked up the small pouch containing the monkshood. I would rename it in my heart. It would be my nightshade. It had to work. I couldn’t bear to look at Kwaniki, whose hope was brighter than the sun on the pond.

With a fluid motion I slowly added each ingredient into a mug as I stirred. A small vial of monkshood powder was the final addition. I tried to focus on the scent of rosemary, clinging to the familiar, confronting smell of my mother’s magic to suppress the sharp, bitter scent of the dangerous substitution.

Kwaniki turned toward the pond, unable to look. I lit the flame under the mug and watched as it bubbled and brewed, turning from a cloudy grey to a smooth, unsettling jade color. “How do you know this will work?”

“I know,” I said. I knew because I’d studied it, memorized every warning. If it worked, he’d live. If not—he’d die. “It’s ready.”

Kwaniki turned towards me again and knelt down in front of me. His brown curls jostled in the wind. But as I stared into his beautiful brown eyes, all I could see was hope. I poured the contents of the mug through a strainer and into a glass. “Kwaniki, you’ve been sick for so long. I know that without this, you wouldn’t last another six months. Please, drink it.” I passed him the glass.

For a moment he stared hard at the liquid inside. Steam rose from the top. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When he opened them he asked, “So, I drink?”

I nodded.

Slowly he pressed his lips to the edge of the glass, without a second thought he downed the whole thing.

Nothing happened.

“I guess my desperate attempts were useless.” I laughed half heartedly.

The remainder of our time was just us laughing, reminiscing along the bank of the pond. We swam and we laughed. We ate the fruit and nut plate as if we were eating a meal fit for Queen Lyrielle herself. But, as the day slowly turned to evening, we packed our things and headed through the forest before nightfall.

“Do you think your ‘potion’ will work while I’m asleep?” Kwaniki asked as he took my hand.

With a sigh I only shrugged. “Maybe we should try again?”

“No, I think once was enough. It didn’t taste that great.” He laughed and gave me a playful nudge.

“What did it taste like?”

“Grass.” We both laughed and continued on, after some time we arrived at my small cottage right outside of the forest. The lights were on and smoke came from the chimney. The stars slowly made their light known across the deep violet sky.

Kwaniki walked me to the front door and we stared at each other for a long time. His smile, his eyes, I wanted to remember the shade of his umber skin under the stars for as long as I could. He was everything I wanted to be and more. Humble, not consumed by power or greed. How could someone who deserves the gift more than I…not be worthy enough in the eyes of the Gods.

“Mikhail?” He paused for a moment, took my hands and then gave me a hug. He smelled of rose oil and mint. “Thank you. I…” he stopped.

His whole body went limp in my arms. My heart pounding, I called his name, “Kwaniki?” he didn’t respond. I quickly laid him on his back and his eyes had gone completely white, mouth foaming with a deep crimson. “No, Kwaniki!”

I laid him on his back on the cobblestone path and began to shake him violently. “Kwaniki! Help! Mother! Father! Help me!”

The front door flew open and they came out in a hurry. “What is it, child?” My mother asked. My father was already by my side holding Kwaniki’s head, trying to give him breath.

“Kwaniki, he…he just started to…” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say anything.

“Bring him inside!” My father yelled. We picked him up and my mother made room on the table for us to place him. By then Kwaniki began to shake violently in a way I had never seen before.

“What is happening to him?” I asked.

“Judging by the blood in his mouth? I’d say he’d eaten something or had been poisoned.” My father said, grabbing a cloth to wipe Kwaniki’s face.

“But who would do that to him? He was fine only moments before!” I screamed.

My mother began to work on a healing tea. “I hope it’s not too late.”

“It can’t be too late Mother!”

“Son, you must help instead of screaming. If you wish to save the Anarii boy.” My father snapped at me.

Everything was moving in slow motion, no one was moving fast enough to save the love of my life. To save the one person I wanted more than anything.

“Has he taken anything? Any herbs or tea? Do you know anything?” My mother yelled. I went for my grimoire that I gave him and opened the page. She read the title on the page then down at the very bottom she read aloud. “Do not substitute any ingredients. Did you?”

I did.

“DID YOU?” She asked, furious.

“I—I don’t know!” I screamed. I did. I thought the monkshood would work instead of nightshade. They looked similar enough. “Monkshood.” I whispered.

They both stopped. They stared at me, hard as if they had no idea who I was. “You killed him. Hopefully it’s not too late.” My mother began mixing together ingredients for a tea that should help him.

I killed him. I, it was my fault.

My mother gave him an antidote and tried to summon her magic to heal him. But nothing seemed to be working. My heart was breaking with each second that passed.

Kwaniki’s body jerked once, then went still.

The air hung heavy with rosemary and smoke. My mother pressed her ear to his chest, her face draining of color. My father’s hands shook as he checked for breath that wouldn’t come.

“Mikhail,” she whispered. Her voice was barely more than the wind through reeds.

“No—no, he’s still here.” I pressed my palms against his still chest, trying to force my green healing light into him. The light flared, then sputtered out, whispering every healing prayer I knew, words slipping between sobs. The air stung my lungs. I cried, “He just needs more time. The potion—it was supposed to heal him.”

“Mikhail, stop.” My father’s voice cracked, deep and breaking. “You’ve done enough.”

I looked up at him, my hands still glowing faintly green from the herbs’ residue. “I can fix it. I can still—”

My father’s hand clamped down on my wrist, hard enough to bruise. His eyes were wet, but his tone was iron. “Stop. Look at him, Mikhail. Look at what your desperation has done.” He drew a ragged breath that sounded like grinding metal. “I can’t undo it. The poison you have given him has already taken his life.”

The words fell like stones into silence.

Outside, the forest had gone still—no whispers from the trees, no breath of wind. Only the faint echo of my name, carried by the pond, dissolving into the night.

I didn’t feel the tears until the soil beneath me darkened with them. Somewhere deep in the forest, a flower bloomed out of season, its petals the color of Kwaniki’s eyes. The forest did not forgive, and the gods did not answer.