Chapter 15
The strongest roots grow in silence. Power beneath the surface is the hardest to uproot.
—Botanical Studies and Applied Herbology, Vol. II
The path to the Blue Dahlia Commons is slick with fallen leaves—amber, rust, and crimson—all damp from last night’s rain. October has settled over Whittaker like a second skin, the air heavy with the scent of moss and woodsmoke.
It’s Sunday, and my squadmates are draped across the common room furniture, bickering over how best to spend our day off.
Sawyer wants to head to the Cavern hot springs.
Ian tells us that some second-years are having a barbecue at the Silver Fern Commons.
Nate suggests a study group after reminding everyone of tomorrow’s History exam.
Rozsen flicks a single glance at me. “Why bother? Celeste already said we could use her notes. And she’s already figured out what the three essay questions will be, based on Professor Straits’s hints in class.”
“Cel, have I told you how much we love that you’re in our squad?” comes Ian’s teasing voice.
I laugh, moving my feet off the coffee table where I’m sprawled next to Rozsen. “And here I thought you just kept me around for my sparkling personality.”
The rest of the group goes back to arguing about whose ideas are better. Only Amelia is quiet, methodically collecting her gardening tools.
“Heading somewhere?” I ask.
She glances up, surprised I’ve noticed her, then nods and gestures to the tools bundled in her arms. “The frostbloom thistle are blooming. They have to be harvested before winter, or else they lose potency.”
“Can I come?” I ask, intrigued. I’ve never heard of frostbloom thistle—it’s certainly not something that grows in Virginia.
She shrugs, then turns toward the door. I take it as a yes.
We walk in companionable silence. Amelia’s soft brown hair is tied in a ponytail, though loose strands keep slipping free, which she keeps tucking behind her ears.
Her gaze remains mostly downward, scanning the path like she might discover a rare root or seed tucked between the stones.
She moves with the hesitancy of someone used to being overlooked—but there is a quiet strength in her.
A grounding, as if she is a part of the earth she communes with.
To the south, past the sandstone path that veers toward the central quad, the low stone wall of Garden Grove comes into view, ivy spilling over its edge like an invitation.
We step through an arch of twisted iron, where vines bloom pale lavender and mint green.
The air shifts immediately—thicker, fragrant with damp soil and crushed basil.
Rows of raised beds stretch before us, the soil dark and rich.
Leafy greens shiver in the breeze, while luminous stalks of flowered herbs bend gently under the weight of their blooms. Small fruit trees, their trunks pale and knotted, frame the edges of the garden, casting dappled shadows across the walkways.
Vines curl thickly along trellises and latticed alcoves, creating shaded spaces—one currently occupied by a pair of students entangled in a kiss. Amelia averts her eyes quickly, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
Thin stone aqueducts no wider than a hand run through the space, carrying cool water from unseen sources.
The channels split and rejoin in meandering paths, quietly irrigating the garden.
The sound of trickling water echoes softly in the background, a calming pulse.
The entire space breathes—ancient and alive.
A cluster of students kneel near a bed of silver sage, their fingers nimble and careful. Near one corner of the grove sits a large greenhouse, its glass fogged and softly glowing from within. Inside, figures move like shadows tending to rarer, more delicate flora.
“This place is amazing,” I murmur, mostly to myself. It’s wild and cultivated all at once—chaotic, yet harmonious.
At the heart of the grove lies a square training courtyard, its soft sand pale and fine.
The earth has been tamped down over the years by generations of feet.
It feels like standing inside the memory of something sacred.
A place of stillness and strength. The earth waits here. It doesn’t yield. It endures.
We pass through the courtyard, and Amelia leads us to a shaded corner beneath a copse of black adder trees. Nestled at their base is a patch of pale blue-violet thistle, the edges of their petals rimmed with a silvery sheen—frostbloom thistle.
“What do you use this for?” I ask, crouching beside her.
“It’s used in heat resistance potions,” Amelia replies, snipping stems just below the bloom and gently placing them into a cloth-lined basket.
“But it can also be combined with silver bark and shadowmint to dull pain and slow bleeding.” She glances up at me.
“It’s also used to amplify magick—especially freezing spells. ”
“Really? How can a plant do that?” My curiosity flares—part fascination, part potioneer’s instinct.
“The wielder has to ingest it in powdered form,” she says, returning to her work.
I drop to my knees beside her and follow her lead. She guides me with a soft word here, a quick glance there. We fall into a rhythm, surrounded by the whisper of leaves and the distant babble of water.
The afternoon passes just like that—in the hush of growing things, and the quiet company of someone who understands the strength of silence.