The next day, the Livanthos conservatory was a scene of controlled chaos. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, illuminating Talora's neatly laid-out potions ingredients and Shya's spellbooks, which were already surrounded by a scatter of charcoal sketches of wand movements.
"Okay, my turn!" Shya said, practically vibrating with impatience. She brandished her wand. "Watch this! Lumos!" A soft, silvery light, cool and focused, bloomed from the tip. She frowned. "It's so small. Why is it so small? The book makes it sound so easy." She gave her wand a little, frustrated flick, and the light sputtered out.
"You're rushing it, Bob," Talora said, her voice calm. She was carefully measuring a portion of dried nettles. "You did the spell once and you're already mad it's not perfect. You don't get a perfect braid on the first try either."
"That's different," Shya grumbled, but she knew Talora was right. With her art, she could be patient for hours. With this new, immediate power, she wanted mastery now.
"My turn," Talora said, setting down her measuring spoon. She took a deep, steadying breath, raised her wand, and said, "Lumos." A warm, golden light, steady and diffuse, filled the space around them. It wasn't a burst, but a gentle, sustained glow. "See? It's not about power. It's about… consistency. Like letting a sauce simmer."
Shya watched, her analytical mind latching onto the analogy. "Okay. Okay, consistency." She took a breath, mimicking Talora's calm posture. "Lumos." This time, the silvery light was brighter, steadier. Not huge, but stronger.
A wide, genuine grin spread across Shya's face. "It worked!"
"Told you," Talora said smugly. "Now, help me with this. The book says 'stir firmly' for the Herbicide. What does that even mean? Is that one firm stir? Or a whole minute of firm stirring?" She looked at the cauldron with the frustration of a baker following a vague recipe.
Shya, whose impatience vanished when presented with a tangible problem to solve, peered at the instructions. "It's the motion, not the duration. Look." She grabbed a spare spoon and demonstrated in the air. "A firm, confident clockwise circle. No hesitation. If you hesitate, it's not firm."
Talora watched, then mimicked the motion. "Oh! Like when you knead dough. Okay, I can do that." She began to stir the potion with a new, confident rhythm. As she did, the murky liquid began to clarify, shifting into a clear, vibrant green.
"It's working!" Talora exclaimed, her methodical focus paying off.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in a perfect, complementary loop. Talora's calm guidance helped Shya temper her magical impulsiveness. Shya's sharp, decisive problem-solving helped Talora navigate the ambiguities of potion-making. Shya's Lumos grew steadier; Talora's potion grew more perfect.
As the sun set, they looked at their joint successes—the stable, blended light still hanging in the air, the vial of perfect Herbicide.
"See?" Talora said, bumping Shaya's shoulder with her own. "You just needed to slow down."
"And you just needed to be more decisive," Shya shot back, but she was smiling. Alone together, they weren't the polished duo the world saw. They were a messy, brilliant, perfectly balanced team. One rushed ahead, the other anchored them. One planned the steps, the other took the leap. And their magic was all the stronger for it.