Professor Eiowillyn was sore at me today, because my potion was able to cure the aurochs of cloverbloat and Valyon's wasn't. She said I had relied too much on luck to ensure my balances were correct and that Valyon's reagents had wilted in the summer heat, but I know the real reason she's mad is because her prized student isn't as good as the human. The Alfar seem to have wielded magic since always, and humans have had to make do otherwise - but every day I fell stronger and stronger. The Alfar know I'm not the only human that can use magic to this degree, and they know it. They're afraid that they're going to lose the only thing that's kept them lording over us for decades, and Professor Eiowillyn thinks that I'm the face of the coming change. She's afraid of me. She should be. When I was less than two-and-five I burned my family's woodshed to the ground with a thought. Some of her students had to train for years before they could make as much as a cinder. And even though I'm good at it, I'm not going to spend my life studying potioncraft and writing tomes. The heat from that fire still warms my hand. It's a comfort. The only one I still have left.