Page 3 of Stolen Magic

The cottage had been ransacked, every spellbook and magical instrument either taken or destroyed, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The jars that had held our treasured magic were shattered on the floor, every trace of the shimmering power gone. I stepped over the debris, heart pounding in fear. “Mother?” No answer, save the echo of my trembling voice.

I stumbled through the broken doorway into the remnants of our once vibrant garden, the colors now dulled by smoke and ruin. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over what remained of our cottage. Smoke rose in thin wisps from the embers, and the scent of charred wood lingered in the air. My feet barely felt the earth beneath them as I moved, drawn by intuition and the soft whispers of magic my awakened powers could now hear.

Beneath the twisted bough of our once-flourishing willow tree amidst the charred remains of our beloved herbs lay Mother—my dearest friend, mentor, and anchor in every storm. Her face was eerily peaceful amidst the chaos, her eyes closed as if in sleep. She looked almost as if she was merely resting, but thestillness of death was unmistakable. My heart constricted, pain lancing through me sharper than any blade.

The sight of her still and utterly devoid of the vibrant life she’d always radiated tore a scream from the depths of my soul.

I fell to my knees beside her, shaking as I reached out a trembling hand to touch her face, half-expecting her to wake and pull me into her arms, reassuring me that the surrounding destruction was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare. I clutched her hand that mere hours before had guided mine in weaving magic, now limp and lifeless in my desperate grasp. Her skin was cold, devoid of her comforting warmth.

As my fingers brushed her cheek, a chilling jolt crawled across my skin, accompanied by a searing pain that made me gasp. Horrified, I watched as it twisted into a black, inky stain on the palm of my hand, seeming to pulse with a life of its own. Even with my limited magical knowledge, I recognized it as the mark of a curse.

I instinctively tried to summon the magic that had only just begun to awaken within me, desperate for anything that might undo this curse or restore Mother. Spells tumbled from my lips…but the magic that had willingly danced at my command before now recoiled at my touch. The mark on my hand throbbed painfully, a stark barrier that blocked the flow of power, rendering my efforts futile.

The weight of my loss crushed me as I cradled Mother’s cold hand in mine, magnified by the loss of the magic that had only just begun to whisper within me—our bond, our heritage. Not only had I lost my guide and protector, but in that same cruel moment the gift she had nurtured in me had been locked far beyond my reach.

My grief surged, morphing into a raging inferno, fierce and uncontrollable. It ignited the last of the dormant magic, a final spark that the curse hadn’t yet been able to seal away.

The air crackled with what would likely be my final spell, heavy with anguish and fury as the raw, untamed power responded to the tempest of my emotions. The dry leaves and brittle twigs caught fire, and from the garden the flames spreading hungrily, fueled by the raging torrent. The flames danced and twisted around us, consuming everything they touched, an unstoppable force that mirrored the scorched remains of my broken heart.

As the fire grew, so did the harsh truth I didn’t want to acknowledge—the world I knew was gone, seized by the same ruthless hands that had stolen Mother from me. The flames devoured the last remnants of my past, leaving only the charred promise of retribution in their wake.

The blaze cast an eerie glow on the tears streaking my dirt-stained face as I slowly stood. Each flickering flame steeled my resolve, the heat fusing my sorrow with fierce determination that hardened around my heart. I would not let Mother’s death be in vain, nor would I let the destruction that had descended upon us go unchallenged.

The last thing that burned was a golden flag bearing the royal insignia of the neighboring kingdom of Eldoria, left behind like a calling card meant to taunt me with the knowledge of those undoubtedly responsible for the devastation that had shattered my world forever.

Hatred—hotter and more fierce than any emotion I’d ever experienced—seared through my veins. My magic was gone, sealed within the curse branding my hand, with Mother’s teachings reduced to mere echoes that seemed to mock me now as even the simplest spell was out of my reach. Standing within the sanctuary offered by the descending shadows with my heart hollowed out by my loss, I made a vow: I would not only reclaim my magic, but I would avenge her.

“I will find them,” I whispered into the silent dusk, my broken voice a promise. “I will take back what was stolen…and I will make them pay if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

I turned away from the smoldered remains of my home, it and the garden now a pyre to her memory. The weight of my vow anchored me to a path from which there could be no return. The flames of vengeance burned brighter with every step I took away from the ashes of my past.

Eldoria would pay for what they had taken from me.

CHAPTER 2

Iwoke with a start, my heart racing as the last tendrils of my nightmare clung stubbornly to my consciousness—the flames, the screams, my mother's lifeless eyes—all burned behind my lids, vivid and relentless. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the images to dissolve back into the darkness, but they persisted, adding new details that haunted me with their clarity.

The suffocating blackness beneath the trapdoor where Mother had hidden me, being forced to listen to the sounds of the struggle that took place while imprisoned within my powerlessness to stop it, the destruction that awaited me when I emerged…and worst of all the sight of Mother’s corpse in the ransacked garden that had once been filled with magical herbs.

I took several steadying breaths, struggling to emerge from the familiar prison of horror and regret. Even with years of practice, it still took several minutes each morning to unravel the entangling threads binding me. A nightmare, only a nightmare…yet one born from a memory that had tainted me ever since its occurrence.

With painstaking effort rendered from years of practice, I managed to suppress it, locking it away in a secluded sectionof my subconscious where I knew it would only remain until tonight. The images slowly faded…save the vision of the amber flames that burst to life at my command, accompanied by the usual burning vengeance that threatened to ignite the spark of power that still existed deep within me.

On cue, the seal blocking my magic seared, immediately extinguishing it like a snuffed-out candle. I winced at the sharp, throbbing pain that over the years had become another extension of myself and glared at the inky symbol branding my palm.

It was a miserable reminder not only of what had happened to me, but to the whole kingdom of Myrona. My loss had not been the only one; I later learned that the Eldorian army—guided by several powerful mages—had swept across our land, stealing all magic and exterminating any mages who dared to resist. Every several months, the Eldorians made a reappearance and occasionally arrested a magic user in hiding or confiscated a cache of magic, but I was apparently no threat with my sealed power, or perhaps my shabby home was too far from civilization to come to their notice. I grimaced and squeezed my hand into a fist, concealing the heart of the cursed mark.

The eerie design manifested as a twine of thorny bramble that dug deep into my skin. When it had first appeared it had been nothing more than dark, vein-like markings that crept across my hand, but over the years of stubbornly fighting against the curse that cut off access to my powers, each failed attempt to use them had caused it to grow, until its inky markings now extended partway up my arm.

Whenever I attempted a spell, the pain ranged from a dull ache to sharp stabs, each a constant reminder of my loss. Time hadn’t lessened my despair at being cut off from a part of myself I’d only just begun to explore before it was cruelly snatched away.

I released a frustrated sigh and forced myself to sit up, knowing that the longer I lingered within the nightmare’s reach the more it would haunt my waking hours. The memory revisited me every night without fail, yet I never grew used to its sinister presence, as prevalent as hunger’s assaulting hold.

With an exhausted groan, I threw off my thin, patchy blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the rickety bed. The floorboards were cold beneath my feet, a reminder of the stark reality that awaited me beyond the realm of dreams. On the crude wooden shelf beside my bed lay a cracked mirror, the only remnant of the life before my loss where such things had been commonplace and not luxuries.

I didn’t dare light a candle—wax was expensive, while daylight was free. I glanced into the mirror, barely making out my features in the faint, pre-dawn light, my face resembling Mother’s more with each passing day…save for the shadows beneath my eyes, a testament to ten years of endless nights frequently interrupted by horrors of the past.

The rough, hewn wood making up the thin walls did little to keep out the chill or the damp. A single window with curtains patched with fabric from a worn-out dress let in only the faintest light, offering a view of the equally bleak surrounding woods where I lived.

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