Page 13 of Stolen Magic

Prince Callan’s now-familiar script flowed across the page:Dearest Gwendolyn, Your words have touched me deeply, and I appreciate your desire for openness and understanding between us. It is a sentiment I share wholeheartedly.

I braced myself for platitudes and the diplomatic niceties that cloaked more than they revealed, yet as I continued reading, the content took a turn that caught me off guard.

Regarding the historical grievances you mentioned, it is a history that weighs heavily on my heart as well. The tales of lost magic and ancient disputes are not just political lore but personal tragedies that affected many, my family included, a testament to the mistakes made by those who wielded power without foresight.

His words resonating with surprising sincerity gave me pause, a hint of genuine regret and personal pain that seemed too real to dismiss as mere political maneuvering.

I have dedicated much of my rule to rectifying these past wrongs, seeking out truth and reconciliation where there was once secrecy and conflict. If we are to build a future together, it must be on a foundation of truth. Therefore, I invite you—once you are here—to access the royal archives with me in order to learn about our shared history. It is my hope that by confronting these issues together, we can ensure they are never repeated.

A chill rippled over me as I lowered the letter. His unexpected proposal was both disarmingly straightforward and dangerously clever, suggesting transparency by inviting me into the heart of Eldorian power—the very archives I had only dreamed of accessing.

For a moment, a flicker of doubt whispered through me. Was it possible Prince Callan was not the enemy I had envisioned but a ruler caught in the same currents of history as my own horrific past?

I didn’t dwell on this possibility long before a sharper, more strategic part of my mind reasserted itself: the guise of researching together put him firmly in control over what narrative I discovered. Such openness could very well be a more refined strategy, a way to lure me into underestimating him. I had no intention of falling prey to his scheme.

Even if Prince Callan was indeed sincere, the offer still made him a far more dangerous opponent than one who simply played at politics. In extending his hand, he set a stage with its own set of traps and revelations where the play of his choosing could unfold.

My mind raced as I refolded the letter. “Quite the formidable foe,” I murmured to the empty room. This wasn’t just a diplomatic letter between fiancés; it was another chess move in this elaborate game of ours, one that required consideration and an even more carefully crafted response.

As I prepared to draft a reply, I knew I had to tread with greater caution than ever. The upcoming interactions with the enemy prince would not just be about wearing the princess’s crown, but about navigating a maze created by a man who could prove to be both an unexpected ally and a dangerous adversary.

Our exchange of moves and countermoves continued in the weeks of preparation that followed. I did my best to gather intel from listening and prying it from my conversations with the princess, but details were sparse, leaving me almost wholly reliant on whatever Prince Callan shared…putting him in complete control over my knowledge.

The game had indeed changed, yet for whatever lay ahead, I was determined to find a way to be its master player.

CHAPTER 6

In the deep, shadowed hours of the night, I found myself pacing the confines of my dimly lit room in the inn we were staying in just past the Eldorian border. The air was thick with the heavy aroma of herbs, the components for the spell I’d been planning for weeks, one of such profound consequence that it made my heart weigh heavily in my chest.

This simple potion was designed to erase memory so I could strip Princess Gwendolyn of her identity long enough for me to replace her without contest. Turning my restless feet towards the table, I lifted the stone pestle that felt heavier than usual. The rhythmic grinding of the herbs in my mortar and pestle echoed my pounding heart, turmoil I fought and failed to ignore.

“Is this who I’ve become?” My whispered question hung in the air, unanswered. The justifications were there, lined up ready in my mind for my review—this was for both myself and my mother, for the justice so long denied to us, not to mention everyone this corrupt family had oppressed. Why then did hesitation threaten to consume me?

I fought against my conscience’s valiant efforts to dissuade me by focusing on the hatred that had been my constant companion…along with the painful memories of the raid, thefire, years of crippling poverty, and most of all Mother’s lifeless eyes. These remembrances stoked my need for revenge, effectively locking my conscience away where it couldn’t interfere.

I poured the ground herbs into a boiling cauldron, watching as the mixture turned a dark, ominous shade. I pushed through the throbbing pain spreading from the seal branding my hand as I mixed the brewing concoction, each stir bringing forth memories of the girl I had once been—curious and bright, with dreams not of revenge but of wonder. How far I had strayed from that path, yet the allure of magic and vengeance was too fixed in my being for me to turn back now.

Even so, my hand still trembled as I reached for the teacup that would hold this brew of forgetfulness. The gravity of this irreversible choice grew with each second that ticked by—the power to erase a part of someone’s soul was monstrous, yet I could see no other path to obtaining what I desperately wanted.

“Can justice truly be built on the ruins of another’s life?” I found myself speaking aloud, as if filling the silence with my doubts might lessen their weight. Myst raised her head at the sound of my voice, her soft body curled up on the table beside my ingredients; I stared into her calm grey eyes, wishing she would offer approval or disapproval as I wrestled with my choice. But she lay silently, watching with an impassive expression absent of judgment, leaving the choice entirely within my trembling hands.

Princess Gwendolyn had never wronged me; she was but a pawn in a game she didn’t realize she was playing. Her innocence almost made it easier to move forward—while the fate I’d determined for her was cruel and unjust, it was almost a mercy compared to the life that would be forced upon her in the wicked Eldorian court where the royal family would eat her alive. She deserved far better.

How ironic that she would be condemned through a rare single ounce of compassion lingering in my heart, far more scarce than magic had become in our land.

My hand shook as I reached for the jar containing the last ingredient, causing another wave of searing pain to slowly spread up my arm from the magic seal. I gasped sharply as my knife slipped from my grip, clattering to the table, and I lifted my hand to the light. The dark seal pulsed with a malevolent glow, its edges creeping farther than before, as though it were slowly consuming my skin. Each use of magic fed it, a silent exchange that deepened the curse’s grip on me.

I wrapped a cloth around my wrist to muffle the throbbing that extended up to my elbow. Gritting my teeth, I forced my focus away from the lingering discomfort back to the task at hand—precision was crucial if the magic was to succeed…and unlike my younger self who could try over and over beneath a mother’s loving guidance, I needed to get this right on the first attempt.

Though I had poured every spare moment into mastering the spell, the cursed seal branding my skin and my own inexperience made its execution precarious. Carefully, I pushed against the force restraining my magic, probing for weak points in the invisible barrier. Over the years, I’d gradually chipped away at these tiny falters, coaxing them wider, enough to let a thread of power slip through. It took hours to gather even the smallest usable amount, but it was enough for my purposes, enhanced with a trace of the magic I wore around my neck in the pouch.

Only one ingredient remained, and then the spell would be complete. Hesitation once more momentary trapped me before I pushed past it and painstakingly added four petals from an azalea flower. A cloud of smoke emanated from the potion, fading to reveal a brown, tea-like liquid imbued with hues ofviolet; the liquid shimmered like a captured star, beautiful and dangerous.

I placed it on the table and stepped back, as if the distance could separate me from what I’d just created. My cat familiar turned her head to track my movements, her gaze intense as she waited to see which course I chose.

Throughout my preparations, the princess slept soundly in the adjoining room we shared, oblivious to the spell I was concocting. I’d expended great effort to mask my intentions from her while slowly gathering the herbs I needed every spare moment from the time of my employment—some had been found in the palace gardens, others located in the nearby woods, while others had been salvaged throughout our journey whenever the carriage stopped to allow us a chance to stretch our legs.

My careful efforts allowed me to complete my preparations by our first night after we crossed the Eldorian border, the perfect moment to implement the plan. I’d been deliberate in my timetable, ensuring the usurpation occurred after we were outside the protection of Princess Gwendolyn’s faithful guards; aside from their loyalty, they were too familiar with the princess not to detect our switch.

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