Page 4 of Stolen Magic

The meager possessions I had managed to gather since my home had burned cluttered the small room, no more than a few paces across. My tiny abode was sparsely furnished—a table built from scavenged wood stood against one wall, surrounded by a couple of mismatched chairs that had seen better days. Various herbs hung from the ceiling, their silhouettes like specters in the dimness, drying for the potions and remedies that now provided my meager livelihood.

Their presence offered the only hint to my past—with the absence of the spellbooks and potions that had once occupiedthe home Mother had cultivated, my hovel did little to testify that a witch lived here…but even without the evidence of my powers, magic had not been forgotten.

In one cramped corner lay my small cooking area, a dented pot and an old pan sitting atop a crude hearth, along with stale, week-old bread that would comprise my breakfast along with any berries I gathered en route to the village. Ashes from last night’s fire lay scattered in the tiny hearth, cold and grey. I would need to gather more wood, a daily chore that at least offered a reason to step outside, away from the oppressive memories that this room held.

I quickly pulled on a worn dress that had been mended too many times, its patched fabric thinning. As I buttoned up the front, my fingers brushed against the seal on my hand, the raised skin a constant reminder of my current impotence. It tingled, as if mocking me with the magic that had once been mine, now trapped just beneath the surface, inaccessible and distant. Though I lived in poverty, my lack of money and basic necessities was nothing to my current lack of the power stolen from me.

I left the suffocating confines of my hovel, the cool morning air an instant relief to the choking mustiness of my dreary home. As the first rays of morning light filtered through the leafy canopy, I set about my daily preparations with a practiced efficiency born of necessity. A short distance away I’d constructed a makeshift workbench—little more than a plank of wood balanced on two stumps—where I organized my collection of dried herbs and vials I’d molded of clay from the nearby stream bank. Mother’s teachings echoed in my mind as I measured and mixed, crafting the salves and tinctures that had become my lifeline.

I started with a batch of healing salve, known in the village for its efficacy against cuts and burns. The base was simple—comprised solely of beeswax and olive oil—but the effectiveness lay in the blend of comfrey and calendula. Each stir felt like a whisper from the past, a reminder of days spent learning at Mother’s side, her hands guiding mine until I knew the motions by heart.

Next, I prepared a series of poultices for swelling and aches, mixing clay with arnica—a powerful herb for bruising, taught to me beneath the shade of our garden’s elder tree. The seal on my hand stretched uncomfortably as I worked, a dull reminder of the magic that once would have made these tasks not only easier, but far more potent.

Upon finishing, I packed the remedies in my worn satchel and rolled my sleeve up, smoothing a layer of concealing balm over the dark mark on my palm and wrist. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing that I’d been magically marked in a time when magic was illegal…not to mention it would likely drive away any customers.

Upon finishing, I donned my cloak and stepped onto the well-worn path leading from my isolated hovel to the village that resided half a kilometer away. The familiar route wound through the remnants of the forest that had once witnessed my life’s greatest tragedy.

In the solitude of nature I collected wild edibles—berries to eat as well as to use for tinctures, nuts to sell or barter, and mushrooms that fetched a good price at market. The deeper into the forest I ventured, the more valuable the herbs—such as ghost pipe and witch’s hair, rare and sought after by the few who knew their properties. Once I’d gathered my ingredients, I walked the remaining distance to the slowly waking village, arriving by mid-morning.

I passed the usual collection of small farms, wincing at the sight of the small, yellowing crops that struggled in the fields. The magic that had once made Myrona vibrant and fertile had been stripped away, leaving a land that suffered. It was a reliefto finally enter the village, even though evidence of magic’s loss was abundant here too—shabby homes that could not be repaired by the impoverished owners, a nearly dry well, a blighted flower garden in a futile attempt to add beauty.

Turning off of the main street to the village square, I found my fellow vendors busily setting up shop for the day. I welcomed the noise of normalcy, anything to drown out the lingering echoes of my nightmares, distant yet as present as my shadow. Here in the light of day I could pretend—at least for a moment—that I was just another villager rather than a witch whose very soul had been scorched by betrayal.

I was met with the usual stares—some merely curious, yet most hostile. I had a complicated relationship with the villagers. Those who remembered the daughter of the woman who had once healed their ills brought me their sick and wounded, while others who heeded the royal family’s warnings concerning magic kept their distance.

Their lack of acceptance had once bothered me, but in the years since Mother’s death I’d learned to accept both reactions with detached resignation. Interactions meant connections, and connections meant potential pain when they were inevitably severed. I had lost enough to know that solitude was a kinder, if lonelier, companion.

The market was just beginning to bustle with early shoppers looking for the best picks of the day. My meager stall sat along the outskirts—a table that was barely more than a few boards on crates—displaying my array of natural remedies beneath its simple, hand-painted sign:Lysandra’s Elixirs and Poultices. It wasn’t much, but it was one of the few things I had to my name.

I greeted each of the villagers who approached—some hesitant, others curious. “Good for what ails you.” I echoed Mother's old selling point, my voice steady even as my hand twitched involuntarily near the goods that served as a starkreminder of the power I once could have woven into each of these creations. Now, only her techniques and knowledge remained, forming a different kind of magic.

As the sun climbed higher and cast long shadows over the marketplace, I settled into the rhythm of the day—bartering, selling, surviving. Each coin should have been a hard-earned triumph despite the ashes of my past…yet regardless of these small victories, resentment burned beneath the surface, dulling any pleasure I might have felt. Lack and survival wasn’t how a witch was meant to live, while the swindlers who’d robbed our land of magic lived in opulence.

I fingered the few copper coins in my pouch as I watched people walk through the market, most moving past my booth without a second glance. They shone bright, evidence of their newness, but rather than lifting my spirits the shine was only another reminder of the past. I still remembered the tiny scale Mother always carried to market, and how customers would carefully weigh out sparkling magic to pay for their purchases. At the end of the day she would let me help her pour her proceeds into the jars in our cupboard.

Every trace of our modest fortune had been lost during the attack, and since that day the now-extinct magic had ceased to be currency, replaced by the metal coins that now clinked softly as I squeezed the pouch.

The uneventful day felt endless, each moment weighed down by the anger that filled my thoughts, the only thing keeping me sane amidst the grief that stirred my heart every time I witnessed little shows of affection between mothers and their children in the square, each reaction a sharp reminder of the nightmare that always lurked just beneath the surface. I even envied the small boy who stood nearby, shoulders slumped and head hanging as his mother rebuked him for tearing his new pants that were supposed to last him all summer. If only I stillhad someone to care when I wore holes in my long-since-faded dress.

By the time market ended I had only sold a handful of items, leaving me a few meager coins for my efforts—though hard-won through the trade of herbs and remedies, today’s income would barely afford me bread and other basic necessities. Even so, after packing up my remaining goods, the pull of an old, familiar habit steered my steps away from the path home towards the village square where the traveling library had set up.

The rows of books and scrolls laid out under a patchwork of faded canvas tents always sparked a mix of excitement and melancholy. Such places had once been treasure troves of knowledge where I could indulge my passion for magic and the mysteries of the arcane; now I approached the tables with a tempered hope, searching for anything related to my obsolete craft, particularly on curses or magical seals. The need to understand the seal branding my skin and reclaim the unreachable magic that thrummed dormant beneath my skin was a constant ache I could never stave.

I traced my fingers over the worn spines, the titles blurring until I stopped at a section veiled in dust—a forgotten corner overlooked by those who had purged our kingdom of its magic. My heart quickened as I scanned each title, searching for any volume that might have miraculously escaped destruction when Eldoria had invaded.

But as usual my efforts were in vain. The books that remained spoke of benign subjects—history, farming, and the like. Anything with the faintest hint of real power had been eradicated, magic itself now an outlawed art, spoken of only in hushed, fearful whispers.

Even so I lingered a while longer, my hand resting on a tome about the medicinal properties of common herbs—a poor substitute for the knowledge I truly needed. Disappointedlyempty-handed, I reluctantly turned to leave with nothing more than a loaf of bread, a square of goat cheese, and the same gnawing emptiness with which I had arrived.

Adjusting the satchel that held my unsold wares, I trudged past the other stalls, nodding at the elderly woman who baked rolls and occasionally had a kind word for me when most ignored me. I wove my way through the market that was being slowly dismantled for end of day, stepping off the path to avoid a coil of rope and nearly collided with a woman about my age who was folding a length of homespun linen.

Wide-eyed, she drew back at my hasty apology, her gaze dropping. The familiar sting of rejection tightened my chest, sharp and cold. I slowly backed away. As she turned to continue her work, she coughed—a low, hollow sound that racked her body, leaving her breathless.

At my hesitation, the woman cast a furtive glance over her shoulder; in her eyes I saw both fear and longing, rather than the contempt I was used to. Perhaps some people avoided my stall not because they hated me, but out of fear of being associated with any hint of magic in today’s political climate.

Before I could second guess myself, I reached inside my bag and pulled out a small jar. I’d spent hours hunting for an elusive wild cherry tree before carefully harvesting and boiling some of the bark and mixing it into a healing syrup. Giving away one of my more valuable medications for free meant quite possibly giving up future meals, yet I knew this woman’s coughing would haunt my dreams tonight if I did nothing.

I suddenly stilled when the word “Eldoria” snagged my attention from the neighboring stall, cutting through the hum of the crowd like a sharp blade. My breath caught as memories flooded back—of fire, loss, and the flag bearing the royal insignia fluttering amidst the ashes of chaos from that fateful day.

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