Page 60 of Stolen Magic

A warmth pulsed in my chest as I watched, drawn inexplicably with the slow certainty of recognition. And then I saw it—a charm glinted at her throat, catching the fading afternoon light—a fleur-de-lis, hand carved, uneven at the edges, imperfect in its symmetry. Something in me jolted.

The scent of fresh shavings. The scrape of a blade against wood. My hands, steady with purpose, carving the shape in secret, hoping it might bring her a smile. The thrill when her eyes lit with wonder as I placed it in her palm. The memory hit like a stone skipping across water, vivid yet fleeting.

At the sound of my gasp, she looked up, startled. Something fractured in the space between us as our eyes met. I didn’t recognize her…yet somehow I knew her all the same. A sense of rightness settled over me that I couldn’t explain. For a long moment I could only stare, my mind frantically scrambling to hold on to whatever flicker her presence had stirred—but it was like trying to cling to mist.

“Have we met?” The question escaped before I could stop it.

Her expression faltered, just for a heartbeat, before she dipped into a curtsy with practiced grace. “No, Your Highness.”

I frowned. Though the formal address was expected from one of her station, something about it felt wrong—too distant. I had the absurd impulse to ask her to call meCallan—an entirely inappropriate request for a servant. Where had such a notion even come from?

My gaze dropped to the planter she’d been tending. I stepped closer in recognition. “Flamecapandwishvine. Are you interested in magic?”

She hesitated before offering a tentative nod. “I’m apprenticed to one of Eldoria’s royal mages. The Princess was kind enough to arrange the position.”

Her possession of magic stirred something within me, a recollection I couldn’t identify. I stepped closer without meaningto, drawn by a strange curiosity I hadn’t felt during my failed conversations with my fiancée. “That is quite impressive,” I said sincerely. “Magic is a nearly extinct skill that will bring value to our court.”

She modestly lowered her gaze. “Yes, but it is only secondary to my position of serving as the princess’s handmaiden, though I don’t deserve the honor; Princess Gwendolyn is a woman of goodness, compassion, and forgiveness.” There was weight in the way she said it—a heaviness that didn’t belong to the words but to what they carried underneath.

I studied her. Though she tried to avoid my gaze, she kept glancing up in quick, furtive looks; each time our eyes met, she would blush and hastily look away. An emotion filled her eyes I couldn’t quite name—a mixture of sadness, longing, and hidden strength, buried so deeply I wasn’t sure even she could reach it anymore.

The more I looked at her, the stronger the strange familiarity became. “I feel as if I know you,” I said, unsure whether I was trying to convince her or myself. “I could swear I?—”

“I believe you're mistaken,” she interrupted. “There are many servants you might be confusing me with, my prince.”

My prince. The phrase rang oddly, spoken both like a farewell and a plea to stay a little longer. Obedient to her unspoken desire and my own subconscious wish, I lingered. The moment stretched, suspended in something I didn’t understand but didn’t want to end.

“May I ask your name?” I asked softly.

She hesitated, then bowed her head. “Lysa.”

The name struck something deep inside me, like the echo of a half-remembered dream, one I hadn’t realized I’d been chasing until now.Lysa.

“You…truly remind me of someone,” I murmured.

Her eyes shimmered, but she only smiled—small, polite, and unbearably sad. “It’s best not to dwell on ghosts, Your Highness. Some memories are lost for a reason.”

I stared at her, chilled by the quiet certainty of her words. But before I could ask anything more, a voice called softly from the corridor behind me.

“Callan?”

I turned. Gwendolyn stood just beyond the archway, half-shadowed by the stone pillar, watching us. Though her expression was composed, her hands were clenched tightly at her sides.

I staggered back in surprise. “Gwendolyn!” My cheeks burned, though I had no reason to feel guilty—yet I felt as if I’d been caught in a lie, doing something I shouldn’t. There had been nothing inappropriate about speaking with a servant…so why did it feel like betrayal?

Lysa dipped into a quick curtsy, head bowed in deference. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness.”

Before I could stop her, she brushed past me, her skirt whispering against the stone floor as she disappeared down the corridor—like a memory slipping through my fingers once again.

I stood rooted to the spot, heart pounding. I didn’t know who she was, but I knew what I felt hadn’t been a ghost…and I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Gwendolyn stepped forward, the sunlight highlighting her refined beauty and dignity of her bearing in a manner that should have captured my attention. But I barely noticed, my thoughts still caught in the wake Lysa had left behind.

“She’s my new handmaiden.” Her tone was measured, but something in it wavered. “Lysa.”

I nodded absently, her name still echoing inside me like a half-remembered song. “She seemed familiar.”

“She shouldn’t.” The reply came too quickly. “She only arrived recently.” Her voice dropped, just low enough that I wasn’t sure I was meant to hear what came next. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let her stay after all.”

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