The skies were hushed the night as the child was born as if the stars themselves delighted by her birth.
The wind stilled, and the moon seemed unnaturally large, casting silver light through the open windows of a modest merchant home nestled within the outskirts of Okstin.
The midwife gasped as the child cried for the first time as she said, "A beautiful girl."
Mother Sertu, sweat-drenched and breathless, blinked open heavy eyelids. Her vivid red hair clung to her pale cheeks, matted with the strain of labor.
She turned her head toward the sound of her daughter's cry, her gaze unfocused but full of instinctive love.
"Let me see her," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
The midwife hurried over, kneeling by her side and gently placing the newborn into her arms.
And in that quiet moment, the world faded.
Her mother's lips trembled as she looked down. "Clara…" she murmured.
Clara blink up at her and a tiny hand reached out, gasping her mother's finger.
"You're perfect," Mirea whispered, a tear slipping down her temple.
The warmth in her voice lingered for one fragile second.
Then her face grew still.
"Rina!" the midwife asked, leaning in closer. "Rina!"
No response.
Outside, the wind began to stir again, but softly, mournfully, as if nature itself had drawn in a breath to grieve.
Her father, Roy Sertu burst through the door, his coat half-buttoned, boots muddy with late-night errands. "Is it done? Is—"
He froze.
The midwife stood slowly, cradling Clara again, her eyes glassy.
She whispered,"She gave everything. Even her final strength… to bring this child into the world."
Roy eyes snapped to the lifeless form on the bed.
"No. No, no, she—Rina! Come back! Please, come back... I'm not ready…" He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside her, gripping her hand, shaking it.
But Rina had already left—her last breath carried on the hush of the moonlit wind.
Roy turned slowly to the baby in the midwife's arms. The glow around Clara pulsed faintly. Her eyes opened once more and met his.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
Just stared—at the impossible mana that curled like flame around her skin, and the body of his wife who'd paid the price to bring her into the world.
From that moment on, something silent and sharp began growing in him.
A grief that turned to fear.
A quiet meadow behind their home in Okstin. The sun filters through the trees. Clara, just three, is giggling and toddling after her five-year-old brother, Rey. Her red hair glows in the light. Her mana hums faintly in the air like heat above stone.
"Clara, do the shiny spark again! The one that makes the colors!" He said while bouncing in his heels.
Clara's cheeks flushed with pride, her eyes wide with delight. She chirped, clapping her small hands together "Okay! Shiny spark!"
She focused hard—tiny lips pursed, brow furrowed. A soft pop filled the air, and in an instant, red and gold lights bloomed from her palms, swirling like fireflies. Linel's mouth dropped open, then he clapped wildly.
"That's so cool! More! More! Make it bigger!" He shouted, spinning in circles.
Clara blinked. She glanced down at her hands, still glowing faintly.
She whispered to herself, a little thrill rushing through her chest, "Bigger. Yes… BIG shiny!"
Mana churned beneath her skin. She stretched her fingers forward, copying what she'd seen in Mama's old spellbooks. The air buzzed. Runes—messy and uneven—glowed as they hovered before her.
Then came the heat.
Too fast.
Too much.
WHOOSH!
A blast of flame erupted from her hands, wild and roaring like a sudden wind. It caught her off guard—no time to pull it back.
Rey shrieked and screamed, "AHHH! HOT! CLARA!"
He stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror as the sphere of flame exploded from Clara's hands. It struck him full, in his whole body. The fire surged, violent and all-consuming, wrapping him in a torrent of heat.
Flames clung to his clothes, devouring the fabric in seconds. His small frame dropped to the ground as he thrashed, rolling desperately in the grass, but it didn't stop the fire—not at first. Smoke rose in thick, choking plumes as the grass sizzled beneath him. His skin turned red, then angry and blistered, and the fire continued to scorch across his chest, arms, legs—merciless.
Clara stood paralyzed.
She didn't know how to dispel it, not yet.
Roy Sertu had been in the nearby shed, sorting crates of dried herbs for market, when he heard the scream. Not just any scream—Rey's.
He burst into the meadow, instincts sharper than thought, and saw his son on the ground, writhing, the edge of his shirt ablaze.
"Roy!" he bellowed, voice ragged with panic.
With a swift wave of his arm, Elric unleashed a rare burst of water magic—unrefined, but enough to snuff out the fire before it devoured his son's side completely. The air filled with smoke, and the acrid scent of burned cloth and skin lingered long after the fire vanished.
And then… he looked at Clara.
She stood frozen, barely breathing, her hands still faintly glowing. Her violet eyes met his—and what she saw wasn't anger.
It was fear. And disappointment. And something colder than anything she'd ever known.
She'd never seen her father look at her like that.
Something inside her cracked.
"Get inside, now!." Roy muttered. His voice was tight.
She obeyed without a word.
Clara sat on the floor of the hallway while the priests arrived. She heard shouting—her father's voice rising in panic, then crumbling into desperate pleading. Rey was carried in, his left arm and chest covered in burns. The village priests stared in horror when they learned what had happened, and who had caused it.
"She's only three, And she did that." Roy had said, his voice hoarse.
The priests came expecting to heal a boy. They did not expect to meet a child who felt more like a conduit to the divine than a girl who barely reached their waist.
They didn't answer him.
Days passed. Then weeks.
One night, her father stood in her doorway. He didn't knock. He didn't sit.
"You nearly killed him," he said flatly.
Clara looked up at him, tears already rolling down her cheeks. "I didn't mean to, Papa. I wanted to show him magic. I thought I could—"
"You thought," he snapped. "You thought, just like your mother did. Always chasing power she didn't understand. And now she's dead."
Clara blinked in confusion. "Mama died… because of me?"
Roy looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time.
He said, "She died bringing you into this world. That cursed mana tore her apart before she even had a chance to hold you."
Clara said nothing. She couldn't speak. Her breath came in shaky gasps, her mind trying to make sense of words too heavy for a child to hold.
His voice dropped into a whisper—calm, but cruel. "You've taken enough from this family."
He left.
spent nearly all their savings on Rey's healing.
Five priests worked in shifts. Holy salves. Divine power. Painweaving.
His recovery stretched over six long months. When it was done, Rey could walk again, but the left side of his face bore a scar that no priest could erase. A long burn streak from brow to jaw—a memory carved into flesh.
The first time Clara saw him, he wouldn't even speak.
She tried. She wanted to say sorry. She wanted to cry in his arms like she used to when the world felt scary and small. But now, she was the scary thing.
He avoided her.
Flinched at her voice.
Wouldn't meet her eyes.
And the look in his face each time they crossed paths—it wasn't just hurt.
It was fear.
So Clara stopped trying.
She closed the door to her room. She piled her toys against it, set her books by the bed, and only left when she had to. She even ate in silence, letting the maids leave food at the door.
She tried to cast her magic again.
Just once. To see if it would still answer.
Nothing came.
No fire. Like her body remembered what her heart could not forget.
She can no longer cast a spell.