By the time I turned seven, the windmill in our backyard had grown three times in size and gained a weathervane shaped like a chubby bird—Leo's idea, of course. It now powered two mana batteries, one buried discreetly in the back garden and the other hidden beneath our chicken coop. Don't ask why. Leo insisted.
The batteries themselves were simple things. Mana crystals encased in carefully etched granite shells, shaped like thick jars. I had discovered that granite, while not a perfect conductor, was dense enough to contain mana without significant leakage and durable enough to survive the occasional accidental kick. It quickly became my standard.
I called them Mana Cells, and by the time I was eight, we had nine of them scattered through our home like enchanted paperweights.
My mother's kitchen was fully rune-powered. The stove, the oven, even a magically chilled cabinet for milk. Mira's family received a water pump and a light crystal that flickered gently when touched. Leo demanded a heated rock in his bed for winter, then bragged about it to every child in a three-house radius.
I didn't charge for any of it.
Not because I didn't value my work—though the idea of charging for something so fun felt weird—but because every time someone thanked me, I felt something warm and heavy settle in my chest. Like I was giving something back, even if this world had never asked me to.
Like I was building something... real.
The experiments continued daily. My dress hems were perpetually scorched, my nails blackened with ink and crystal dust. Mira kept trying to keep me clean. Leo tried to help and usually ended up breaking something. Together, we were chaos with a workbench.
I tested different types of stone: marble (too porous), shale (crumbled), obsidian (too brittle), basalt (promising but rare). Granite stayed queen.
I tried layering the runes inside rather than outside—mixed results. I tried compressing crystal dust into the granite shells—unstable, but explosive in the fun kind of way. I even tried using tree resin as a binder between core and shell, which resulted in a loud pop, a lot of smoke, and me finding soot in places no soot had any business being.
"Your hair smells like a fireplace," Mira said, braiding ribbons into it.
"That's because I invented one. Accidentally."
Leo nearly fell off his perch laughing.
Still, every failure taught me more. Every tweak made the next battery better.
Soon I was balancing input vectors, flow rate control, pressure resistance, and discharge protocols with the casual ease of someone twice my age—and, well, that tracks, doesn't it?
In this life, I was still a little girl.
But in truth, I was older than anyone suspected.
By nine, our house was a marvel of rural technomancy. We had heated floors (well, one room), self-filling water basins, a mana-powered laundry spinner (which Leo tried to ride and nearly concussed himself), and even a simple light-switch system using touch-activated runes.
"You're going to ruin her," the village elder said to my mother one day, thinking I was asleep nearby.
"She's just a child," Mama replied. "Let her be one."
"She's not just anything. You know what she's building. If the wrong person hears—"
"They won't. We're careful."
I didn't sleep much that night.
I'd always known I stood out. The stares, the praise, the quiet pride in my mother's eyes. But this was the first time I understood the fear too.
Fear that I might be taken.
Used.
Or worse.
"What if the Guild finds her?" Mira whispered to Leo in the barn the next day.
"They won't," he said, ever defiant. "I'll fight them."
She punched his arm. "Idiot. You're ten."
"Then I'll train."
I loved him for that, a little.
I didn't say it out loud, obviously. Ew.
So I built more.
I made tools for the cobbler that shaped leather with heat. I gave the baker an oven that stayed warm overnight. I built a night-light system for the local midwife, who cried when I installed it.
I pretended it didn't make me cry too.
And when people asked how long the batteries would last, I just smiled and said, "As long as the wind blows."
Granitic mana cells became my silent helpers. I hid them well. I made them blend in. I even started engraving false cracks and moss textures into the outer shells so they looked like ordinary garden stones.
The elder saw them once and said, "You're camouflaging your kindness."
"I'm protecting it," I replied.
He didn't argue.
My tenth birthday came with no party, no cake, no frills. I liked it that way.
Instead, my mother gave me a set of carving tools made from polished bone and fine copper.
"So you can be precise," she said.
"So I can be dangerous," I corrected.
She raised an eyebrow. "That too."
Later that week, I etched my first three-layered mana matrix. It could store kinetic energy, distribute it to three separate outputs, and regulate discharge based on priority.
I called it the Heartstone.
It powered the entire main house.
And still had room left over.
I started planning a network. Something to share power between houses, to balance load, to allow our little village to operate in harmony.
Like a grid.
An invisible thread of light running beneath the earth, connecting everyone.
But even as I dreamed, I noticed more whispers.
Strangers passing through the market seemed to linger near my workshop. One tinker asked Mama too many questions. A trader from the north commented on my hair, then asked how I'd learned so much "at such a young age."
The elder increased our security. Leo started carrying a wooden sword. Mira stuck to my side like a flower-scented bodyguard.
And I... I kept building.
Because no matter what came next, I wanted the village to stand.
I wanted my wind to carry more than whispers.
I wanted it to carry hope.
To be continued...