A few days passed since the alleyway incident. Enough for the bruises to fade, enough for the whispers in the village to die down, but not nearly enough for the silence between Lila and me to disappear.
No matter what I did, the gap stayed.
She still walked beside me when Mother asked her to, still fetched water from the well when Father was busy in the fields, still ate her meals at the same table. But her words, the ones that once filled the air with mischief and laughter, had vanished.
Whenever I tried to speak to her, her eyes slid away. If I pressed, she gave me short, sharp answers. Most often, she gave me nothing at all.
I hated it.
Not the bruises. Not the lingering ache that sometimes made it hard to breathe. Not even the memory of Grace's smirk or the guards' fists.
No, what I hated most was the emptiness left behind by my sister's silence.
On the fourth day, I finally tried to confront her outright.
We were in the yard, she tending to a basket of laundry, me pretending to be busy with the firewood. The sun was high, warm on my back, but the air between us was cold.
"Lila," I said, carefully stacking the last piece of wood.
She didn't answer.
I turned, heart beating faster than it should. "Are you mad at me?"
Her hands kept moving, wringing the water from a tunic. The cloth twisted, dripping into the dirt. Still, no reply.
"Lila, please. If you're angry, just say it. Don't… don't stay quiet like this."
Finally, her eyes flicked to mine, just for a heartbeat. There was no anger there. No laughter either. Just something heavy and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silence.
She looked away before I could speak again.
I bit my lip until I tasted copper and turned back to the firewood. Words failed me. Again.
Mother and Father noticed, of course. They noticed everything, even when they pretended not to.
At supper that evening, Mother tried first. Her calm voice held a little more weight than usual.
"Lila," she said gently, "Xavier has been worried. He wants to understand why you're upset."
Lila's spoon clinked against the bowl. "I'm not upset," she muttered.
The answer was sharp enough to cut the air in two.
Father frowned, setting down his bread. "Lila."
But she only bowed her head, chewing slowly, stubbornly.
I glanced between them, guilt clawing at my chest. "It's fine, Father. Really. I'll figure it out."
But I hadn't. And as the days passed, I grew less certain that I could.
Even our friends noticed.
Seraphina came by, bright as ever, her pale hair catching the sun as she peeked into the yard. She carried her usual air of nobility, tempered with the warmth of someone who never thought herself above us.
"Lila," she said sweetly, "won't you come play? Or at least talk to your brother? He looks like a lost puppy."
Lila shook her head.
Seraphina frowned. "Why? He didn't do anything wrong."
That time, I hoped she would answer. That she'd open her mouth and let me in. But instead, Lila turned away. Seraphina huffed and muttered under her breath, but even her persistence couldn't break through.
Darin tried next, the tall boy standing awkwardly in the yard as though he didn't know whether to stay or go.
"Lila," he said simply, "you're being stubborn."
No reply.
He scratched his head. "Well… don't be."
She ignored him, too.
He left shortly after, muttering something about girls being impossible.
Lyra came last, her soft brown eyes full of concern. She sat beside Lila under the shade of the old tree, hands folded in her lap.
"You know, Xavier looks really sad," she said softly.
Lila's silence answered for her.
Lyra looked down, frowning. "I don't think it's fair. He's your brother."
Still nothing.
When Lyra stood to leave, she gave me a helpless shrug, her expression apologetic. Even her gentle patience hadn't worked.
And then, just as the silence between us felt like it might never break, Seraphina came running to our house one afternoon, breathless and radiant.
"I did it!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing clear. "I unlocked my mana!"
We gathered around, the air buzzing with her excitement. Her grandfather stood behind her, his proud smile softened by age.
Seraphina explained everything—how she had felt it, sudden and undeniable, like a spark catching flame inside her chest. How she had sat and meditated, just as her family taught her, until the colors revealed themselves.
"Blue and red," she said, her eyes shining. "Water and fire!"
Even I felt a flicker of awe. Two attributes. The path ahead of her was clear: the capital, training with the rest of her noble family.
She came to us one last time, standing tall despite her small frame.
"I'll miss you," she said sincerely. "All of you."
Her gaze lingered on Lila, who only nodded faintly. Still no words.
I forced a smile and raised my hand in farewell. Lyra waved both arms, trying to look cheerful. Even Darin, awkward as he was, managed a stiff nod.
And then Seraphina was gone, her figure shrinking as she walked beside her grandfather, away from the village, toward a future none of us could follow.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Two months later, Darin left too, his family moving to the second biggest city in the kingdom—Qastherindoralivienne—a place so distant and strange that even the name felt like a foreign spell.
He promised to visit, but promises were fragile things. And just like that, only three of us remained.
The days settled into routine. Fields, chores, meals. The same quiet house, the same unbroken silence from Lila.
And still, no matter what I tried, I couldn't close the gap.
But time, stubborn and relentless, moved forward anyway.
Two months became three. Then six. Then a full year slipped quietly by, marked not by festivals or celebrations, but by the small rhythm of our village life.
The fields grew and were harvested. The seasons turned. Father's back grew a little stiffer, Mother's hair caught a few more strands of gray, and Lyra grew taller by an inch or two.
And Lila…
She turned eleven.
I turned five.
A year older, a year stronger, yet the distance between us still hung heavy, as though time itself refused to mend it.
By then, only three of us children remained in the village: me, Lila, and Lyra.
Seraphina was gone, her letters arriving once in a while from the capital, full of stories of tutors and practice, of the dizzying wealth of her family's mansion. Darin, too, had vanished into the sprawling streets of Qastherindoralivienne, the second-largest city in the kingdom.
For us, nothing changed. The days repeated: wake, chores, meals, sleep. Sometimes Lyra joined us, sometimes not. Lila still spoke little, her voice reserved for Mother or Father when absolutely necessary.
I tried to pretend it didn't hurt anymore. Tried to bury the sting of her silence beneath chores and books. But no matter how much I tried, her absence lingered.
It was early summer when everything shifted.
One morning, Lila came rushing into the house, her face flushed, her hands trembling slightly. For the first time in a long while, her eyes burned with something alive.
"Mother," she said, breathless, "I think—I think I unlocked it."
Mother froze, the cloth in her hands slipping into the wash basin. "Your mana?"
Lila nodded quickly. "Yes. I felt it. Like… like a spark in my chest. A warmth. It's real."
I sat up straighter from where I'd been flipping through a book by the hearth. My heart thudded. Mana. She had unlocked hers.
Mother guided her to sit. "Good. Now breathe slowly. Close your eyes. Let it settle inside you. Then meditate and see what it tells you."
Lila obeyed, folding her hands in her lap, her small body rigid at first, then loosening as she inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed.
The room was silent. Only the faint crackle of the hearth remained, filling the waiting space.
Minutes passed. Then her breathing shifted. A tremor ran through her shoulders, followed by a whisper:
"…White."
Mother leaned forward, voice trembling slightly. "Light?"
"Yes," Lila whispered, eyes still shut. "It's white, moving… glowing… like a small globe drifting inside me."
Her words shook with awe. Then her voice caught again.
"…And brown. It's there too. Solid. Heavy. Earth."
My stomach twisted. Two.
Two attributes.
Even among nobles, that was rare. Among commoners, almost unheard of.
Mother sat back, her hand covering her mouth for a moment before pulling Lila into a sudden embrace. "Light and earth. Healing and solidity. My daughter…" Her voice broke, though she quickly swallowed the tremor.
I stared, silent.
Two attributes.
And me? Nothing.
I forced myself to clap when Lila opened her eyes again, wide with wonder. I forced a smile too, pretending to be surprised and happy, though something sharp and unspoken coiled in my chest.
Still, beneath that sting, another fire caught: determination.
If she was walking forward, then so would I.
Later that day, I overheard Lila speaking to Mother, her voice hesitant but hopeful.
"Can you teach me how to read?" she asked.
My ears sharpened instantly.
Mother hesitated. "Of course. If you want to learn, I'll teach you."
"I do," Lila said firmly.
I stepped into the room before I could stop myself. "Can I learn too?"
Both turned to me in surprise.
"Xavier," Mother said softly, "you're still young. Maybe in a year or two, when you—"
"I'll try my best," I cut in quickly. "Please, Mama. I want to learn too."
Mother frowned, torn. Finally, she sighed. "If you're that determined, fine. But don't give up easily."
I nodded, hiding the truth.
I already knew how to read. The words on the page were familiar, comforting. But if joining these lessons gave me a chance to sit beside Lila again, to bridge the silence between us, then I'd play the fool.
Even if it meant pretending.
That night, as I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling beams and made a quiet plan.
If I brought Lyra into this too, maybe it would feel more natural. Maybe Lila wouldn't feel cornered. Maybe we could all learn together, the way we once played together before everything broke.
Yes. That was it.
Tomorrow, I'd go to Lyra's house.
Tomorrow, I'd bring her in.
Tomorrow, I'd try again.
This time, I wouldn't fail.
The next morning, I left the house with a purpose.
The sun was still low, spilling its pale light across the fields, and the air carried the damp chill of dew. Birds sang overhead, their melodies weaving through the rustle of grain.
Lyra's house was only two doors down, but the distance felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed with the weight of my plan.
I was going to bring her into the lessons. Not just for her sake, but for mine. For Lila. For all of us.
When I reached the wooden door, I hesitated for a moment before knocking.
It swung open almost immediately.
And there she was—Lyra's mother.
Tall, striking, with sharp cheekbones and a beauty that still clung stubbornly to her even after years of farm life. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. Her apron was dusted with flour, as though I'd interrupted her mid-task.
Her eyes lit up the moment she saw me.
"Well, well! If it isn't little Xavier," she said warmly, her voice ringing like bells. "What brings you here so early? Don't tell me you're already here to steal my Lyra away!"
I froze. "W-What?"
Her smile widened mischievously, and she leaned one hand against the doorframe. "Oh, don't act so innocent. You boys all look the same when you're scheming. Bright eyes, nervous feet, thinking you're subtle. But I've seen enough years to know better. So tell me—are you here to ask for her hand already? Or just to practice?"
I nearly choked. "I—what?! I'm five!"
"Mm-hmm," she hummed, unconvinced. "And Lyra's nine. A perfect age difference! Why, in just a decade, the two of you could—"
"Mother," a calm voice cut in.
Lyra appeared behind her, hair brushed neatly, her small frame holding the quiet grace that contrasted so completely with her mother's flamboyant energy. She gave her mother a flat look.
"Stop."
The older woman laughed, tossing her head back dramatically. "Oh, come now, Lyra! Don't glare at me like that. It's only a mother's duty to prepare for the future. And if the future happens to be standing on our doorstep, all wide-eyed and bashful, then why shouldn't I tease a little?"
"I'm not bashful!" I blurted.
That only made her grin sharper. "See? Already defensive. You'll make a protective husband one day."
Lyra sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Please ignore her, Xavier. She does this with everyone."
"Oh, don't be so cold, my darling girl," her mother said, waving a dismissive hand. "You'll thank me when I'm arranging your wedding feast and everyone says, 'What a clever woman, predicting it years in advance.'"
Lyra gave me a sidelong glance, her expression unreadable. I braced myself for her to laugh, or to blush, or to panic. Something. Anything.
Instead, she simply said, "No. I don't want to marry Xavier."
Her tone was flat, certain, like she was announcing the weather.
My stomach twisted strangely. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
Her mother, however, gasped as though struck. "What? No? Why ever not? He's a sweet boy! Look at that face, so serious already! And those eyes—ah, he'll break hearts one day."
I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.
"Mother," Lyra said again, sharper this time.
The woman laughed, finally relenting, and stepped aside. "Fine, fine. Come in, Xavier. What's your business, then, if not marriage proposals?"
The house smelled of fresh bread and herbs. Lyra's father was out in the fields, but the warmth of their small home still lingered.
I cleared my throat. "I… came to ask if Lyra would join us. Mama is going to start teaching Lila how to read. I want to learn too. And I thought…" I glanced at Lyra. "Maybe she could join as well."
Lyra tilted her head. "Learn to read?"
"Yes," I said quickly. "I've seen you looking at books before. And I thought—maybe together it would be easier."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "But you… already know how to read, don't you?"
My breath caught. "What makes you think that?"
She shrugged lightly. "You're always holding books. Always staring at the pages, not the pictures. Most children only pretend, but… you don't flip the pages wrong. You stop and go back sometimes. That means you understand them."
I forced a small laugh. "I… pretend. That's all. I want to learn properly now."
Her gaze lingered on me, searching, as if she could peel back my lie. Then, finally, she nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll join."
Relief washed over me.
Her mother clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! A reading circle! And maybe later, a courting circle!"
"Mother."
"All right, all right," she said, chuckling as she went back to her baking. "But mark my words, Xavier, if you hurt my little Lyra, I'll make sure your mother hears about it before sunset!"
I groaned, covering my face.
Lyra just sighed, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.
For the first time in a long while, I felt the smallest sliver of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, this plan would work.