Myla's POV
Heavy breathing tore through my lungs, branches snapping under my feet as the wind bit cold through my torn, bloody clothes. The newborn in my arms wailed against my chest—I had to get her safe from those monsters.
I could hear their growls growing louder behind me, a haunting reminder of the danger that pursued us. With every ounce of strength left in my body, I pushed forward, praying for a sanctuary that felt like a distant dream.
The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching across the forest floor as I stumbled deeper into the darkness. Each step was a battle against despair, but the thought of the innocent life cradled in my arms fueled my resolve to keep running, no matter the cost.
I cast a second spell, and its shimmer enveloped us both. I refuse to allow her to take this child. I had assured the baby's parents that I would do everything in my power to protect her. I fell to my knees, sobbing even as a tiny smile appeared on my lips as the final creature succumbed to my trap magic. We were both saved by me.
The dark woods stretched ahead. I wished I could warm us, but those monsters are sensitive to heat—we'd be found in an instant if we revealed ourselves that way. I'll give you more warmth than I have left in me, I thought, pressing her closer.
We stumbled into a small cave, and I laid us down on the damp earth, holding her tight against my chest. Weariness pulled at my bones, but I knew this wasn't over. "Children should live without worry… but fate is cruel to us both. I will protect you until my very last breath."
I watched for danger every single day—afraid of losing the child who'd become like a daughter to me. Five years we'd lived in the forest cave; I'd spent my first safe morning rebuilding the inside to make it bearable. Watching this little troublemaker grow up was equal parts fun and nerve-racking.
One day she nearly fell from a towering tree; the next, she almost wandered straight into a bear's path. Who knew raising a child—when I'd never dreamed of having one of my own—would be this difficult? But every time she flashed me that bright smile, I knew it was worth every moment of fear.
I called Izzie for dinner as she played in a pile of leaves. She beamed up at me, then rushed to clean herself up before running over.
What am I going to do with my master's child? I wasn't even her assigned wet nurse—I'd only been an assistant to the person chosen for the role. I sighed, shaking my head. Sometimes I feel like I know exactly how to handle her when she gets into trouble… and sometimes I'm just as lost as she is.
Izzie's POV
Today was so much fun! But why does Mom sigh so much all the time? Is she worried about what to teach me? Or how we'll get food? Maybe even how to earn money from the village? I don't know what's in her head… she just worries about everything so much.
I walked to the dining room and sat down, folding my hands to pray and thank the gods for our food. Then I ate quietly—Mom always says it's polite, but I also thought she might be working something important out in her head. I didn't want to bother her.
As always, I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. I'd wait for Mom to wash them up—she was always worried I'd cut myself with the sharp edges, so I never argued about it. I know she just wants me safe.
I headed to my room and curled up in bed, quickly drifting off to sleep.
Hours passed, and I was pulled into that same dream again—the figures. They were just tall shadows moving all around me, with screaming, crying, angry shouts, and panicked voices mixing in the air. I don't know why I keep seeing this… it makes my whole body feel shaky.
Then two of the shadows came into focus. One was holding something bright and warm—like a glowing ball that hummed deep in my chest. The other leaned close, and I knew it was her—even though I'd never seen her face, something in my heart recognized her. She held the glowing thing out to a third figure I knew was Mom, and her voice cut through all the noise: "Protect her. Take her and run away from here—now."
As she pressed the light into Mom's hands, I felt it sink into me, warm and tight. Then I jolted awake, my heart thumping so hard I could barely breathe.
I woke up all sweaty and scared. The dream was still in my head—shadows shouting and that warm bright ball. I climbed out of my little bed and padded over to where Mom was sitting on her stool, fixing a shirt with a pointy needle.
"Mommy," I said, tugging at her sleeve. "I had that dream again! The dark people and the glow-y thing. I think one was my other mama… tell me why I keep seeing it?"
Mom put down her needle and picked me up, holding me close against her chest. Her hands felt warm on my back. "Oh, baby… I know it scares you. But dreams are just pictures in your head—like when you make up stories with your toys. They're not real. Not important for us to worry about now."
I nuzzled into her neck, even though my tummy felt all twisty and sad. She always said that. But the dream felt real—like it was something I should know.
I knew Mom wouldn't tell me the real answer—she's always so protective, like she's trying to keep a bug from getting squished.
I know I'm not her real little girl. Mom has hair as light as wheat and pretty green eyes like leaves, but mine are dark like tree bark and my eyes are black as wet stones. She says I'm her friend's daughter, that my first mama and papa loved me so much and never left me on purpose.
But if they didn't abandon me… why am I here with her in the cave instead of at home with them? I don't get it. Grown-ups always say kids shouldn't tell lies—but why do they tell them to us? My head feels all twisty trying to figure it out.
Mom never lets me go to the village. She says there are bad things there that might find me—she doesn't say what, just that it's not safe.
Soon she has to leave me here in the cave all by myself for a whole week! But she always makes sure I have lots of food to eat—dried berries, hard bread, and even some of the fish she smokes to keep it good. She says she needs to make sure I can take care of myself if I ever have to. I'm a little scared to be alone, but I know Mom would never leave me if it wasn't important.
Mom left right after breakfast—she gave me a big hug and told me again to stay inside the cave unless I really had to go out for water. Then she walked into the trees, and I watched until her blonde hair disappeared in the green.
For the first day, I played with my toys—little animals I made from sticks and moss, and the smooth stones I'd collected from the stream. I lined them up in rows like they were having a party, and I told them stories about going on adventures to faraway places. When I got bored, I cleaned up the cave like Mom taught me: I swept dirt from the floor with a bundle of grass, straightened my shelf of treasures, and folded our blankets nice and neat.
By night, I was tired, so I ate the dried berries and hard bread Mom left out for me, then curled up in my bed. I tried not to be scared of the dark sounds outside—owls hooting, branches creaking—but I still pulled my blanket up to my chin. Mom will be back soon, I told myself.
The next day was almost the same. And the day after that too. Play, clean, eat, sleep—repeat, just like always when Mom goes away. I know she has to leave to get us food and things we need. She says she trades the herbs she picks and the small animals she traps for money, so we can buy flour for bread and medicine if we get sick.
But when I'm alone, my head fills up with questions. I take out the picture books Mom brought me once—they're old and worn, with pages that are soft and crinkly. In them, there are kids who go to a place called school, where they sit at desks and learn to read big books and write with pencils. They play with other children in big fields, and their mamas and papas come to pick them up when the sun goes down.
I wish I could go to school too. When I asked Mom about it, she smiled but her eyes looked sad. "I don't have enough money to send you there, baby," she said, tucking my hair behind my ear. "But don't worry—I'll teach you everything you need to know. I'll show you how to read the stars, how to find safe berries in the woods, how to write your name in the dirt with a stick."
That's nice and all… but I still want to play with other kids. I want to know what it feels like to have friends who aren't made of sticks and stones.
I also keep thinking about my dream. I found the smooth gray stone I thought looked like a moon, and I held it tight while I sat by the cave entrance. If my real mama and papa loved me so much, I whispered to the stone, why can't I see them? Do they know I'm here? Do they miss me like I miss them?
Mom says grown-ups don't lie, but I know she's hiding something. I see it in her eyes when I ask about my parents, or about why we can't go to the village together, or why she gets so quiet when she looks at the old stone necklace she wears around her neck—one that glows just a little, like the thing in my dream.
I tucked the stone back into my pocket and went to clean up our eating area again. Even if Mom won't tell me everything, I know she loves me. And I'll wait for her to come home—because that's what families do, right?
On the seventh day, I was sitting by the cave entrance drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick when I saw Mom coming through the trees. But she didn't smile like she usually does—her face was tight, and she was walking so fast her blonde hair was flying behind her.
"Izzie! Come on, baby—we have to pack right now." She rushed into the cave, grabbing our blankets and my toy animals, shoving them into her big leather pack.
I ran after her, my heart beating fast. "Mom? What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"We can't stay here anymore," she said, her hands moving quick as birds as she stuffed our dried food and water skins into another bag. "We're moving to a new place—far from here."
I didn't understand. "But why? This is our home! I like it here—there's the stream where I find stones, and the big tree I like to climb!"
She knelt down and held my face in her hands. Her green eyes looked scared, even though she tried to smile. "I know you do, sweetheart. But it's not safe here anymore. We have to go—before they find us."
I didn't know who "they" were, but I didn't ask. Mom was in such a hurry, and I didn't want to make her more worried. I grabbed my picture books and the gray moon-stone, tucking them into my small pack that Mom made just for me.
We left the cave before the sun went down—Mom said we had to travel while it was still light enough to see, but not so bright that we'd be spotted. For three whole days, we walked through new forests I'd never seen before. The trees were taller here, and the air smelled different—like pine needles and wet dirt. Mom kept casting little spells as we went, making sure nothing could follow our trail.
On the third night, we came to a small house hidden between two big oak trees. It had wooden walls and a thatched roof, and there was even a little garden with green plants growing in neat rows.
"This is it," Mom said, letting out a breath like she'd been holding it for a long time. "This is our new home."
I ran up to the door and pressed my face against the wood. Inside, it was warm and clean—there were real beds with soft pillows, a table with four chairs, and shelves full of jars and books. Mom set down our packs and knelt to hug me tight.
"We'll be safe here," she whispered. "I promise. And… maybe soon, I can tell you some of the things you've been asking about."
I looked around our new house, then up at Mom. Even though I missed our old cave and all my favorite spots, this place felt nice. Like maybe… just maybe… we could finally stop running.
I was pulled out of the dream by a sharp knock on my door—and Mom's voice cutting through the dark: "Izzie, get your butt up! We're already running behind, and you know how strict Headmaster Eleanor Vane is about the east wing being spotless by seven."
I pushed myself up, my back aching from the same thin mattress I've slept on for twelve years now. When I was five, we finally stopped moving and settled into this small cottage tucked into the mountain slope—its gray brick walls are solid and weathered, built to stand against wind and rain, and it's the only real home I've ever known. Outside, the sky was still ink-black save for a faint silver line where dawn was starting to creep in. At seventeen, I should be sleeping in on mornings like this—or better yet, not waking up at all to scrub floors in a place I'll never be allowed to attend.
I pulled on my work clothes—patched trousers and a tunic that's been stretched too thin over my shoulders—and ran a brush through my unruly black hair. Mom was already at the table, sipping bitter tea and pushing a bowl of porridge toward me.
"Eat fast," she said, her blonde hair tied back in a tight bun, lines of exhaustion etched around her green eyes. "The path's icy in spots—we'll need extra time to get down the mountain."
I ate in silence, watching the academy glow in the distance—white stone towers piercing the pre-dawn dark, mana lights twinkling like stars along every corridor. For three years now, Mom's worked here as a janitor, and I've helped her on weekends and holidays. We clean up after mages and students who move through the halls like they own the place, their hands crackling with magic I can only dream of wielding.
I know I'm not the only one—they say 4% of the population is born without mana. Most of them find work in the villages, tending fields or running shops where magic isn't needed. But I've always wanted more than that.
As we walked down the winding path, a group of students passed us—laughing, their uniforms crisp, spellbooks tucked under their arms. One of them flicked a finger, and a small flame danced above their palm, casting warm light across their faces. I looked away, shoving my hands deep in my pockets.
"Don't," Mom said quietly, not even looking at me. "You'll only make yourself miserable. There's nothing wrong with not having magic—you're strong in other ways."
She's right, but it's hard not to feel the weight of it all at seventeen. Even the merchants in the village can weave simple spells to keep food fresh or mend torn cloth. No matter how hard I've tried to feel the magic that flows through the land, through every tree and stone, there's nothing. Just a hollow space where it should be.
I've spent hours watching the students in their classes—peeking through doorways as they learn to bend earth, call wind, or read ancient runes. I've memorized every incantation they chant, every gesture they make. But it's useless. I'll never be one of them.
Sometimes I wonder if it's tied to that dream I've had my whole life—the shadows, the glowing light, my birth mother's voice telling someone to protect her. Mom still won't talk about it, but at seventeen, I'm old enough to know she's hiding more than just where I came from. Maybe whatever's locked inside me is why I can't feel magic at all.
We reached the academy gates just as the first bell rang. Mom slung her cleaning bucket over her shoulder, giving my arm a quick squeeze. "Let's get to work."
I followed her inside, the familiar scent of polish and old paper wrapping around me. Another day of watching, of wanting, of wondering what I'm really missing.
I really hated when students here trashed the whole place just for us to clean after them. Even finding a rotten egg that was cracked—its stench was so thick I almost threw up.
"Are they even nobles and royals?" I snapped, wiping my hand on my tunic like the smell would stick to me forever. "How can they be so careless?"
Mom just sighed, already soaking a rag in cleaning solution to tackle the mess. "Sometimes when you miscalculate your spells, they backfire on you," she said, her voice calm even as her hands moved fast. "Magic isn't just waving your hands around—if you don't get the math right, you can't work out the complications. It's logical most days… but sometimes, even logic can't explain how things go wrong."
After we'd finally cleaned up every last bit of the mess—even scrubbing the egg stench out of the wood—Mom wiped her brow and nodded toward the door. "Go on back home and wait for me, okay? I've got a few more halls to finish up here."
"Okay, Mom," I said, giving her a quick hug before heading out. But instead of heading straight up the mountain path, I found myself lingering—curiosity pulling me deeper into the academy grounds than I usually dared to go.
Everywhere I looked, students were huddled in groups, talking fast and animated: some gestured with their hands as they discussed new spell combinations, others swung practice swords in slow, careful motions, and a few clustered around small tables mixing colorful liquids that smelled like herbs and fire. It was all so far out of reach, but I couldn't help watching.
As I rounded a corner near the training yards, I spotted a commotion. A younger girl—her student council badge glinting on the chest of her wool tunic, even though the lacing at her collar was loose and her cloak was slung crookedly over one shoulder—was standing her ground in front of a senior boy I'd heard about before. Everyone said he was the biggest troublemaker in the academy; no one dared mess with him, not even other seniors.
"Can't you at least try to look presentable?" she snapped, gesturing sharply at his own untucked tunic and the way his leather belt was slung low on his hips. "You're setting a terrible example for the first-years!"
He just leaned against a stone pillar with a lazy grin, not even trying to argue back like he would with anyone else. "Why bother? You're already looking at me, aren't you?" He let her step close to fix the clasp on his cloak without pulling away, his eyes softening just enough that I almost missed it. Clearly, he wasn't just putting up with her—he liked that she was the only one who'd dare to call him out.
I tensed for a second, then smiled to myself. I don't want to butt into their business, I thought, ducking behind a row of hedges. Instead, I made my way toward the academy gates, keeping my head down until I was out of sight. By the time I started up the winding mountain path home, the academy was already a distant glow downhill behind me.