Page 2 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)

I nodded my understanding, but my heart still raced with the thrill of discovery, the desire to feel that connection again and weave my own thread into magic’s vast, vibrant tapestry.

Patience , I reminded myself as I looked at my hands, remembering the soft glow and the indescribable exhilaration of being chosen by magic.

The afternoon stretched warm and languid as Mother and I delved into the mysteries of my burgeoning powers, a soft breeze teasing the curtains of our small cottage as we worked, the air rich with the scents of juniper and sage.

With continued practice I was able to repeatedly coax my magic out, and after several experiments in trial and error, hold it long enough to mold it to my whims. My hands began to shake with excitement, but Mother’s gentle voice steadied me as she guided me through the delicate threads of magic that wove around us.

“Focus, Lysa,” she instructed. “Feel the energy, but don’t force it.” Her hands enveloped mine, guiding them in smooth arcs through the air.

A laugh bubbled from my lips as a shimmering ribbon of light danced from our fingertips, swirling in vibrant hues before dissipating in a shower of sparks.

My heart soared with the thrill of it. I wanted to explore all the possibilities filled in each spark within my fingertips and delve into all manner of spells, but Mother had a different plan in mind to begin my formal magical education.

“Magic is about more than spellwork; potions and the ingredients that comprise them are an essential element to any witch’s craft.

I will teach you how to grow each herb and brew every draft, beginning by harvesting lavender and sage.

” She led me outside to walk me through the orderly rows, her movements assured as she snipped the plants.

“Lavender is for protection and calm, sage for cleansing and strength. Magic is about more than just power—it’s about intention and harmony with the world around us. ”

I followed her movements, mimicking the careful way she cradled the herbs.

There was a rhythm to our work, soothing and familiar.

As we filled our baskets, she shared tales of the ancient witches from our genealogy, women whose stories were woven with the same threads of courage and wisdom she was weaving into me.

A budding sprig of curiosity grew inside me with each tale. “Was their magic like ours?” I asked.

“Each had her own gifts,” she replied. “Just like you. Your magic is as unique to you as your spirit.” She touched my cheek with a dirt-smudged finger, leaving a warm trace of affection.

After she deemed we’d gathered enough herbs, we moved to the kitchen.

The stone counters were covered with jars and vials, each containing possibilities waiting to be unlocked; the containers of dry leaves and various-colored liquids seemed much more exciting now that I held the potential to actually create with them.

Mother showed me how to grind sage into a fine powder, her hands moving with a grace that made even this simple task seem like a sacred ritual.

“Watch carefully,” she instructed as she combined the sage with lavender and a drop of dew collected at dawn from one of the many vials lining the shelves.

She murmured a spell, her voice a soft cadence that filled the room with a palpable energy.

The mixture glowed briefly, a sign of a successful enchantment.

“Now you try.” She stepped back to give me space.

With a deep breath I reached for the source that simmered just beneath my skin, untrained yet eager.

I repeated her motions…only to stumble over the words, causing my power to sputter out.

Disappointment prickled, but before it could take root, Mother rested her hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Magic is like a muscle that strengthens with practice. I will be here to guide you every step of the way.”

I took a slow breath and shifted my stance, straightening my posture before I carefully measured out a fresh spoonful of sage. Painstakingly I mixed in the lavender and dispensed the dewdrop, holding my breath as it shimmered atop the herbs.

“Close your eyes,” Mother whispered. “Take your time and feel the power inside; don’t try to force it out.”

I obediently shut my eyes, mentally rehearsing the words before slowly but clearly speaking them aloud.

I heard Mother’s breath catch and opened my eyes to see a lilac glow rising in a swirl above the clay bowl where I’d mixed my ingredients.

With a happy squeal, I flung my arms around Mother and she squeezed me in return, her delight nearly as acute as mine.

I looked towards the cupboard where the jars of concentrated magic waited. “When can I try using some of them?”

Mother smiled indulgently. “You need to master the skill of speaking your spells first,” she explained. “The magic within you is powerful, but easier to control because it is part of you. Using the magic we’ve caught or harvested is trickier, as it is wild and sometimes acts in unexpected ways.”

We spent the remainder of the afternoon concocting remedies and charms, Mother’s voice gentle as she guided me through the intricacies of our craft, her patience unwavering as the sun tracked its path across the sky.

When the day waned, she wrapped me in a hug, her presence a comforting fortress against the encroaching dusk.

“In you lies the future of our line,” she whispered, as if confiding a precious secret. “Whatever comes, know that you are the magic I cherish most.”

This simple and profound moment should have been one of many woven into a loving, enchanted tapestry I could carry in my heart through the dark days that followed. Instead, this joy we'd created together was short-lived.

The ground suddenly trembled and a distant clamor shattered our pocket of peace. Mother’s head snapped up, her eyes darkened with sudden fear. Before I even had time to wonder what was happening, she pushed me towards the trapdoor beneath the kitchen rug, her hands trembling as she lifted it.

“Inside.” Her usual calm demeanor cracked with urgency. “No matter what you hear, stay hidden until I come for you.”

I couldn’t move. I yearned to protest, to remain by her side…but her stern look brooked no argument. She helped me into the dark space below, her fingers lingering on mine with a final squeeze. “I love you.”

The last glimpse I caught of her face was of her lips moving in the cadence of a protective spell before the hatch closed, plunging me into darkness.

At first all was still and silent, the only sound my pounding heart’s frightful tremors.

Then a deafening crash shook the house, followed by the muffled sounds of chaos bleeding through the floorboards above, each clash of metal, shout, and cry of pain a dagger in my heart.

I huddled in the cramped darkness, pressing my hands to my ears, willing it all to fade away.

Suddenly, silence descended—a quiet far more terrifying than the recent tumult.

Time crawled, each second stretching interminably as I waited for a whispered sign, anything to indicate it was safe for me to come out.

When the silence grew unbearable, I pushed open the trapdoor and emerged into a nightmare.

The cottage had been ransacked, every spellbook and magical instrument either taken or destroyed, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

The jars that had held our treasured magic were shattered on the floor, every trace of the shimmering power gone.

I stepped over the debris, heart pounding in fear.

“Mother?” No answer, save the echo of my trembling voice.

I stumbled through the broken doorway into the remnants of our once vibrant garden, the colors now dulled by smoke and ruin.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over what remained of our cottage.

Smoke rose in thin wisps from the embers, and the scent of charred wood lingered in the air.

My feet barely felt the earth beneath them as I moved, drawn by intuition and the soft whispers of magic my awakened powers could now hear.

Beneath the twisted bough of our once-flourishing willow tree amidst the charred remains of our beloved herbs lay Mother—my dearest friend, mentor, and anchor in every storm.

Her face was eerily peaceful amidst the chaos, her eyes closed as if in sleep.

She looked almost as if she was merely resting, but the stillness of death was unmistakable.

My heart constricted, pain lancing through me sharper than any blade.

The sight of her still and utterly devoid of the vibrant life she’d always radiated tore a scream from the depths of my soul.

I fell to my knees beside her, shaking as I reached out a trembling hand to touch her face, half-expecting her to wake and pull me into her arms, reassuring me that the surrounding destruction was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare.

I clutched her hand that mere hours before had guided mine in weaving magic, now limp and lifeless in my desperate grasp.

Her skin was cold, devoid of her comforting warmth.

As my fingers brushed her cheek, a chilling jolt crawled across my skin, accompanied by a searing pain that made me gasp.

Horrified, I watched as it twisted into a black, inky stain on the palm of my hand, seeming to pulse with a life of its own.

Even with my limited magical knowledge, I recognized it as the mark of a curse.

I instinctively tried to summon the magic that had only just begun to awaken within me, desperate for anything that might undo this curse or restore Mother.

Spells tumbled from my lips…but the magic that had willingly danced at my command before now recoiled at my touch.

The mark on my hand throbbed painfully, a stark barrier that blocked the flow of power, rendering my efforts futile.

The weight of my loss crushed me as I cradled Mother’s cold hand in mine, magnified by the loss of the magic that had only just begun to whisper within me—our bond, our heritage.

Not only had I lost my guide and protector, but in that same cruel moment the gift she had nurtured in me had been locked far beyond my reach.

My grief surged, morphing into a raging inferno, fierce and uncontrollable. It ignited the last of the dormant magic, a final spark that the curse hadn’t yet been able to seal away.

The air crackled with what would likely be my final spell, heavy with anguish and fury as the raw, untamed power responded to the tempest of my emotions.

The dry leaves and brittle twigs caught fire, and from the garden the flames spreading hungrily, fueled by the raging torrent.

The flames danced and twisted around us, consuming everything they touched, an unstoppable force that mirrored the scorched remains of my broken heart.

As the fire grew, so did the harsh truth I didn’t want to acknowledge—the world I knew was gone, seized by the same ruthless hands that had stolen Mother from me. The flames devoured the last remnants of my past, leaving only the charred promise of retribution in their wake.

The blaze cast an eerie glow on the tears streaking my dirt-stained face as I slowly stood.

Each flickering flame steeled my resolve, the heat fusing my sorrow with fierce determination that hardened around my heart.

I would not let Mother’s death be in vain, nor would I let the destruction that had descended upon us go unchallenged.

The last thing that burned was a golden flag bearing the royal insignia of the neighboring kingdom of Eldoria, left behind like a calling card meant to taunt me with the knowledge of those undoubtedly responsible for the devastation that had shattered my world forever.

Hatred—hotter and more fierce than any emotion I’d ever experienced—seared through my veins.

My magic was gone, sealed within the curse branding my hand, with Mother’s teachings reduced to mere echoes that seemed to mock me now as even the simplest spell was out of my reach.

Standing within the sanctuary offered by the descending shadows with my heart hollowed out by my loss, I made a vow: I would not only reclaim my magic, but I would avenge her.

“I will find them,” I whispered into the silent dusk, my broken voice a promise. “I will take back what was stolen…and I will make them pay if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

I turned away from the smoldered remains of my home, it and the garden now a pyre to her memory. The weight of my vow anchored me to a path from which there could be no return. The flames of vengeance burned brighter with every step I took away from the ashes of my past.

Eldoria would pay for what they had taken from me.