Page 4 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)
I was met with the usual stares—some merely curious, yet most hostile.
I had a complicated relationship with the villagers.
Those who remembered the daughter of the woman who had once healed their ills brought me their sick and wounded, while others who heeded the royal family’s warnings concerning magic kept their distance.
Their lack of acceptance had once bothered me, but in the years since Mother’s death I’d learned to accept both reactions with detached resignation.
Interactions meant connections, and connections meant potential pain when they were inevitably severed.
I had lost enough to know that solitude was a kinder, if lonelier, companion.
The market was just beginning to bustle with early shoppers looking for the best picks of the day.
My meager stall sat along the outskirts—a table that was barely more than a few boards on crates—displaying my array of natural remedies beneath its simple, hand-painted sign: Lysandra’s Elixirs and Poultices .
It wasn’t much, but it was one of the few things I had to my name.
I greeted each of the villagers who approached—some hesitant, others curious.
“Good for what ails you.” I echoed Mother's old selling point, my voice steady even as my hand twitched involuntarily near the goods that served as a stark reminder of the power I once could have woven into each of these creations.
Now, only her techniques and knowledge remained, forming a different kind of magic.
As the sun climbed higher and cast long shadows over the marketplace, I settled into the rhythm of the day—bartering, selling, surviving.
Each coin should have been a hard-earned triumph despite the ashes of my past…
yet regardless of these small victories, resentment burned beneath the surface, dulling any pleasure I might have felt.
Lack and survival wasn’t how a witch was meant to live, while the swindlers who’d robbed our land of magic lived in opulence.
I fingered the few copper coins in my pouch as I watched people walk through the market, most moving past my booth without a second glance.
They shone bright, evidence of their newness, but rather than lifting my spirits the shine was only another reminder of the past. I still remembered the tiny scale Mother always carried to market, and how customers would carefully weigh out sparkling magic to pay for their purchases.
At the end of the day she would let me help her pour her proceeds into the jars in our cupboard.
Every trace of our modest fortune had been lost during the attack, and since that day the now-extinct magic had ceased to be currency, replaced by the metal coins that now clinked softly as I squeezed the pouch.
The uneventful day felt endless, each moment weighed down by the anger that filled my thoughts, the only thing keeping me sane amidst the grief that stirred my heart every time I witnessed little shows of affection between mothers and their children in the square, each reaction a sharp reminder of the nightmare that always lurked just beneath the surface.
I even envied the small boy who stood nearby, shoulders slumped and head hanging as his mother rebuked him for tearing his new pants that were supposed to last him all summer.
If only I still had someone to care when I wore holes in my long-since-faded dress.
By the time market ended I had only sold a handful of items, leaving me a few meager coins for my efforts—though hard-won through the trade of herbs and remedies, today’s income would barely afford me bread and other basic necessities.
Even so, after packing up my remaining goods, the pull of an old, familiar habit steered my steps away from the path home towards the village square where the traveling library had set up.
The rows of books and scrolls laid out under a patchwork of faded canvas tents always sparked a mix of excitement and melancholy.
Such places had once been treasure troves of knowledge where I could indulge my passion for magic and the mysteries of the arcane; now I approached the tables with a tempered hope, searching for anything related to my obsolete craft, particularly on curses or magical seals.
The need to understand the seal branding my skin and reclaim the unreachable magic that thrummed dormant beneath my skin was a constant ache I could never stave.
I traced my fingers over the worn spines, the titles blurring until I stopped at a section veiled in dust—a forgotten corner overlooked by those who had purged our kingdom of its magic.
My heart quickened as I scanned each title, searching for any volume that might have miraculously escaped destruction when Eldoria had invaded.
But as usual my efforts were in vain. The books that remained spoke of benign subjects—history, farming, and the like. Anything with the faintest hint of real power had been eradicated, magic itself now an outlawed art, spoken of only in hushed, fearful whispers.
Even so I lingered a while longer, my hand resting on a tome about the medicinal properties of common herbs—a poor substitute for the knowledge I truly needed.
Disappointedly empty-handed, I reluctantly turned to leave with nothing more than a loaf of bread, a square of goat cheese, and the same gnawing emptiness with which I had arrived.
Adjusting the satchel that held my unsold wares, I trudged past the other stalls, nodding at the elderly woman who baked rolls and occasionally had a kind word for me when most ignored me.
I wove my way through the market that was being slowly dismantled for end of day, stepping off the path to avoid a coil of rope and nearly collided with a woman about my age who was folding a length of homespun linen.
Wide-eyed, she drew back at my hasty apology, her gaze dropping. The familiar sting of rejection tightened my chest, sharp and cold. I slowly backed away. As she turned to continue her work, she coughed—a low, hollow sound that racked her body, leaving her breathless.
At my hesitation, the woman cast a furtive glance over her shoulder; in her eyes I saw both fear and longing, rather than the contempt I was used to.
Perhaps some people avoided my stall not because they hated me, but out of fear of being associated with any hint of magic in today’s political climate.
Before I could second guess myself, I reached inside my bag and pulled out a small jar.
I’d spent hours hunting for an elusive wild cherry tree before carefully harvesting and boiling some of the bark and mixing it into a healing syrup.
Giving away one of my more valuable medications for free meant quite possibly giving up future meals, yet I knew this woman’s coughing would haunt my dreams tonight if I did nothing.
I suddenly stilled when the word “Eldoria” snagged my attention from the neighboring stall, cutting through the hum of the crowd like a sharp blade.
My breath caught as memories flooded back—of fire, loss, and the flag bearing the royal insignia fluttering amidst the ashes of chaos from that fateful day.
The insignia’s every detail was etched into my memory, a symbol of my hatred and sorrow.
I hadn’t witnessed Mother’s death directly, but the sight of the royal flag had been enough to know who was responsible.
Despite the fire of vengeance that burned within me, I was without further information or means to act upon it, as powerless in my quest for revenge as I was in my magic.
The whispers concerning Eldoria echoed ominously in my ears, rumors of the movements and changes rendered by the neighboring kingdom that had become our own nation’s oppressors, though nothing concrete.
The trees seemed to enfold me within their protective branches as I stepped into the woods.
I’d only gone a few paces when a familiar pull tugged at my senses, veering my path.
I recognized that signal was a habit from my constant hunt for traces of the magic that might still linger in forgotten corners of the world, embedding itself into the earth to hide from prying eyes.
I paused near the forest edge where the trees grew dense and the shadows deepened.
There amidst the tangle of undergrowth and the mossy crevices of ancient oaks I sensed a faint, pulsating whisper—the hum of a distant melody, barely discernible but unmistakably there.
My scar tingled as though the magic locked within me had awakened by the whisper and yearned to break free.
Drawing closer, I knelt by a cluster of ferns, their leaves dusted with the last golden rays of the sun.
Hidden beneath, cradled in the crook of an old root, lay a small, glowing orb of light—a pocket of magic, condensed and pure.
I paused to admire the tiny but brilliant light; the pure white was different than my own violet glow I’d seen once, but still reminded me of that moment of exquisite joy…
and the sorrow that had quickly followed.
My heart raced as I carefully extracted it.
Magic in such a tangible form was rare, more precious than any coin or gem.
With trembling fingers, I secured the orb within a small, lead-lined pouch that I constantly wore nestled beneath my clothes, a treasure trove that contained every speck of magic I managed to scavenge.
I measured the amount with my eyes, estimating it—enough for one, maybe two complicated spells, the only weapons in my arsenal for the vengeance I dreamed of.