Chương 8: Magic

A week later, the secret alcove became hers completely. Half-hidden behind two shelves and a moth-eaten curtain, it was the only place in the library where the wind didn't bite at her bones. She had returned to it every spare moment, first to read, and then to build a space. It wasn't much. The two chairs were once comfortable, but now the stuffing was deflated, the side table barely stood on its three remaining legs, and the window let in only a faint trickle of light; but it was hers, hers alone.

The space had grown quieter, warmer even. After she'd scrubbed and swept the floor, she stole a faded tapestry from a hallway, along with some nails, to completely muffle the draft coming in from the only window. She lined the shelves with cloth and damaged paper to insulate the stone and wood. The better of the two chairs was now padded with a folded shawl and a small cushion she'd smuggled in under her apron. It felt like a throne when she was done fixing it. But most importantly, no one came here.

Not that deep into the library. She had a place to sit, a place to think, a place to practice her calligraphy from her great-uncle's book, and for the first time since arriving at the castle, a place where she could read without fear. Which is why, after wiping the dust from her hands, she went on a quiet, reckless rampage. She read everything she could reach, opening volume after volume, sometimes just the title or the opening line before moving on, other times devouring the whole book.

She had no plan nor direction. History, etiquette, philosophy, riddles, memoirs, recipes, religion, and even a bestiary bloated with made-up creatures that she couldn't help but laugh out loud at. She piled them on the floor, across the table, over the windowsill. Some were useless. Some were fascinating. Some made no sense at all. She didn't care. She was free. But then, on a fateful day, she stumbled upon a treasure.

At the bottom of one broken bookcart, buried under tax ledgers and a rusted lantern, she found it: a scorched leather-bound book, warm to the touch despite the chill air. The spine was cracked, the corners singed. There was no title, only a faint embossing of a flame. She couldn't help but investigate it. She sat back down in her alcove, pulled the tapestry closed, and opened the book across her lap. The book was strange. It had no table of contents, nor any neat chapters.

It was just rambling blocks of text, part instruction, part confession, and part fever dream. It read like the diary of a man who had gone too far into madness and never fully returned.

"Still yourself like unlit coal. Do not chase fire. Let it rise in you as breath, not hunger. You must silence the wind of your thoughts. Fire does not tolerate chatter. Start not with the spark, but with the space where the spark may rest." At first, she frowned. These sounded like instructions for something, but they read more like riddles. But Lira was used to piecing things together. That was what she had been doing since she was born. She went back over the passages.

Some metaphors repeated: wind, breath, stillness, coal. And always, always: flame. She read more slowly the second time. Then a third. The words began to settle into her mind strangely, as patterns to be followed rather than understood. The more she read, the less she thought about meaning, and the more she felt something beneath it, like a rhythm she could almost hear. She stilled her mind like she always did when tackling difficult calligraphy.

It was a trick her father thought her later reiterate by her uncle's book. Before she realized it, Lira had gone still. Her eyes were open, moving across the page, but her thoughts had quieted without her noticing. The cold of the room faded. The ache in her hands dulled. Even the constant awareness of the dust and the work waiting for her slipped away. She did not know how much time had passed. Finally, something shifted, a small click in her mind, as if a lock she had never known existed had just opened.

Lira blinked. The world rushed back in all at once. The cold, the smell of dust, the weight of the book in her lap.

"What just…" she whispered. She looked toward the shuttered window and judged the light. It had barely changed. Perhaps no more than an hour had passed. Her gaze returned to the book. Something lingered in her mind. A phrase that wanted out of her lips. It pressed against her head insistently, like a lullaby that refused to fade.

"Candira fila curad." She frowned. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The words meant nothing to her at first. They were not any language she knew, and she knew quite a few. Yet at the same time, they felt… familiar. Not in meaning, but in certainty. She knew them in the same way she knew her own name. Lit candle wick. Her eyes snapped back to the page. She scanned the text again, faster this time, until she found it.

The same strange words, written phonetically in the same looping script as the rest of the text, were buried between two paragraphs of rambling instructions. She had not noticed them before. Or perhaps she had, and they had only now settled into place. Her fingers tightened slightly on the book. A strange certainty filled her chest. If she spoke those words, something would happen. The thought alone made her hesitate. Magic was not something people like her touched. It was taught, controlled, and owned by nobles.

Her father's fate was proof of what happened when someone crossed that line. For a moment, her heart beat faster. Then she looked around. The alcove was silent, hidden, and forgotten. No one came here. Lira reached for a tallow candle from her small stash and set it on the table. The wick was cold and dark. She stared at it for a long moment. Then she took a breath.

"Candira fila curad." For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the wick caught. A small flame bloomed into existence, steady and real. Lira froze. She stared at it, unblinking, as if it might vanish if she looked away. It did not. The flame flickered gently, casting a soft light across the alcove. Her breath came out in a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

"I…" she whispered.

"I did that." Her lips pulled into a slow grin, something bright and sharp and almost dangerous. She had cast a spell. A real spell. Something that, by all accounts, she was never supposed to be able to do. A scribe. A maid. A commoner. And yet the flame burned. The excitement did not last long. Curiosity replaced it almost immediately. She leaned forward, studying the candle, then glanced back at the book. What had she just done? The book offered no clear answer. It did not explicitly explain anything.

Lira frowned. That would not do. If she was going to use this, she needed to understand it. She looked around the library, at the endless chaos of books and scrolls. Somewhere in this mess, there had to be something more structured. Sadly, if there were many books about magic, she had yet to find them. Then she remembered. A set of books she had noticed before, neatly stacked together despite the surrounding disorder. Guides for governesses, written in a clean, instructional tone.

She stood quickly and made her way through the shelves, navigating by memory until she found them.

"The Making of a Great Noble Lady," by Lady Camilla Winters.

"The Making of a Great Noble Lord," by Lady Camilla Winters.

"The Making of a Great Noble Knight," by Lady Camilla Winters.

"The Making of a Great Noble Scholar," by Lady Camilla Winters.

"The Making of a Great Noble Mage," by Lady Camilla Winters.

"The Making of a Great Noble Priest," by Lady Camilla Winters. She pulled out the ones on the mage and the scholar and returned to her alcove. These books were different; they were meant to instruct rather than be a chaotic rambling of a madman. She flipped through the mage volume, skimming until she found something useful. To learn magic, one must either be apprenticed to a tutor or study with a magical primer. She read on. Magic spells are formed from magical words laced with mana.

The magical language can only be properly understood through a primer or under the guidance of a certified guild tutor. That explained why the words felt strange. That book was a magical primer. She kept reading, skipping past long sections on etiquette and the proper role of a governess in managing a child's education, or on how a governess should interact with male tutors, until she found something more relevant. Spells are classified into tiers and categories. She leaned in slightly.

Tier zero, known as cantrips, requires little mana and serves as the foundation of magical practice. They are also quite safe. Higher tiers increase in complexity and power, with the highest tiers capable of devastating a city. Lira frowned at that. She had never seen or heard of anything like that. Magic, to her, had always been small, controlled, and distant. The idea that it could level cities felt like something out of a story. Still, she read on. Categories are defined by affinity.

Fire, water, wind, life, mind, lightning. Her gaze flicked briefly to the candle. Fire. So that was what she had used. To progress, a student must expand their capacity gradually. A common guideline is that three cantrips are required before attempting a tier one spell. The capacity doesn't carry over through different affinities Lira sat back slightly, thinking. So what she had learned was a cantrip. A small thing. A beginner spell. She glanced back at the fire book. Only a third of it was read.

Were there two more cantrips waiting? Or something more substantial? The governess's book had been very clear about one thing. Do not advance too quickly. Damage to the mind and soul may occur. That gave her pause. For a moment. Then curiosity won again. She turned back to the candle. Now that she knew that casting cantrips was mostly safe. She decided to experiment some more.

"Candira fila curad." The wick lit again without hesitation. She nodded slowly.

"Let's see," she murmured. She pointed at a scrap of paper.

"Candira fila curad." Nothing happened. She tried a piece of cloth. Nothing. A loose thread that looked similar to a candle wick. Nothing. A lump of hardened wax that used to be a candle, its wick completely consumed. Nothing. She frowned. Then she pointed back at the candle.

"Candira fila curad." The flame returned instantly. Lira exhaled slowly.

"So it needs a candle wick," she muttered. Or something very close to it. She tried changing the words, translating them into languages she knew, adjusting the sounds slightly.

"Burn candle wick."

"Lit candle spell""Fire magic candle." Nothing worked. Only the original phrase. Only the candle. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the small flame.

"That's almost useless," she said under her breath. But she was smiling when she said it. Then that thought made her reach for the book again. She had only read a third of it. If this was the first spell… Her fingers tightened slightly. Maybe 2 more cantrips? Or something higher? The warning from the governess's book echoed in her mind. She still reached for the fire book again. Then froze. The light. Her eyes snapped toward the shuttered window. The color of the sky had shifted. She had stayed too long. Her sack.

She looked toward the open space beyond the alcove. She had barely done any cleaning today.

"Damn it," she whispered. In one quick motion, she pinched the candle flame out with her fingers and shoved it back into her stash. The books followed, hidden beneath cloth and debris. She was on her feet a second later, already moving. By the time she stepped out of the alcove, she was just another maid again. Broom in hand and dustpan ready, working up a storm. The library swallowed her. She swept hard, fast, pulling dust from corners, scraping grime from stone, gathering everything she could into the sack.

It filled slowly… too slowly. It was not enough. Her movements grew sharper and more desperate. By the time Hesta's boots echoed through the hall, Lira was a mess. Dust clung to her dress, her hair stuck to her face, and her hands were blackened with grime. And her sack sagged with weight. Hesta paused at the doorway, eyes flicking over her. She noticed the sweat, the panting, and the unfakeable exhaustion. And then she turned away without stepping inside. Satisfied.

She didn't even look at the sack like she used to. Lira kept sweeping until the sound of her boots faded. Only then did she stop. She straightened slowly, breathing hard. A small, quiet realization settled in her mind. Magic was dangerous. And it takes a lot of time to learn. If she wanted that time, she needed Hesta off her back... soon.