It's been a day since father left, and it had never been better ,I hurried myself in writing and reading ….until the compulsory lesson. We were gathered in the circular chamber, one of father's most stern-faced lieutenants drilling us on the precise incantations to summon, bind, and cast a minor spirit. Spirit casting has never been my forte. The words felt clumsy on my tongue, the gestures unnatural. I would rather have buried myself in the quiet comfort of my books, but father's decree was absolute: all his children must be proficient in the defensive arts.During the practice, my focus wavered for just a second, my mind drifting to the story I had been writing that morning. But a second was all it took. My pronunciation was a fraction off, my hand gesture a degree too wide. Instead of the harmless wisp of light I was meant to summon, a dark, snarling form erupted from the sigil on the floor. It was a sharp, malevolent thing, all claws and rage. It lunged before I could even gasp, a searing pain exploding across my arm as it raked through my sleeve.
The instructor and other students reacted swiftly, their practiced chants weaving a net of light that bound the spirit and banished it. But the damage was done. The cut on my arm burned with a cold fire, and the looks on their faces were worse than the pain. They weren't disappointed; they were just filled with pity. The same pity they always had for the Archmage's clumsy, magically-inept daughter.
Estella and my mother rushed to my side. My mother's face was pale with worry, her usual composure gone. She and Estella helped me to my room, their support a stark contrast to the silent judgment in the practice hall. My mother stayed by my side all day, applying a healing salve that stung at first, then soothed. She didn't scold me. She just watched me, her eyes clouded with a fear I didn't fully understand.
When it was time to sleep, the real agony began. The pain from the wound was a deep, throbbing ache, but it was the nightmares that truly tormented me. I was clouded with visions of the dark spirit, of my father's cold eyes, of his voice echoing "useless" as I failed to fight off the shadows clawing at me. I tossed and turned, trapped in a cycle of pain and fear, the brief freedom of the morning a distant memory.
I kept having repeated nightmares until morning, my sleep a battlefield of snarling shadows and my father's disapproving glare. I woke up exhausted, expecting the searing pain in my arm to greet me. But when I pushed back the sleeve of my nightdress, I gasped.
The wound was gone.
Not just healed, but vanished. The skin was smooth and unbroken, as if the spirit's claws had never touched me. It was a miracle, but one that felt strange and unsettling.
My mother came in and I showed her, my hand trembling. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed with immediate caution. She took my arm, her fingers gently tracing the spot where the deep cut had been.
"This... this is not normal, Gwen," she whispered, her voice low and urgent. "Such rapid healing... it's unheard of. Until we know what this means, we keep it a secret. Do you understand? People fear what they don't know."
I nodded, a new kind of chill settling over me. She then carefully dressed the invisible wound with a bandage, maintaining the appearance of an injury for anyone who might ask. After that, she seemed to shake off her worry, clapping her hands together. "Now," she declared, a warm smile finally reaching her eyes. "We have a birthday to plan."
The day transformed. She brought in the seamstress, and I was measured for a beautiful new gown, the fabric a deep blue that reminded me of the night sky. She herself sat me down and wove my hair into an intricate braid, something she hadn't done since I was a little girl. Then, with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, she presented me with the book on ancient histories my father had strictly forbidden, its leather cover promising secrets and adventures.
But the most precious gift came next. She unfastened a delicate necklace from her own throat, a simple silver chain holding a luminous moonstone. "This was my mother's," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she fastened it around my neck. "And her mother's before her. Now, I am passing it to my daughter."
Estella, not to be outdone, bounced into the room and thrust a small, carefully wrapped package into my hands. Inside was a beautiful glass inkwell, filled with deep blue ink. "I've been saving for ages!" she beamed. "Now you can write all your stories without having to refill that old pot so much."
It may not have been a grand feast with dozens of guests, but my birthday felt more special than I could have ever imagined. For the first time, surrounded by their love, the word "useless" felt like a distant echo, and the strange healing of my wound felt less like a fear and more like a secret strength...except the nightmares didn't stop after my birthday. They became a constant, haunting presence in my sleep. Each night, I was plunged into the same chaotic vision: my father, his face a mask of grim determination, locked in a fierce battle against a strange man whose features were always blurred by shadow or swirling energy. I could never hear what they were saying, only feel the intensity of their conflict. I would always wake with a start, my heart pounding, the image of the two figures seared into my mind.
I told my mother about it, hoping for an explanation. She patted my hand gently, a worried crease on her brow. "You've been through a shock with the spirit, my dear," she said. "And you've been reading those adventurous books. You're probably just reading too much into your dreams. Don't fret over them."
But her reassurance felt hollow. The dreams felt too real, too urgent.
Finally, the day arrived...the return of father . A horn blast from the watchtower signaled their return. The five days of freedom were over. As soon as we heard the sound of approaching horses and the clatter of armor, the entire household snapped into action. The relaxed atmosphere vanished, replaced by a frantic but orderly rush. We all knew our places. Servants, guards, and family members hurried to the grand hall, forming the two straight lines required for the welcome ceremony.
I took my place, my heart thudding against my ribs. The new moonstone necklace felt cool against my skin, a tiny, secret comfort. We stood in silence, waiting. The great doors swung open, and the victorious procession began to enter. My father, the Reverend Archmage Theron, strode in at the head of his entourage, his cloak dusty but his bearing regal. The grand ceremony had begun.Mother stepped forward gracefully, the picture of a devoted wife, and helped him remove his heavy traveling cloak. I didn't wait for a command. I slipped away, moving quickly towards the bathing chamber. This time, there would be no spilled water, no delays. I focused entirely on the ritual,the temperature, the herbs, the incantations…my movements precise and efficient. I made sure to be fast and to avoid any errors, the memory of his last dismissal a sharp motivator.
Meanwhile, Estella, full of cheerful energy, hurried off to the kitchen with the servants to oversee the preparation of a grand welcome feast.
After father had taken his bath and had his fill, we all gathered in the grand hall. The air was thick with tension. It was time for our instructor, Kael, to recount our progress and failures during the Archmage's absence. My heart sank to the floor when he began to speak. I kept my eyes fixed on the stone beneath my feet as he described the lesson, detailing each student's improvement. Then, he came to me.
He told the story plainly: my lapse in concentration, the accidental summoning of the malevolent spirit, the injury. I braced myself, waiting for the cold fury, for the word "useless" to echo through the hall once more. But to my shock, my father was calm. His expression was unreadable, a mask of icy detachment.
"Gwen," his voice cut through the silence, devoid of anger but also of warmth. "Step forward. Demonstrate the basic summoning."
My blood ran cold. This was worse than anger. He was setting a trap, and I was walking right into it. I stood out nervously, my hands trembling at my sides. I knew he was trying to make things difficult on purpose, to prove a point about my inadequacy, but there was nothing I could do.
I took a shaky breath and began the incantation. Nothing happened. I tried again, my voice growing weaker. I tried multiple times to summon a spirit, any spirit, but I couldn't. The magic that had flowed so disastrously just days before was now entirely beyond my reach. I just stood there, utterly defeated, feeling like a soaked chicken under the gaze of the entire household.
After a painfully long while, he simply waved a hand. "Enough. You are dismissed."
I couldn't raise my eyes. Shame burned my cheeks as I retreated to my place, wishing I could disappear into the wall.
Then, to add salt to the wound, my father called upon Estella. She stepped forward with confident grace. With effortless ease, she summoned not one, but numerous benign wisps of light, making them dance in the air. She even assisted other students in binding spirits that had gone haywire during their attempts, her skill evident to everyone.
The contrast was devastating. I stood in the shadow of her brilliance, a living testament to my father's greatest disappointment.