Elara Voss hunched over a creaking desk in the dim-lit library, her quill scratching across parchment. The air smelled of mold and ink, thick with Eldoria's fog that clung to the city like a curse. At twenty-two, she was just another orphan scraping by, copying old tomes for a copper a page. Her chestnut hair fell over her face, hiding green eyes that flickered with something dangerous. Magic. Forbidden. Deadly. She'd learned young to keep it buried, after her mother's screams echoed from the gallows. The memory was a knife, sharp and cold, cutting through her every quiet moment. She could still see the flames, the crowd's cheers, her mother's eyes pleading for her to run. That was seven years ago, and Elara had been running ever since, hiding in plain sight, just another face in Eldoria's grimy underbelly.
Tonight, the library was too quiet. Her fingers itched, not from cold, but from the spark inside her. Illusions. She could weave them, make shadows dance, or make faces shift. It was her secret, her shame. A gift she didn't ask for, a curse she couldn't shake. As a child, she'd made flowers bloom in her hands to make her mother smile, but those same tricks got her mother burned. She shook her head, focusing on the page. No mistakes. No attention. Just survive. The words were her mantra, her shield against a world that hunted her kind.
A crash shattered the silence. Her quill skidded, ink splattering. Across the room, a shelf groaned, tilting toward a small boy frozen beneath it. He was scrawny, no older than ten, his eyes wide with terror. Elara's heart lurched. No one else was here. The library was empty, its keeper long gone to bed. No one would see. Her mother's warning screamed in her mind, but the boy's fear was louder. She flicked her wrist, and the air shimmered. An illusion of a wooden brace snapped into place, holding the shelf upright. It wasn't real, but it looked solid enough to fool gravity itself. The boy blinked, unharmed, then bolted out the door, his footsteps fading into the fog. Elara exhaled, her pulse hammering. Safe. For now. Her hands trembled as she wiped the ink from her fingers, the illusion fading like smoke. She'd been reckless, but she couldn't let him die.
Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate. She froze, her breath catching. A man stepped from the shadows, his cloak as dark as the night outside. Tall, sharp cheekbones, dark-flecked hair catching the candlelight. His blue eyes locked on her, sharp and knowing, like he could see through her skin to the magic beneath. "That was no trick of the light," he said, voice low, almost a growl. It wasn't a question. It was a blade, cutting through her defenses.
Elara's stomach twisted. "I don't know what you mean." She shoved her quill into its pot, hands shaking. He'd seen her magic. Her secret, exposed in a heartbeat. She could run, but where? The streets were crawling with guards, their torches hunting witches in the fog. Her satchel was heavy with books, not weapons. She was trapped, cornered by a stranger who knew too much.
He stepped closer, boots soft on the stone floor, moving like a predator who didn't need to rush. "You saved that boy. Why hide it?" His tone wasn't cruel, but curious, like he was peeling back her skin to see her soul. His eyes held hers, unblinking, and she felt bare, like he saw every fear she'd ever buried.
"I didn't do anything." Elara grabbed her satchel, ready to bolt. Her mother's last words rang in her head: Hide it, or it kills you. She'd spent years perfecting her mask, quiet scribe, invisible, harmless. But this man saw through it, and it terrified her. Her fingers brushed the knife hidden in her sleeve, a last resort she'd never used.
The man tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. "You're not like the others. You're scared, but not weak." His voice was softer now, almost gentle, but it didn't ease her fear. He reached out, and she flinched, expecting a blade or chains. Instead, he dropped a coin into her palm. Gold. Heavy, cold, and enough for a month's bread. Her breath caught. No one gave gold to a scribe, not without wanting something.
"Keep your secrets, scribe," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "But someone's always watching." His words were a warning and a promise, they sent a chill down her spine. He turned, his cloak blending into the dark, vanishing as silently as he'd come.
Elara clutched the coin, her heart pounding. Who was he? Why didn't he turn her in? She glanced at the shelf, still standing, her illusion gone. The air felt heavier now, like eyes lingered where he'd stood. She stuffed the coin into her pocket, its weight a reminder of danger. The library, once her sanctuary, felt like a trap. She gathered her things, her hands shaking, and slipped into the fog outside. The streets were alive with whispers—guards shouting, lanterns flickering. Someone had seen something, and Elara knew it was her. The boy, maybe, or worse, the stranger. Her mother's screams echoed louder now, a warning she couldn't ignore. She didn't know it yet, but that gold coin, that fleeting moment of magic, had just set her world on fire.
Her footsteps quickened, the fog swallowing her as she moved toward her attic. Every shadow felt like him, watching, waiting. She'd saved a life tonight, but at what cost? The coin burned in her pocket, a question she couldn't answer. Was it a gift or a trap? Her heart said run, but her gut said there was no running from this. Not anymore. She glanced back, the library fading into the mist, and saw a flicker of movement a cloak, a shadow, gone too fast to be sure. Her breath hitched. Someone was following her, and they weren't just guards. The night had eyes, and they were locked on her.