CHAPTER ONE: THE GIRL WHO HAD NOTHING
In Eldervale, power was not a miracle.
It was an expectation.
The village lay in a wide valley surrounded by ancient hills carved with glowing runes. Those runes had been placed there hundreds of years ago, fed by the magic of the people. As long as the villagers lived and used their gifts, Eldervale would prosper. Crops would grow. Storms would turn away. Enemies would lose their way before ever reaching the gates.
Magic kept the village alive.
Every child was born with a single gift, tied to their blood and spirit. Families often passed powers down through generations—fire to fire, water to water. Children were trained early, praised loudly, and measured constantly.
A child without magic was unthinkable.
A witch, however, was expected.
Once every two thousand years, a witch was born. The elders spoke of it the way one might speak of a long winter or a failed harvest—unfortunate, but unavoidable.
Witches were born without a natural gift. They did not glow. They did not spark. They did not bend the world by instinct. According to the village belief, witches were empty, incomplete, and dependent.
They were weak.
So when Mireya was born and the room remained silent—no flickering candles, no rush of air—the elders did not panic.
They sighed.
"She is the witch," the eldest said quietly.
Mireya's mother clutched her newborn to her chest, already sensing that her daughter would grow up alone.
Mireya's earliest memories were of watching.
She watched other children make mistakes and be praised for them. A boy once set fire to a fence by accident and was celebrated for his "strong spark." A girl flooded half a street and was gently guided toward control.
When Mireya broke something, she was scolded.
Because she had no excuse.
At five years old, she attended the Gift Awakening with the others. She stood beneath the Great Ash Tree, its roots glowing faintly as they drank in the children's magic.
When it was Mireya's turn, she stood very still.
She already knew nothing would happen.
Nothing did.
The tree did not respond. The runes stayed dark. The elders nodded and moved on.
From that day forward, Mireya was invisible.
But invisibility has advantages.
Mireya spent long hours in the archive, shelving books no one read anymore. She listened to conversations not meant for her. She observed training sessions from the edges of fields.
She noticed patterns others ignored.
Fire-mages needed fuel—emotion or movement. Water-users relied on rhythm. Earth-gifted pressed their feet into the ground before working. Wind-speakers inhaled deeply, every time.
Magic was not chaos.
It was structure.
When Mireya discovered the first potion book hidden behind broken shelves, she didn't feel excitement.
She felt recognition.
The book did not speak of gifts or bloodlines. It spoke of components, balance, intent. It described magic as something that could be assembled.
That night, Mireya worked until her hands were stained and sore. She followed the instructions exactly.
When the potion worked, it was quiet.
No explosion. No glow.
Just heat pooling in her chest.
A flame bloomed in her palm.
She dropped the vial and laughed softly into her sleeve.
Fire magic.
Not borrowed.Not stolen.
Made.
Over weeks, then months, she experimented. She brewed water-breathing elixirs, earth-strength draughts, wind-sight tonics. Each potion granted a different power—temporary, yes, but complete.
She wrote everything down.
And slowly, Mireya understood something no one else in Eldervale did.
The villagers had been born with walls.
She had been born with doors.
One day, those doors would open.
And the village that called witches weak would have to face the truth.