Magic was supposed to be everywhere.

That’s what the books said. The ones in the schoolhouse we weren’t allowed to take home.

That’s what the old men at the well said too, when they talked like they knew things. They said magic was in the dirt and the sky and the wind. In rocks and rivers. In you, if you were born special.

But not here. Not in Mera.

Not in me.

                                                                                             ***

They said the Empire was huge. So big you could walk your whole life and still not reach the end. I believed that.

Mera was so small it didn’t even fit all the way on the map at school. Just a dot with no name. I found it once, I think.

Mama said in the cities, magic made light float and streets shine. Towers touched the clouds. One spell could open the earth like a mouth. That’s what the soldiers told us when they stopped by. They always talked like they wanted us to feel small.

Some people had what they called “mana cores.” If yours was strong, you could feel the magic inside everything. Move it like a string.

If you had one, you got picked. You got to leave. You got to be someone.

If not… you stayed here.

The people with mana became lords and ladies. They wore long coats and had sharp shoes and names that everyone had to remember. Their children had magic too. They didn’t have to earn it. It just showed up in them, like fancy silver hair or soft hands.

At the very top were the Imperial Family. Their faces were on the coins, and on banners that blew in the wind when the soldiers rode past. Mama once said they could tear down a city just by thinking. I asked her what that meant, but she didn’t answer.

The cities were all built where magic was strongest, on ley lines, invisible rivers under the ground. Mama said you could feel them if you stood still long enough. But I never felt anything.

Mera didn’t have one. Not a real one.

Someone once said our leyline dried up a long time ago. Maybe it died. Maybe it got lost.

People here didn’t light candles with spells. We had to use matches. We had to walk to the well for water. We had to wait for bread to rise.

It never felt strange to me. It just felt like how things were.

We weren’t special.

We were just a village. Muddy roads, slanted fences, wet winters, sometimes-warm bread.

Magic was a thing that belonged to faraway people.

Not to us. Not to me.

                                                                                             ***

That afternoon, I sat by the hearth with my chin on my knees, watching Mama knead dough.

Her hands pushed and folded like they were dancing without music.

The whole house smelled like yeast and smoke. Warm.

Mama’s hair had come loose again. It always did. A black curl stuck to her cheek, but she just blew at it and kept going. Her arms were pale, even though she worked outside every day.

Mira was under the table again. Her favorite spot. She was whispering things to herself and giggling like she had a secret.

She was five, but she talked like she was already in charge of everything.

“Come play outside!” she yelled suddenly, loud enough to make me jump.

“After dinner,” I said, but I smiled a little.

“Nooo! Now!”

Mama sighed but didn’t stop working. “Asbeel, water for the stew first. Then you can run around.”

“Yes, Mama.”

                                                                                             ***

I took the dented bucket from near the door. It was old, the bottom scraped from so many trips to the well. I caught my reflection in the side, just a blur.

My hair didn’t look like Mira’s. Hers was dark and wild and bounced around like it had plans.

Mine was pale and straight and always in the way.

Mama said I got it from my father. But I didn’t remember him. Just a few old stories she didn’t like to finish.

I pushed my hair behind my ear. It fell back again.

The well was in the center of the village, near a signpost that didn’t point anywhere anymore. The words were rubbed away from too many rains.

Outside, the air felt weird. Thick, like soup that hadn’t boiled yet. Heavy.

Both moons were up, even though it wasn’t night yet. The silver one looked tired, and the blue one looked stretched too thin.

The clouds were wrong too. Long and flat like someone had tried to iron them.

Twelve steps to the gate. Eighteen more to the square.

I didn’t mean to count. The numbers just showed up.

A dog barked once, far down the road.

Then again.

Then stopped.

I paused and looked around. The quiet felt too big.

Then Mira’s voice came, all sing-song and loud.

She was already halfway up the tree near the field. The one with the roots that poked out of the ground like fingers.

“I’m going higher today!” she shouted.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re going to fall.”

“No I won’t!”

Her laugh bounced across the yard. It sounded too bright against all the stillness.

                                                                                             ***

Mama’s voice floated through the air, soft but sharp:

“Supper soon! Don’t wander far!”

Mira didn’t answer. She was busy climbing.

I stood there for a while, holding the bucket and looking at the sky.

Something felt off. The colors didn’t match the time. The air had no edges.

Even the silence felt strange, like it was listening.

I rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was just tired.

But something in my chest felt small and tight.

And way under the ground, lower than roots, lower than bones, I thought something moved.

Just a little.

Like a breath.