The morning sun had barely crept over the eastern hills when Tista began coughing again.
At first, it was the usual dry rasp that came and went in quiet fits. But within moments, the coughs grew violent—deep, hacking spasms that wracked her tiny frame and brought her to her knees. Her lips paled. Her breathing turned ragged.
Elina didn't hesitate.
Without a word, she grabbed Tista, wrapped her in a blanket, and called for Lucian and Laila to get dressed. Their questions went unanswered. There was no time.
The twins had never seen their mother move so quickly.
She bundled the three of them into the old cart and began the walk toward the village healer's house—Nana's home. It was a route they had only taken once before, and never this early in the day. Fog still clung to the earth like ghosts refusing to depart, and the dew made the wagon wheels squeak as they turned.
Lucian and Laila sat in silence beside their sister, who had grown still, her tiny chest rising and falling with shallow, wheezing breaths. The tension in the air was thicker than the fog. They didn't speak. They didn't dare.
By the time they arrived, the sun had risen above the trees, and the village was beginning to stir. Nana's house stood on the far side of the square, just past the baker's shop and the well. The twins had passed it many times but had never truly looked at it before.
Now they stared in awe.
It was bigger than their home by far—two full stories of sturdy stone and timber, with wide windows and a thick red door that stood half-open. Ivy crawled up its side, and little glass bottles hung from the porch like wind chimes, clinking faintly in the breeze.
"She lives alone?" Lucian whispered.
Elina, still cradling Tista in her arms, didn't answer. Her expression was tight with worry.
Laila's eyes lingered on the house. If Nana could afford this kind of place on a healer's income, then magic—light magic especially—had to be powerful and profitable. The thought stirred something inside her. Determination. Ambition.
I have to learn it. I have to master it, she thought. Not just for Tista—but for all of us.
Inside, the house smelled of strange herbs and faint incense, the kind that clung to your skin like dust. The front room was wide and dimly lit by lanterns, despite the sunlight outside. A bench-lined wall framed the room, and a thick curtain hung at the far right, shielding the back half of the house where Nana saw her patients.
Already, the waiting room was filling. Mothers with sick children, old men holding their sides, and a few solitary villagers sat quietly, all waiting their turn. A door to the left was closed, likely leading to Nana's personal quarters.
Elina guided Lucian and Laila to a bench in the corner, carefully removed their outer cloaks, and whispered, "Stay quiet. Don't disturb anyone."
Then, as Tista's coughing subsided into weak whimpers, Elina went to speak with the other mothers, exchanging worried glances and quiet stories. Their words were a low hum of warnings, remedies, and gossip.
Lucian sat still, but Laila was already scanning the room. Not for danger—but for knowledge.
The waiting room was plain. Stone floor. Worn benches. A few dried herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling. But as she wandered closer to the curtain—curious without being mischievous—she noticed a small cabinet that stood slightly ajar.
Inside were books. Dozens of them, stacked and shelved with the careless reverence of someone who used them daily.
She glanced back. Her mother was deep in conversation, and no one else was watching. Her heart beat a little faster as she stepped closer, scanning the titles.
Most were labeled in faded ink: Elemental Flow Theory, Runes of the Circle, A Treatise on Binding. But one caught her eye—plain, brown, and simply titled:
"The Basics of Magic."
Without thinking, Laila reached in and gently pulled it from the shelf. She glanced around once more, then slipped behind the curtain just enough to be hidden from view. The book was thick and heavy in her small hands, but she felt none of the strain. Her mind was already diving into the pages.
I'm only three years old, she thought, amused. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
She skipped the formal preface—some clunky passage about ancient traditions and ethical responsibility—and went straight to the meat: the elements.
Fire. Earth. Water. Air. Light. Darkness.
The book wasn't advanced, but it was detailed. Fire magic, it explained, was the rawest of the elements—easy to call, difficult to control. Earth magic emphasized resilience and strength, the power to shape terrain and bolster the body. That much aligned with what she had imagined.
But water magic surprised her.
It wasn't just manipulation of rivers and moisture. A practiced user could alter temperature, cooling water until it turned to ice—or even generate it from thin air. Some advanced users could cleanse wounds or preserve herbs. Water magic, the book said, could be gentle or deadly, depending on the will of the user.
Air magic, too, held hidden depths. Though weather manipulation required a master's skill, even beginners could generate lightning with the right conditions. It was about motion, charge, and breath—a wild, unpredictable element.
Then came light and darkness.
They were grouped in a single chapter, which annoyed Laila at first—she had hoped for more detail. But as she read, she began to understand why.
Light magic, the book said, was traditionally associated with healing, purification, and clarity. It was not just about making things glow—it was about revealing truth, mending wounds, and nurturing life.
Darkness, in contrast, dealt with concealment, erosion, and decay. It could eat light, numb pain, or strip memories. And yet, despite its ominous descriptions, it was not presented as evil—only misunderstood.
Together, they formed a balance.
"The world," the author wrote, "was born of both flame and shadow. Light cannot exist without darkness to define it. Likewise, shadow is meaningless without something to obscure."
What fascinated Laila most wasn't the philosophy—it was the potential. Light magic could heal. Could maybe even help Tista. But the book's section on medicine was primitive. It didn't mention the words she remembered—disinfection, sepsis, sterilization. All it offered were vague instructions and ancient herbal wisdom.
Still, the idea that she could learn this… that she could do something no one else in her family dared try… it sparked a fire in her.
One day, she thought, clutching the book close for a moment, I'll know more than Nana. I'll know how to fix Tista. For real.
A sudden cough from the other side of the curtain startled her, and she quickly returned the book to its place in the cabinet, slipping out and making her way back to the bench.
Lucian looked at her curiously. "What did you see?"
She didn't answer, not right away. She simply smiled to herself and whispered, "Nothing much. Just a reminder that we've got a lot to learn."
Moments later, Nana emerged from behind the curtain and waved them in.
Laila glanced once more at the cabinet of books before following her family into the treatment room.
Her mind wasn't on Tista anymore. It was racing with elements, light and shadow, books and bones—and a fire growing steadily in her chest.