A few days passed after the alleyway incident—long enough for the bruises to fade and for the village whispers to settle, but not nearly long enough for the silence between Lila and me to disappear.
No matter what I did, the gap remained.
She still walked beside me when Mother asked, still fetched water when Father worked the fields, still sat at the same table. But the words she once scattered so easily—mischief, laughter, complaints, stories—had vanished.
Whenever I tried to speak to her, her eyes slipped away. If I pressed, she answered in short, clipped phrases. Most often, she didn't answer at all.
I hated it.
Not the bruises. Not the aches. Not Grace's smirk or the guards' fists.
No—what I hated most was the emptiness left behind by my sister's silence.
On the fourth day, I finally confronted her.
We were in the yard—she tending to laundry, me pretending the firewood needed meticulous stacking. The sun was warm on my back, but the air between us was chilled.
"Lila," I said, placing the last log down carefully.
She didn't respond.
I turned. My heart beat faster than it should have. "Are you mad at me?"
Her hands kept moving, wringing out a tunic. Water dripped in steady trails into the dirt. Still nothing.
"Lila, please," I said quietly. "If you're angry, just say it. Don't… don't stay quiet like this."
Her eyes flicked to mine—just for a heartbeat. No anger. No laughter. Only something heavy and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silence.
She looked away again.
Words failed me, as they had every day since the incident.
Mother and Father noticed, of course. They noticed everything, even when they pretended not to.
At supper that evening, Mother tried first. Her calm voice held a bit more weight than usual.
"Lila," she said gently, "Xavier has been worried. He wants to understand why you're upset."
Lila's spoon clinked against her bowl. "I'm not upset."
The answer sliced the air in two.
Father set down his bread. "Lila."
But she only bowed her head, chewing stubbornly, refusing to look at any of us.
I forced a strained smile. "It's fine, Father. Really. I'll figure it out."
But I hadn't—and as the days passed, I wondered if I ever could.
Even our friends noticed.
Seraphina arrived first, bright as always, her pale hair catching sunlight as she leaned over the fence.
"Lila, won't you come play? Or at least talk to your brother? He looks like a lost puppy."
Lila shook her head.
"Why?" Seraphina insisted. "He didn't do anything wrong."
Lila stayed silent. Seraphina huffed and stomped off, defeated.
Darin tried next, standing awkwardly in the yard.
"Lila," he said, "you're being stubborn."
No reply.
"Well… don't be," he muttered, scratching his head before leaving in frustration.
Lyra came last. She sat beside Lila beneath the old tree, hands resting quietly in her lap.
"You know," she murmured, "Xavier looks really sad."
Silence.
Lyra's brows knitted together. "I don't think it's fair. He's your brother."
Still nothing.
When she left, she gave me a helpless shrug.
Even her gentleness had failed.
Just when the silence between us felt permanent, Seraphina burst into our yard one afternoon—flushed, breathless, and radiant.
"I did it!" she cried. "I unlocked my mana!"
We gathered around as her grandfather watched from behind, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Seraphina recounted how the spark had ignited inside her—how the colors revealed themselves after meditation.
"Blue and red," she declared. "Water and fire!"
Two attributes. Even I felt awe stirring.
Her future was already decided: the capital, training, tutors, a noble path.
She visited us one last time.
"I'll miss you," she said softly. Her gaze lingered on Lila, who only gave a faint nod.
We all waved as she walked away with her grandfather, toward a world none of us could follow.
The silence returned heavier than before.
Days became weeks. Weeks slipped into months. Two months later, Darin left as well, his family moving to Qastherindoralivienne—the second-largest city in the kingdom. A name so long and strange it felt like a spell.
He promised to visit, but promises were fragile things.
Just like that, only three of us remained.
Routine took over: fields, chores, meals. The same quiet house. The same unbroken silence from Lila.
No matter what I tried, the gap remained.
But time—stubborn and relentless—moved forward anyway.
Two months became three. Then six. Then a year.
The fields grew and fell. The seasons turned. Father's back stiffened; Mother's hair gathered silver; Lyra grew taller.
And Lila…
She turned eleven.
I turned five.
A year older, a year stronger—yet the distance between us still hung heavy, as though time itself refused to mend it.
Seraphina wrote letters from the capital—tutors, training, wealth beyond imagination. Darin vanished into the vastness of Qastherindoralivienne.
For us, nothing changed.
Until early summer.
One morning, Lila burst into the house, cheeks flushed, hands trembling.
"Mother," she gasped, "I think—I think I unlocked it."
Mother froze, cloth slipping from her hands. "Your mana?"
Lila nodded. "I felt it. A spark. A warmth."
Mother guided her to sit. "Breathe. Close your eyes. Let it show you."
Lila inhaled, rigid at first, then slowly loosening as meditation took hold.
Silence fell.
Minutes passed.
Then—
"…White."
Mother leaned in. "Light?"
"Yes," Lila whispered. "A small glowing globe inside me. And…" Her breath trembled. "Brown. Heavy. Earth."
Two.
Two attributes.
Even among nobles, rare. For commoners—unheard of.
Mother covered her mouth, then pulled Lila into a trembling embrace. "Light and earth. Healing and solidity. My daughter…"
I clapped when Lila opened her eyes, smiling as if I felt no sting at all.
But beneath the ache, something else lit inside me.
Determination.
If she was moving forward, then so would I.
Later that day, I overheard her speaking hesitantly to Mother.
"Can you teach me how to read?"
My ears sharpened instantly.
Mother hesitated. "Of course. If you want to learn, I'll teach you."
"I do," Lila said.
I stepped forward before I could think. "Can I learn too?"
Mother blinked. "Xavier… you're still young. Maybe in a year or two—"
"I'll try my best," I said quickly. "Please, Mama. I want to learn too."
She sighed, conflicted. "If you're that determined, fine. But don't give up easily."
I nodded.
I already knew how to read.
But if sitting beside Lila meant bridging the distance between us—even if I had to pretend—I would do it.
That night, staring at the ceiling, a plan formed.
If I invited Lyra, it would feel natural. Less pressure on Lila. More like the way things were before everything fell apart.
Tomorrow, I would go to Lyra's house.
Tomorrow, I would try again.
This time, I wouldn't fail.
The next morning, I left the house with purpose.
Mist still clung to the fields. Birds sang their morning song. Lyra's house—just two doors down—felt farther than ever.
I knocked.
The door swung open immediately.
Lyra's mother stood there—tall, striking, flour-dusted from baking. Her beauty clung to her even through years of farm life.
Her eyes brightened. "Well, well! Little Xavier! What brings you here so early? Don't tell me you're already here to steal my Lyra away!"
I froze. "W–What?"
Her grin sharpened. "Oh, don't play innocent. I know that look in boys—wide eyes, nervous feet! Are you here to ask for her hand already? Or just to practice?"
"I—I'm five!"
"Mm-hmm," she hummed. "And Lyra is nine. Perfect age difference! Why, in a decade—"
"Mother," a calm voice said.
Lyra appeared behind her, hair neatly brushed, expression flat.
"Stop."
Her mother laughed theatrically. "Oh, don't glare at me. It's a mother's duty to be prepared for the future! And if the future happens to be standing right on our doorstep—"
"I'm not bashful!" I blurted.
"Oh, defensive too! A promising start."
Lyra sighed. "I'm not marrying Xavier."
Her certainty was blunt, emotionless—like stating the weather.
My stomach twisted in a way I didn't understand.
Her mother gasped. "Why not? He's a sweet boy! Look at that serious little face—he'll break hearts one day!"
"Mother," Lyra warned again.
Laughing, she stepped aside. "Fine, fine. Come in, Xavier. What brings you here—if not marriage proposals?"
The house smelled of fresh bread and herbs. Warm, lived-in.
I cleared my throat. "I… came to ask if Lyra wants to join us. Mama is going to teach Lila how to read. I want to learn too. I thought… maybe she could join."
Lyra tilted her head. "Learn to read?"
"Yes," I said. "You look at books sometimes. I thought it might be easier together."
Her eyes narrowed. "But you already know how to read, don't you?"
My breath caught. "W–What makes you think that?"
"You hold books like someone who understands them," she replied simply. "Not like someone pretending."
I forced a laugh. "I… pretend. That's all."
She studied me for a long moment—searching, peeling back the lie—then nodded slowly.
"Fine. I'll join."
Relief washed over me.
Her mother clapped. "Wonderful! A reading circle! And maybe later—"
"Mother."
She laughed and returned to her baking. "But mark my words, Xavier—if you hurt my little Lyra, I'll tell your mother before sunset!"
I groaned.
Lyra merely sighed, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope.
Maybe—just maybe—this plan would work.