Sunlight hit the cobblestones of Brimbottle like a spilled bucket of yellow paint, warming the damp morning air. The vegetable seller waved a bruised parsnip at me with the enthusiasm of a general commanding troops. "Clover! You look like you slept in a hedge!" she yelled, her voice carrying over the morning crowd. Laughing, I adjusted the strap of my heavy wicker basket. "Only half the night," I called back, stepping around a puddle that smelled faintly of fermented yeast. "My night was spent grinding peppermint instead." Mabel, the owner of Hearth & Herb, appeared beside the baker's stall, her silver hair a wild cloud and her spectacles resting on her head. She pressed a warm braided roll into my basket, her many-pocketed apron dusted with flour from where she had been leaning on the counter. "Don't you go wearing yourself out, girl," she said. "Tess needs you healthy if you're going to nurse her through this spell." Kindness in Brimbottle was always heavy, wrapped in thick layers of gossip and unsolicited advice. I thanked her, pocketing the bread with a grateful nod before moving down the narrow lane of stalls. "You look like you need a good meal and a long sleep, Clover," Mabel added, her eyes narrowing as she inspected my face. "I'm fine," I lied, offering a tight smile. "And how is Tess? I heard the apothecary's wagon went out toward the east road yesterday." "She's the same," I murmured, adjusting the strap of my basket. "The cough is worse in the mornings. I've been making her pine-needle tea, but it barely touches it." Mabel clucked her tongue. "Witherlung is a wicked thing. My sister's boy had it two winters ago. They tried everything, warm onion poultices, goose fat on his chest, even had a local hedge-witch wave a glowing feather over him." "Did it work?" I asked. "Not a bit," Mabel sighed. "The boy only got better when they paid a real mage to blow the ash out of his lungs. Cost them months of savings." "It's a criminal racket," I said, my throat tight. Magic was a luxury, a glittering wall that kept the rest of us out. Every turn of the market brought a new scent: roasting chicory, wet wool, and the sharp metallic tang of low-grade mana potions sold by traveling peddlers. Those potions were mostly colored water and sugar, but people bought them anyway, desperate for a shortcut. I knew better. Born without a single drop of innate magic, I was as ordinary as the dirt beneath my boots. While other children had sparked small flames or summoned glowing butterflies, my only talent was identifying twenty different types of moss by touch. It was a useful skill for working at Hearth & Herb, but it did not get you invited to the academies. Still, we got by. Tess and I had run the little shop since my father passed, selling dried herbs and basic remedies to people who could not afford a real healer's fee. Now the shop was closed, a wooden sign hanging on the door reading Closed for Illness. --- Walking away from the bustling market, the noise faded into a quiet hum. Brimbottle was old, its timber-framed houses leaning against one another like tired drinkers. Hearth & Herb sat at the end of a winding alley, its green painted door peeling and faded. Stepping inside, the familiar scent of dried lavender and damp earth offered a momentary comfort. Usually the shop was filled with the soft rustle of paper bags and the chatter of elderly neighbors looking for joint ointment. Today it was silent. Hearth & Herb was normally a sanctuary of smells. Bundles of dried sage, sweet marjoram, and pungent garlic hung from the low wooden rafters. Jars of ground ginger, mustard seed, and crushed rosehips lined the shelves behind the counter. Tess had spent twenty years organizing those jars, labeling each one in her neat looping handwriting. Now the jars were dusty, the counters coated in a fine layer of gray pollen. Running my finger through the dust, I felt a lump rise in my throat. This place was our entire life, and it was slowly grinding to a halt. Father had passed away five years ago, leaving us with nothing but the shop and a mountain of debt. Tess had worked herself to the bone to pay it off, working twelve-hour days in the damp shop. Her lungs had never been strong, and the damp valley air of Brimbottle had done the rest. Witherlung was common among the valley folk, but usually people had some savings. We had spent nearly all of ours on the deposit for the St. Ashwick's healer. Upstairs, a wet rattling cough broke the quiet. I hurried up the creaking wooden steps. Our living quarters were small, a tiny kitchen and two bedrooms separated by a thin curtain. Tess lay beneath three heavy wool blankets, her skin the color of curdled milk. Her breathing sounded like dry paper scraping together. "I'm back, Mom," I whispered, kneeling beside the bed and pressing a cool damp cloth to her forehead. She did not open her eyes, but her hand twitched, her fingers weakly grasping at my sleeve. "Water," she rasped. Carefully lifting her head, I guided the cup to her cracked lips and watched her swallow with painful difficulty. Witherlung was a cruel disease, slowly turning the lung tissue to dry ash. Standard herbs could only slow it down. Only a professional healer from St. Ashwick's could purge the sickness completely. We had spent every coin we had to secure an appointment. Now we were just waiting. --- A sharp rap on the door downstairs made me startle, nearly spilling the water. Thinking the healer had arrived early, I flew down the stairs and threw open the door. The courier stood on the step, holding a thick envelope sealed with the official purple wax of St. Ashwick's Academy. His pitying expression made my smile die instantly. "Just came in on the morning coach," he said, handing it over with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Clover." My fingers trembled as I tore the seal and read the elegant calligraphy. The message was clear: Delayed. An unexpected migration of sky-serpents had blocked the northern pass, grounding all academy carriage-beasts and magic-users for at least five days. Five days. Tess would not last three. Anger flared in my chest. They did not care about a tiny herb shop in a backwater town. To the mages of St. Ashwick's, we were statistics, minor casualties of a minor inconvenience. I closed the door and leaned against the wood as the tears came, hot and angry. We had done everything right. Paying the fees and filling out the forms had drained our savings while she grew weaker. Now, because of some oversized lizards, she was going to die. "No," I whispered to the empty shop. "I won't let you." --- Desperation drove me back upstairs, my mind spinning. I had no magical training, no mana pools to draw from, and no family connections. But I had one thing. Entering my own tiny bedroom, I dropped to my hands and knees beside the iron cot. Dust bunnies clung to my hair as I reached beneath the frame and closed my hand around the cold, cracked leather of the grimoire. I dragged it out and blew a thick layer of dust off the cover. This book was a joke. I had bought it three years ago from a secondhand stall at the edge of the market for 200 fon, hoping it held the secret to unlocking some dormant spark inside me. It had yielded nothing but frustration and a week of singed eyebrows from trying to read the faded diagrams by candlelight. The merchant had called it a genuine wizard's diary, but most of the pages were filled with grocery lists and nonsense poetry. Yet as I sat on the floor with the heavy volume in my lap, a strange pull settled in my chest. Maybe it was imagination. Maybe it was terror. Opening the cover, the scent of mildew and ancient paper filled the room. I began to flip through the pages. Most of it was useless: recipes for hair-growth potions that required unicorn hair, and warding spells that needed dragon scale. We did not have dragons in Brimbottle, only particularly aggressive geese. I remembered trying one of the basic chants during my first week with the book. The words had sat flat on my tongue like old bread. No light, no heat, no spark. My hands stayed exactly the same color, and my wool socks remained safely unburnt. Tess had laughed anyway and told me that at least I had not managed to set the house on fire. That memory hurt now. I wanted her to laugh like that again. Flipping faster, my thumb caught on a section near the very back. Two pages seemed stuck together, their edges sealed by a stubborn yellowed wax. Using a small paring knife from my pocket, I carefully slid the blade between the sheets. The wax gave way with a soft crack, revealing a hidden spread of dense elegant handwriting. Unlike the messy scribbles in the rest of the book, these pages were immaculate. A complex geometric circle was drawn in the center, surrounded by runes that seemed to shimmer slightly under the dim candlelight. My heart did a strange, erratic dance. This was a ritual. Specifically, a summoning ritual for a familiar. According to the text, a familiar was not just a pet. It was a bridge. A non-innate summoner could form a bond with a creature that held its own mana. Under the summoner's direction, that familiar could perform the magic independently, filtering toxins and strengthening a failing body. It was a lifelink. If I could summon a familiar, I could keep Tess alive until the healers arrived. My eyes drifted to the margin, where a different pen had scribbled a hasty note. It worked once. It can work again. Those words sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins. It was real. Someone had actually done this. An ordinary girl, desperate and magicless, had stood in a dark room and successfully called a spirit from the beyond. This useless secondhand book was not useless after all. It was a lifeline. --- I read the instructions over and over, my chest tight with hope and terror. The requirements were deceptively simple: three white candles, a circle drawn in chalk, and a drop of the summoner's blood to seal the contract. The warnings were terrifying. If the summoner's will faltered, the entity could consume their mind and leave behind a hollow shell. Worse, if the summoner had no innate magic, the ritual would feed directly on their physical vitality. I could die. But from behind the curtain that separated our rooms, Tess gasped for air again. Weak and soft, a pathetic flutter of failing strength. She did not have time for me to be afraid. Slowly, I reached out and touched the scratchy ink of the marginal note. "It worked once," I whispered, my voice steadying. If someone else had survived it, so could I. I closed the grimoire, the heavy leather thudding against my knees. Rising to my feet, I walked to the small wooden chest in the corner and pulled out three tallow candles and a stub of white chalk. My hands were steady now. Fear had been replaced by cold, hard resolve. I placed the candles on the floor in a triangle and set the grimoire in the center. Next door, Tess slept, her breathing shallow but steady. I stared down at the ancient runes and traced the chalk lines with my eyes. There would be no turning back once I started. Closing my eyes, I let the silence settle over me, feeling the cold weight of the decision in my chest. I was going to do it.

Chapter 1: The Book Under the Bed