Somewhere between age three and four, I began to suspect the universe was conspiring against me.
Not in the dramatic, evil overlord sort of way—but in the subtle, insidious fashion of someone up there deciding that my internal suffering would make excellent comedic entertainment.
Case in point: the twins.
Their family moved into Greystone Vale during a long stretch of rain. Their wagon got stuck in the mud outside the village, and it took six men, two oxen, and a lot of shouting to get it free.
Malia brought them soup. I brought silent judgment.
Then I saw the children.
The girl, Mira, was energy incarnate. She bounced instead of walked, laughed with her whole body, and had enough freckles to map a small constellation.
Her brother, Leo, was quieter. Soft-spoken. Watchful. And for reasons beyond my comprehension, completely enchanted by me.
Like, staring enchanted.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked Malia after their first visit.
She smiled knowingly. "He likes you."
"But I didn't do anything."
"Sometimes that's all it takes."
Eren chimed in with a smirk. "He's a good lad. Maybe one day—"
"Nope!" I shouted.
"Elara," Malia scolded gently, "don't be rude."
"I'm not being rude, I'm being preventative."
They laughed.
I sulked.
Mira was impossible to dislike. She radiated sunshine. On our first playdate, she took one look at my stern expression, declared, "You're mine now!" and dragged me into a game involving sticks, mud, and a complex system of pretend taxes.
She collected leaves as currency and fined me five bark chips for "excessive frowning."
It was strangely fun.
By the end of the week, we had a secret fort, a shared collection of shiny rocks, and a plan to build a mud bakery. She named it "Mira & Elara's Wondercakes."
I provided structural diagrams.
She provided joy.
She also insisted on doing my hair.
"Sit still!" Mira chirped, trying to tame my hair with a stick she swore was a 'magic comb.'
"I am sitting still."
"You keep making your thinking face."
"That's just my face."
Leo watched from a stump nearby, his chin in his hands, eyes dreamy.
"Oh stars, he's doing it again," I muttered.
"Doing what?" Mira asked.
"Looking at me like I'm a sunset made of cookies."
Mira fell over laughing.
Leo turned scarlet.
Leo, on the other hand, was a constant source of emotional whiplash.
He followed me like a well-behaved shadow. Always polite. Always helpful. Always there.
If I dropped something, he picked it up.
If I tripped, he offered a hand.
If I so much as sneezed, he looked ready to challenge the wind to a duel.
It was sweet.
And horrifying.
Especially because the adults kept making it worse.
"He's going to be so handsome one day," Malia said once.
"Maybe Elara and Leo will grow up and get married," Mira's mother giggled.
I nearly choked on my porridge.
Leo turned purple and bolted.
I followed suit.
One afternoon, I was testing a simple pressure plate made of bark and twine. It was meant to trigger a mechanical release when someone stepped on it.
Leo stepped on it.
It didn't trigger.
Instead, the bark snapped in half and he fell forward—right into me.
We toppled.
He landed with his face in my lap.
Everyone gasped. I screamed. Mira screamed louder. Leo apologized so fast he broke language.
Malia, bless her heart, tried to cover her laugh.
Eren gave Leo a thumbs-up.
I considered moving to another dimension.
These incidents repeated.
Leo brought me flowers. They had bugs.
Leo offered to carry my notebook. He tripped and dropped it in a trough.
Leo tried to defend my honor in an argument with a goose. The goose won.
"Why is he like this?" I asked Mira one day.
She shrugged. "He likes you. He thinks you're amazing."
"I'm just a kid."
"He says you think like a wizard and smell like apples."
I choked on my juice.
Despite the embarrassment, I liked them. Mira with her chaotic joy, Leo with his quiet loyalty.
They made the world feel... lighter.
Less like a prison sentence and more like a long, strange vacation.
We built things. Mud castles. Twig traps. One time a vaguely functional swing out of a rope, two crates, and an ambitious branch.
We broke many things, too.
The fence. The laundry line. My self-esteem.
But we laughed a lot.
I also started wearing more dresses.
Apparently, being the "pretty one" meant constant ruffles, bows, and pastel floral nightmares.
"This one has tiny stars!" Malia cooed.
"I hate it."
"You look adorable."
"I look like a marshmallow lost a fight with a glitter factory."
She kissed my forehead and tightened the bow.
One morning, Malia announced that I was finally old enough to come to the village market.
I paused mid-rune sketch. "Really?"
"You've earned it. Just no running off."
I could've hugged her.
Instead, I did a little victory dance that made Mira laugh and Leo blush so hard he looked sunburned.
The market was everything I'd hoped for. Carts overflowing with vegetables. Tables covered in dyed fabrics. Tools. Spices. Music. Smells. And best of all—*
Runes.*
They were everywhere.
On doors. On wagons. On cooking stoves. Some etched into tiles. Others embedded in trinkets.
I nearly fainted from joy.
One stall had rune-engraved stones with flickering symbols. The merchant explained they were "basic storage arrays" for household use—lighting, temperature regulation, or mild repulsion.
I asked if they were stable.
He blinked. "You know what that means?"
"...Lucky guess?"
He chuckled. "Smart kid."
I bought one with the coins Eren had given me—an old, scratched piece barely glowing.
"Probably dead," he said.
I didn't care.
I had tech.
That night, in the attic, I set up my tools. Spoons. Bark. The new rune stone.
I tapped it with a stick. Nothing.
I pressed my hand to it. Nothing.
Then I focused.
Hard.
Imagined heat. Flow. Energy.
It sparked.
Just once.
But it sparked.
I screamed. Quietly. Into a pillow.
Then I did it again.
And again.
Eventually, the glow returned—dim, weak, but mine.
"I have mana," I whispered. "I can store mana."
It changed everything.
I gathered Mira and Leo the next day.
"We're building a generator," I announced.
"What's a generator?" Mira asked.
"A magical power source. We'll use wind and water to charge a rune."
Leo's eyes lit up. "Like a lightning trap?"
"Close. But safer."
We scavenged materials—wheels, planks, buckets. Leo carved paddles. Mira painted symbols. I etched trial runes onto slate.
The first windmill collapsed in a light breeze.
The second caught fire.
The waterwheel leaked. Constantly.
But the rune? It pulsed.
Just once.
We all screamed.
Then laughed.
Then started again.
This was how it began.
Not with a chosen one.
Not with divine gifts.
But with a girl in a star-print dress, two overly enthusiastic sidekicks, and a broken windmill made of hope and junk.
Magic, meet stubborn curiosity.
You're going to be very good friends.