Interlude A1.VIII
Eight Years Ago...
Magdalena lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like to move without pain. The ceiling was plain and white, a blank void, devoid of life and feeling. It was safer to look at than the window, where the autumn leaves danced in the breeze, reminding her of the outside world she couldn’t reach anymore. The leaves were beautiful, red and gold, swirling like little sparks of fire. But every time she looked at them, it made her chest tighten with a longing that hurt almost as much as the sickness itself.
She didn’t want to feel that hurt anymore, so she kept her eyes on the ceiling, pretending she was anywhere but there. But that was hard to do in the quiet of her room. It was the kind of quiet that made her ears ring, like the silence was pressing in on her, trying to smother her—make her disappear. She used to love the quiet, especially in the early mornings when the whole manor still slept, and she could sneak outside to explore the sprawling grounds of Soulgrave House—finding small hideaways and hidden treasures. But now, the quiet was different. Suffocating.
She shifted slightly on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but every movement sent sharp, tingling pain through her limbs. Her arms and legs felt like they didn’t belong to her anymore, like they were just heavy weights attached to her body, too tired to listen when she told them to move. A couple of days ago she stopped being able to move her arms enough to play Sovereign’s Gambit. The board sat pushed aside on her bedside table, the pieces crafted from bone and dark wood left in a forgotten struggle for supremacy.
The worst part was the breathing. Each breath was a struggle, her chest rising and falling with an effort that felt like she was lifting a mountain with every inhale. The rasping, desperate rattle filled the room with its sad song. The metallic tang of magic still clings to the air—one of the healers having just finished their work. Magdalena wasn’t magic herself—at least not yet—but the healing spells were woven many layers thick, penetrating deep into her body, trying to replace the broken with something new. Magdalena didn’t think the magic was working.
She could hear voices outside her door, her father’s deep, stern voice mixing with her mother’s softer, calmer tones. A third voice, the healer, was quieter, almost nervous, like they were afraid to say what needed to be said.
“She’s strong,” the healer was saying, “stronger than most children her age who’ve contracted this illness. Her unnaturally high vitality improves her chances. But I can’t guarantee a full recovery. The disease has taken a toll on her nervous system. It’s… difficult to predict how much she’ll regain.”
Magdalena’s fingers curled slightly, the tips brushing the soft fabric of her blanket. She wanted to get up, to walk out there and show them she wasn’t weak, but her body refused to cooperate. She was stuck here, a prisoner in her own skin, listening to words she wasn’t supposed to hear.
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Her father’s voice came next, and it made her stomach twist into a knot. “This is unacceptable. We took every precaution. This… contamination should never have happened.” His tone was cold, clinical, like he was talking about a broken piece of equipment instead of his daughter. “She was supposed to be the strongest, and now look at her . . . Ruined.”
Magdalena’s breath caught in her throat. Ruined. The word echoed in her mind, heavy and painful. Was that what she was now? Something broken? A failure? The illness had spread across the countryside. No one thought that it would reach Calmarsh, but her father took additional measures to protect Soulgrave House. No one was permitted to enter or leave. And yet, the illness found a way into its walls. Magdalena was the only child who succumbed to the illness.
Her mother’s voice was a balm, softer and more understanding, but it didn’t make the hurt go away. “She’s not ruined. Magdalena’s strong. You’ve seen it yourself. The Testing is in a year, and you know that sometimes a Full Awakening can correct physical ailments. We shouldn’t give up on her. Not yet.”
Give up on her. The words made her chest feel tight in a different way, like something was squeezing her heart until it hurt. Her parents were talking about her like she was some kind of project, something to be fixed or abandoned if it didn’t turn out right. It made her feel small, like a little speck in a big, scary world that didn’t care if she disappeared. Suddenly, the presence of the other children at Soulgrave House seemed more like a rumbling storm on a distant horizon.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, trying to block out the voices, the pain . . . everything. She didn’t want to be there anymore, didn’t want to be stuck in this body that hurt so much. The tears spilled out anyway, hot and fast, running down her cheeks and soaking into her pillow. She turned away from the sterile, empty ceiling and looked out the window. In the blurry splash of color, she swore she saw a black splotch. Was that a raven perched on her window sill? Magdalena blinked away the bubbling tears, but when her vision cleared there was nothing there. Perhaps what she had seen had flown away. I wish I could just fly away . . . far from here, she thought.
She was supposed to be strong, like her father wanted. She was supposed to be better. But now, all she could do was lie here, crying quietly so they wouldn’t hear her, wishing she could go back to the days before the sickness passed through Calmarsh, strolling into the gates of that lonely manor atop the hill. Ruined. The word took another stab at her heart.
Magdalena didn’t know how long she lay there, listening to the muffled voices outside, the tears still slipping down her face. She felt so tired, so very tired, like she could sink into the bed and disappear. Maybe that would be easier.
But deep down, a small part of her still fought, still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—things would get better. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when, but that tiny spark of hope was all she had left. It flickered weakly, barely enough to keep the darkness at bay, but it was there, whispering to her to hold on, just a little longer. Not yet, don’t give up yet.
So, she kept her eyes shut, letting the tears come, and waited for the day when she could finally move again. When she could prove to everyone that she wasn’t ruined, that she was still Magdalena—still strong, still whole, no matter what the sickness tried to take from her.