Stolen Magic

Dinner and Discontent

The smell of rain lingered in the air as Lyra stepped through the door of the cottage. Her boots squeaked against the worn wooden floor, and she toed them off quickly to avoid her mother’s inevitable lecture about tracking mud into the house. Not that her mother was home yet—she was always late from work, wherever that was. Lyra didn’t know, and her parents had never bothered to tell her.

The small entryway led directly into the cramped kitchen, where her father sat at the table, a stack of papers spread out in front of him. He didn’t look up as she entered.

“You’re late,” he said, his tone more a statement than an accusation.

“Hi, Dad,” Lyra said dryly, hanging her coat by the door. “Nice to see you too.”

He grunted, flipping a page in his stack of documents. He always seemed to be working on something important, though Lyra had no idea what it was. Whenever she asked, he’d wave her off with a vague comment about “classified projects” and remind her it wasn’t her concern.

Her stomach growled loudly, and she glanced at the clock. It was already past six, and no one had started dinner. Of course.

“Mom’s not home yet?” Lyra asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Her father finally looked up, his graying eyebrows furrowing. “Do you see her here?”

Lyra rolled her eyes and made her way to the kitchen counter. “I guess I’ll make dinner, then.”

“You always do,” he said absently, returning to his papers.

Lyra opened the fridge, scanning the nearly empty shelves. A few eggs, half a block of cheese, and a sad-looking zucchini stared back at her. She sighed, grabbing what she could and setting it on the counter. Her parents had always insisted on a “self-sufficient upbringing,” which in their eyes meant doing every chore in the house.

“‘Spoiled children make lazy adults,’” she muttered under her breath, mimicking her parents’ favorite mantra. They had a point, sure, but they took it to an extreme.

For as long as she could remember, Lyra had been responsible for everything: cooking, cleaning, laundry, even patching up the leaks in the roof when the rain got too heavy. And it wasn’t just at home. Around the neighborhood, she worked part-time cleaning houses for pocket change. It wasn’t enough to save much, but it was better than nothing.

Everyone treated her like a servant, like her only purpose was to make their lives easier. Sometimes she wondered if that was why she couldn’t fit in, why she always felt like an outsider.

She cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them together, her movements quick and practiced. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow everything has to change.

By the time her mother walked through the door, Lyra had dinner on the table: a frittata made from the eggs, cheese, and zucchini, along with some stale bread she’d toasted to make it edible.

Her mother barely glanced at her as she hung up her coat. “You should have started earlier,” she said, sitting down at the table and pouring herself a glass of water.

“You’re welcome,” Lyra muttered, taking her own seat.

“What was that?” her mother asked, her tone sharp.

“Nothing,” Lyra said quickly, focusing on her plate.

Her father didn’t bother looking up from his papers, and her mother barely ate, picking at her food with the same disinterest she showed everything Lyra did.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Lyra couldn’t hold back anymore. “Do either of you even care that tomorrow’s my birthday?” she asked, her voice louder than she intended.

Her mother set down her fork with a sigh. “What do you want us to do, Lyra? Throw you a party?”

“No, but maybe you could acknowledge it?” Lyra said, her frustration spilling out. “Nineteen’s kind of a big deal. Don’t you think it’s weird that I still don’t have a wolf?”

Her parents exchanged a glance. It was quick, barely perceptible, but Lyra caught it.

“Not this again,” her father said, finally looking up. “You’re obsessing over something you can’t control.”

“Everyone else got theirs at fourteen,” Lyra snapped. “I’m turning nineteen tomorrow. Don’t you think that’s worth talking about?”

Her mother sighed again, her expression tight. “Lyra, you’ve always been different. You know that. Maybe it’s just not meant to happen for you.”

The words hit her like a slap. “Not meant to happen?” she repeated, her voice shaking. “You’re saying I’m never going to get one?”

“We’re saying you need to focus on what you can do, not what you can’t,” her father said.

“Like cooking and cleaning?” Lyra shot back, her hands trembling.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tone.”

Lyra stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I’m done,” she said, turning and storming upstairs before they could stop her.

Lyra shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, her chest heaving. Anger, frustration, and a deep, aching sadness churned inside her, making it impossible to think.

She stared at her reflection in the small mirror on her dresser. Pale skin, unruly dark hair, electric blue eyes that practically glowed in the dim light. She looked like an outsider, like she didn’t belong here—or anywhere.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pulled her knees to her chest and stared out the window. The storm outside was growing stronger, the wind howling against the glass.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thunder. “Tomorrow has to be different.”

She climbed under the covers, her body exhausted but her mind racing. Sleep came in fitful bursts, each one filled with flashes of fire and forests, glowing runes, and a voice she didn’t recognize whispering her name.