In this world, magic decides many things, but it's not omnipotent—like the human heart, it's full of paradoxes. Fate gifted me with a vast supply of mana, as if nature had judged, "I'll give this one enough to mount an entire army." She then added with a grin, "But it's useless—like a fly in the ointment ." My magic exists like breath that can't light a fire, like gold that turns to autumn leaves.
Those who lacked this innate gift learned to use mana crystals—glittering shards of hope. With them, you can create a slab out of thin air, fill a bathtub with a wave of your hand, summon light into a dark house. Miracles available to those who have risen above the daily grind—the middle class, those lucky few of everyday life. In war, crystals become weapons: fire arrows, earthen blades, ice spears. Warriors with such weapons receive less training than I do, but they are barred from joining the elite squads. Only those with true power coursing through their veins, not shimmering in a cut stone, are accepted.
I thought too much while collecting sixteen buckets of water. Each one was like a vessel of memories, filled with a sweetish liquid that whispered of a forgotten childhood. This strange aftertaste was like the shadow of a promise, an echo of primordial hope dissolved in the minerals of the earth.
Our country is small—three cities separated by two hundred kilometers of dreams. The city of my past now seems like another world, and I kept wondering: when will Sir Lejont de Mortvel, that pillar of order, decide my fate? Will he release me from picturesque exile to meet the spurs of a knight?
It's strange how blind you can be to beauty when your soul is consumed by torment. I rushed here with empty buckets, noticing nothing but prickly thoughts. Yet even on pre-winter days, nature creates a quiet symphony of life. Birds sing simple trills, oblivious to my search for meaning. Flowers stubbornly reach for the pale sun—a small rebellion against the grayness of existence.
Thinking of the princess makes these flowers seem even more beautiful. If she were to pass by, they would shine brighter, filling the air with such a fragrance that your head would spin. Do I ascribe divine qualities to her—the ability to transform the world with just her presence?
How many of these flowers are there? Millions? An entire universe hidden in each petal. Will she ever be able to see them all? Hardly. The world is too big, and life is too short, even for princesses. Unless someone will help her in this endless quest. Someone like me—ready to shine through the light in search of the rarest flower to lay at her feet.