Mythshaper

Books were arguably my favourite things, right on par with delicious food, but I could not eat indefinitely. Thus, books remained my most cherished leisure activity. A captivating story or a book on mystical subjects could keep my hunger at bay for hours.

Though some time had passed since I brought home the thirty-odd books, the urge to devour them all was still as strong. I wanted nothing more than to speed-read, moving from one book to the other as fast as I could, but that might cause me to overlook some important things. I forced myself to read slowly, lingering over every word to truly digest them.

For the first few days, I carried a book everywhere—the dining table, the playground, and almost even to the loo. It wasn’t until Mum caught me reading hours past midnight instead of sleeping that she imposed her tyrannical house rules.

I was allowed to have a book at the dining table sometimes, but reading after bedtime was strictly forbidden.

History had its value, but stories held a special place in my heart. The culture of the realm encouraged people to publish their life stories. When fame was directly involved with the mystical essence, it was really easy to make literature rich and abundant. Of course, embellishment and artistic liberties were inevitable. Many dismissed them as phoney, but I found them enchanting, enhancing the reading experience.

It was endearing to read about someone like Emil Thorgen, who had risen from humble beginnings to become a living Hero of the Alberan Empire.

Resting the crimson leaf where I left off in the book, I turned to my journal for this week’s entry. Supposedly, the leaves of an elder tree had alchemical uses, but I found them perfect as bookmarks.

After some failure, I found daily journaling was not for me. Some days, nothing interesting happened for me to note, while at other times, I was too overwhelmed to record anything. Ultimately, I negotiated with myself to make it a weekly thing.

My penmanship had improved significantly over the past year. Rather than a conventional, elaborate style, I had chosen straight, compact lettering, the font small enough that one had to squint to read. I could squeeze two pages’ worth of content onto one, and no, it wasn’t out of desperation for not having enough notebooks.

Mum spared no expense on my education, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced about my other training. Like my current practice of writing with my left hand. She probably wouldn’t object, given that I had seen her engraving runes with both palms. She likely felt all this was too much for my tender bones.

It took nearly an hour to fill just a couple of pages about my new swordsmanship regimen with the wrong hand. Still, I didn’t stop until, at last, the Spell revealed itself.