The Book of Secrets

Aiva sat at her study table, her fingers lightly tracing the worn leather cover of the book in front of her. The air in her room was thick with the scent of dust, wood, and a hint of the outdoors from the open window beside her. The early Tuesday morning sun streamed in, its warmth settling across the desk, illuminating the large, ancient tome that now dominated her attention.

The book was massive—old, with parchment pages that crackled when moved. Its leather-bound cover was cracked with age, and stamped onto the front was an insignia: two serpents intertwining, their bodies coiling around each other, with a fierce chimera in the middle, its jaws open wide as if caught mid-roar. A symbol of something long forgotten by the world, but not by those who knew where to look.

Aiva glanced at the clock—9 a.m. Both of her parents had already left for work, leaving her alone in the stillness of the house. The quiet was heavy, as though even the walls were waiting to see what she would do next.

She hadn't touched the book since last night, when her mother had handed it to her during a conversation that felt more like a revelation, but with each passing moment, the urge to open it grew stronger. But her mind was still spinning from everything her mother had said, the weight of the truth crashing over her like waves on an unforgiving shore.

The night before had ended like any other until Aiva awoke in the middle of the night to find her mother sitting outside by the fire, the flames crackling gently as they cast flickering shadows across the stone patio. Her mother had been sipping from a glass of wine, not drunk, but tipsy enough for her words to come slower, slurred at the edges. Aiva had noticed the slight wobble in her movements, the way her mother's gaze had lingered on the fire as if searching for answers.

Aiva sat across from her, legs tucked beneath her, feeling the weight of something unsaid hanging between them. She was clutching a book her mother had just given her. From a quick glance she could tell it was some kind of spell book. Aiva had known for a long time that she was different, she could use magic... she was a witch. Her powers had manifested years ago, but neither of her parents knew of this, or so she thought.

Aiva's mother stared into the fire, the flickering flames casting shadows on her face. For what felt like an eternity, she said nothing. Aiva, seated across from her, felt her pulse quicken. Something was wrong. 

"Aiva," her mother began, her voice unusually soft, almost hesitant. "There's something we need to talk about. Something I should've told you years ago."

Aiva blinked, her heart now thudding in her chest. "What is it?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, though inside she felt like the ground beneath her was about to shift.

Her mother took a long breath, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the rim of her empty wine glass. "I know what you are, Aiva," she said finally, her words heavy with meaning. "I've known for years… that you're different. That you're a sorcerer."

The world seemed to tilt for Aiva. Her mouth went dry. How did she know? she thought, panic rising in her chest. This was the secret she had kept hidden for so long, the part of herself she feared anyone finding out. Why is she telling me this now? Here? Should I deny it? Lie? Could I even pull that off?

Before she could make sense of the flood of questions racing through her mind, her mother spoke again. "Before you say anything… it's time you knew the truth. The whole truth about who you are... About where you come."

The words hung in the air, thick and foreboding, but Aiva just frowned. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice betraying her confusion.

Her mother's eyes glistened in the firelight as she looked at Aiva, a sadness Aiva hadn't noticed before clouding her features. "Thirteen years ago, your father and I… we were trying to have a child. We wanted a family. But… it didn't work out. After years of trying, we met someone."

Aiva's stomach twisted. "Mom, why are you telling me this? I don't understand." Her voice cracked slightly, a nervous tremor she tried to suppress.

Her mother's gaze dropped to her lap, as if bracing herself for the next part. "The person we met… she told us about you. Your abilities. Your destiny. She said you had to grow up with us, in our family. That's why we adopted you from the orphanage."

The words hit Aiva like a physical blow. Adopted? The breath caught in her throat. "You… adopted me Because some random person told you to?" Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with disbelief.

Her mother nodded slowly, her face tight with guilt. "She saw to it that you would come to us," she admitted softly.

Aiva stared at her, her mind reeling. A sudden, sickening wave of betrayal crashed over her. My whole life… manipulated? Controlled by some stranger?

"This is insane," Aiva muttered, running her fingers through her hair. "Some mystery woman just… arranged for me to be adopted?" She shook her head, incredulous. "What kind of nonsense is that?"

Her mother reached out, her voice trembling with emotion. "It's not nonsense, Aiva. It's the truth. But it doesn't change how much we love you. We wanted you. We still do. Don't ever think that you weren't loved."

Aiva's heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful thud against her ribs. "But… you only adopted me because of her?" Her voice was tight with emotion, the tears she had been holding back now welling up in her eyes. "Because I have these stupid powers?"

Her mother's face softened, guilt etched into every line. "No, Aiva, it's not like that. We adopted you because we wanted a daughter. But your mother—your biological mother—she made sure you ended up with us. She wanted you to have a safe, loving home."

Aiva shot up from her chair, the legs scraping loudly against the stone patio. "So I'm just a tool? Some 'chosen one' for a witch I've never even met?"

Her mother stood as well, her hand reaching out but not quite touching her. "No, Aiva. You're not a tool. You have your own life, your own choices. But you need to understand who you are. Where you come from. Please, Aiva, sit down. There's so much I need to explain."

Aiva took a step back, shaking her head, the anger boiling inside her now unbearable. "No! I don't want to know! You shouldn't have told me this! I'm not some pawn in a game I didn't choose to play!"

Her mother's eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking. "Aiva, I'm sorry. But I thought you deserved to know. You've always deserved the truth."

But Aiva was barely listening. Her mind was spinning, everything she thought she knew unraveling before her. "You think I wanted this?" she spat, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "Do you think I wanted to be born with these powers? I wish I was normal! I wish I didn't have these stupid powers! They're the reason my parents—my real parents—didn't want me!"

Her mother's face crumpled, her voice barely a whisper. "That's not true. They loved you. They—"

"No!" Aiva shouted, her voice echoing through the night. She was done. She didn't want to hear anymore. Her anger took control, and without thinking, she grabbed the ancient book her mother had handed her—the symbol of everything she didn't want—and hurled it across the patio. It landed with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the stillness of the night.

"I don't need this," Aiva said, her voice hard, tears streaming down her face. "I don't need any of this."

She turned sharply, storming back into the house, her mother's broken voice calling after her. But Aiva didn't look back. She slammed the door behind her, leaving her mother standing alone by the fire, the weight of the truth too much to bear.

Now, in the soft morning light, Aiva stared at the book. Somehow, it had found its way back onto her desk overnight, neatly placed with a note from her mother:

_"We love you, Aiva. If you don't want to know, you can destroy the book and live your life as you wish. We'll support you no matter what. But it wouldn't hurt to take a peek inside, would it?"_

Aiva sat back in her chair, her heart heavy with the memory of last night. The anger had subsided, replaced now by a deep, gnawing curiosity. She wasn't ready to forgive her mother just yet, but the questions swirling in her mind wouldn't leave her alone.

Who was Medb, really? And what did it mean to be her descendant?

With a shaky breath, Aiva reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she rested her palm on the cover. She hesitated for a moment, then, steeling herself, she opened it.

The pages creaked as they separated, the ancient parchment rustling softly. The first page was simple—no text, just the same symbol of the two intertwining snakes and the chimera staring back at her.

Beneath it, written in an elegant, ancient script, were the words:

_"To the one who seeks the truth, may you find the strength to wield it."_

Aiva's fingers ran across the pages, her eyes skimming the lines as the ancient script unfolded before her. The book was a gateway, revealing secrets buried for centuries—secrets about the very world she lived in. Each page rustled like a whisper in the quiet room, and the sunlight, now brighter, cast a soft glow on the parchment, illuminating its words as if urging her to continue.

The first few pages focused on the history of sorcerers, tracing their origins back to a time when magic was not just a fairy tale but an integral part of human existence. It spoke of an energy that permeated the world—an energy known as Mana. Aiva's breath caught in her throat as she read, fascinated by the sheer depth of what she was learning.

Mana, the book explained, was something every living being produced and emitted. But controlling it? That was a different matter entirely. For most, Mana slipped through their grasp like water through fingers—untouched, unnoticed, but always present. However, for a select few, those born with an innate ability to harness it, Mana became something more. It could be shaped, molded, and bent to their will. These individuals were the first sorcerers.

Aiva leaned in closer, her curiosity ignited as she read about the earliest forms of magic. The book explained how even everyday speech carried Mana's influence, though most people were unaware of it. Words, shaped by the mouth and imbued with energy, had power. This was why, throughout history, words spoken in anger or love often seemed to manifest as reality. The rudimentary spell craft, it seemed, had always been present, hidden in the everyday exchanges between people. It was magic at its most primitive level.

Aiva's eyes widened as she turned the page, intrigued by what the book revealed next. Some people, it said, were naturally better attuned to Mana than others. Their bodies acted like conduits, hardwired to control the energy more effectively. These people had a natural gift, while others might go through life without ever realizing their potential. Beyond this, certain individuals possessed deeper wells of Mana, making them more powerful than others. These were the ones who became legends.

As time passed, these Mana-wielders discovered ways to refine their abilities. Through study, trial, and error, the fundamentals of magic were established, turning what was once chaotic energy into something that could be directed with purpose. Healing spells, the control of fire, telekinesis—these were not mere tricks, but intricate manipulations of Mana that allowed sorcerers to reshape reality.

But, as with all things that set one group of people apart from another, jealousy brewed. Aiva's heart sank as she read the dark turn the book's history took. The majority, those without magical abilities, grew envious, fearful of the power they did not possess. Magic users were ostracized, persecuted, and accused of horrific crimes. Entire communities turned against them, leading to a cycle of hatred and violence. It was a time of bloodshed, where sorcerers became both victims and perpetrators, using curses and hexes to protect themselves, even as the world hunted them down.

Aiva paused for a moment, the weight of history pressing down on her. She could almost feel the fear and anger that must have rippled through the magical world as they were forced into hiding, their once-respected arts now condemned as dangerous and forbidden. Magic had become a secret art, passed down only to those chosen to bear its burden.

A shiver ran down her spine, but she couldn't help the fascination that gripped her. She had always wondered about the true nature of her powers, had felt the pull toward something larger than herself, and now she was beginning to understand why. This wasn't just a random gift; it was part of something ancient, something steeped in both wonder and tragedy.

Her fingers moved swiftly, turning the pages, eager to see what else the book held. Each spell described in meticulous detail, each technique requiring focus, discipline, and a deep connection to the world's Mana. Healing spells that could mend the broken, fire spells that could summon flames from the air, and barrier spells strong enough to block even the most powerful attacks. The possibilities were endless, each spell more enticing than the last.

But then, she came to a sudden halt. A page, different from the others, caught her attention. The edges of the parchment seemed more worn, as though it had been opened and studied countless times before. At the top of the page, in bold, ornate lettering, was the name: Medb Leth Derg.

The biography of the most powerful sorcerer of the East. Aiva couldn't help but wonder, Who was she, really?

The answer, it seemed, was tied to the woman staring back at her from the pages—a woman who had lived lifetimes ago but whose legacy still echoed in the world today. Aiva's breath hitched as a feeling of destiny began to settle over her. Whatever came next, she knew she was standing on the edge of something far greater than she had ever imagined.