Elya walked away from the tower, her feet dragging against the cold dirt path. Each step carried her farther away from the only life she had really known, yet there was no comfort in the distance. The realization struck her with a cruel finality, she had nowhere to go. No money, no shelter, no allies. The world stretched before her, vast and indifferent, and she was just another forgotten soul lost within it.

  But she was not powerless.

  The cold bit at her skin, but she refused to shiver. She had spent years refining her magic, shaping it into something sustainable, something she could rely on. It would not be grand spells that saved her now, but the smallest ones, the ones she could wield without exhausting herself.

  She might not be able to stand toe to toe with another mage, but she had mastered the art of endurance. She could keep a single flame burning for hours, guide a breeze through the trees to mask her scent, or weave a faint light that lasted the night without sapping her strength. The grand spells of battle were beyond her, but she had no need for them now. Small effects, precise, controlled, could make the difference between survival and collapse. She had honed efficiency to an art form, and she hoped it would be enough to keep her alive.

  The silence of the world outside the tower unsettled her. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling dry leaves against the ground. Twigs snapped somewhere in the darkness, and every tiny sound sent a prickling awareness crawling up her spine. The tower had always been alive with the quiet murmur of voices, the crackle of fire, the rhythmic scratch of quills on parchment. Out here, she was met only with vast emptiness. She had thought freedom would be liberating, but instead, it pressed in on her like an unfamiliar weight.

  She glanced back once, expecting to see the tower still looming behind her, but the thick mist of the mornign had already swallowed it whole. It was gone, and so was the life she had known. A bitter lump rose in her throat. She had been happy this morning. Foolishly happy. It had been the first time in years she had felt anything close to joy, and she should have known better. She wasn’t allowed to be happy in the tower. Happiness meant punishment. And this time, the punishment had been exile.

  Elya clenched her fists. She would show them. Show them all. But first, she had to find a way to survive. The determination burned in her chest, staving off the cold that wrapped around her like a second skin.

  She trudged forward, her steps hesitant at first, then more confident as she adjusted to the uneven terrain. The morning light filtered through the trees, casting long streaks of gold against the forest floor. The branches overhead swayed with the wind, their creaks and rustling filling the silence left in the absence of human voices. Every step felt like a test, every unfamiliar sound a warning. A bird took flight suddenly, its wings a sharp crack against the stillness, and Elya's heart leapt in response. She had lived in the tower for so long that she had forgotten what true solitude felt like.

  She forced herself to focus on her breathing, on the rhythm of her footsteps against the packed earth. The forest loomed around her, vast and untamed. The tower had been structured, confined, predictable. Out here, nothing was certain. The uncertainty gnawed at her, but she pushed it down. She had no choice but to move forward.

  She tried to shake the unease away, focusing instead on the rhythm of her own breath, the steady beat of her steps against the dirt. She had to conserve energy. She had to think. The path stretched endlessly ahead, winding through trees that seemed taller than the tower itself. Her feet ached, her limbs burned from exhaustion, but she did not stop. She could not.

  Hours passed, morning becoming afternoon. The forest stretched endlessly before her, its towering trees casting shifting patterns of shadow and light. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, an incessant ache that made her movements sluggish, but she forced herself to push through it. The winding path beneath her feet became more treacherous, roots twisting through the dirt like gnarled fingers, eager to trip her up. The underbrush thickened in places, forcing her to weave through tangled growth that clawed at her cloak.

  She needed shelter. She needed food and water. But most of all, she needed a plan. She had no opportunity to eat breakfast before the... well, before everything, and her stomach was making its fury known. Every hollow pang reminded her of how easily she could waste away if she didn’t act fast.

  Her thoughts spiraled as she walked, circling the morning’s events. She clenched her jaw, bitterness thick on her tongue. Let them think they had broken her. Let them believe they had cast her aside to disappear like all the other failures. She would prove them wrong. But before she could show them, she had to survive.

  She pressed forward, forcing herself to stay alert, her fingers twitching at her sides, ready to summon the tiniest flame if she needed light. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the path ahead. The road had changed, where once it had been a narrow woodland trail, now it opened slightly, revealing stretches of grassland bordered by sparse trees. The scent of damp earth and pine gave way to the sharper tang of dry soil and sun-warmed rock.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The wind picked up, tugging at her cloak as she crested a small hill. From here, she could just make out the distant shapes of thatched roofs peeking through a thin haze of dust. A village. Relief threatened to uncoil inside her, but she forced it down. Hope was dangerous. Villages meant people, and people could be just as cruel as the tower had been. She needed a plan.

  She adjusted her pace, her steps slower, more deliberate. She was tired, aching from the journey, but she had to push forward. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and her throat felt dry and scratchy. The need for food and water pressed in on her like a tangible weight. She was nearing civilization, but she was far from safe.

  With each step closer, she ran through possibilities. She could offer work in exchange for food. She was no stranger to labor, though her hands were more accustomed to ink and glyphs than farm work. She would take what she could get. But if they refused her? If they turned her away? Then she would have to move on, and soon.

  The village loomed ahead, growing more defined with every step. She was close now. She had made it this far. And she could not afford to be weak now.

  Chapter 27.5 – Seeking Work

  Elya approached the village with cautious hope, her stomach twisting with both hunger and uncertainty. The closer she came, the more details emerged, mud-brick cottages, narrow dirt streets, and the distant hum of voices carried on the breeze. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of roasting meat sent a pang of longing through her empty belly.

  She needed to find work, and fast.

  She started at the inn. Everyone needed chores done, and an extra set of hands, even a stranger’s, was rarely turned away. She stepped inside, the warmth of the fire washing over her instantly. The scent of ale and baked bread was overwhelming, but she forced herself to focus. The innkeeper, a burly man with a graying beard, glanced up from where he was wiping a mug. His expression darkened as he took in her ragged cloak, the exhaustion in her posture.

  “No coin, no room,” he said flatly before she could even open her mouth.

  “I don’t need a room,” she said quickly. “I can work. Cleaning, chopping firewood, fetching water, whatever you need.”

  The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “We’ve got enough hands. Best try elsewhere.”

  Elya swallowed her disappointment and nodded. She had expected rejection, but it still stung.

  She tried the blacksmith next, the heat of the forge a stark contrast to the cool air outside. The smith barely looked up from his work, his hammer ringing against metal as she asked if he needed an apprentice, even temporarily. He snorted and waved her off. “You wouldn’t last a day,” he muttered. “Try the farms.”

  So she did.

  At the bakery, she offered to help knead dough or stoke the ovens. The baker’s wife eyed her with a mix of suspicion and pity before shaking her head. “We don’t take on strangers,” she said simply.

  The general store, the weaver’s shop, even the stables, one by one, she was turned away. Some were polite, others outright dismissive, but the result was the same. No one wanted to take a chance on a girl with no past, no family name, no proof of her worth.

  Her throat tightened as desperation clawed at her insides. Her hands trembled, her energy waning from lack of food and rest. When her last hope faded, she found herself doing something she had never imagined.

  She begged.

  She stood near the well in the village square, where people came and went, drawing water, chatting, tending to their daily routines. She lowered her head, swallowing her pride as she quietly asked for food, for water, just enough to keep going.

  Some ignored her, walking past as if she were invisible. Others gave her fleeting glances of pity but nothing more. One woman muttered about vagrants as she pulled her children closer.

  Humiliation burned in Elya’s chest, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

  It wasn’t until a kind-faced elderly man pressed a crust of bread into her hands that she finally exhaled. “Don’t linger,” he murmured, glancing around. “Folk don’t take kindly to outsiders staying too long.”

  She nodded, clutching the meager offering tightly. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  She left the village with an empty stomach, aching feet, and the knowledge that no one was coming to save her. As she walked, the weight of rejection pressed heavier on her shoulders, the dull ache of despair creeping into her limbs. The dirt road stretched ahead, winding into the wilderness, flanked by the sparse trees of the countryside. The sun had begun its descent, casting long golden shadows across the path, but she barely noticed, her mind spinning with thoughts of survival.

  She needed water. Food. Shelter.

  She focused on the rhythm of her steps, forcing herself to ignore the gnawing hunger. Instead, she turned her thoughts to magic. As she walked, she mentally traced spell structures, refining the formulas in her mind. If she could perfect her efficiency, she might find ways to use less energy while still producing necessary effects.

  The light spell. She had already layered it twice. Could she make it more compact? More precise? She imagined the intricate lattice of magical threads, testing different ways to reinforce its stability. Her fingers twitched with the phantom movements of casting, but she did not risk wasting her strength.

  After what felt like an eternity, she stumbled. Her vision swam, exhaustion taking its toll. The sun had dipped lower, the air cooling with the approach of evening. She needed rest, but more than that, she needed water.

  Then, the soft sound of trickling caught her ear. She turned off the road, following the sound through a sparse line of trees until she found it, a narrow stream, its clear waters reflecting the dying light of the sky. Relief crashed over her. She fell to her knees, cupping her hands to drink, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat.

  She sat back, taking slow, measured sips. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but she forced herself to think clearly. The night would be cold, and she couldn’t afford to sleep without protection. Gathering small branches and dry grass, she arranged them carefully, using the last sliver of her strength to summon a small flame. It flickered to life, fragile but warm, casting gentle light against the trees.

  She watched it for a moment, then returned to her spell work. If she could shape her magic into something sustainable, something stronger, she would have a better chance tomorrow.

  For now, she would rest. Tomorrow, she would survive.

  And she would.