Magic.
I had hoped it would exist in this world. How could it not, when the sagas spoke so freely of gods and monsters, of runes and shapeshifters and Odin's spear that never missed? I'd dreamed of it quietly, secretly, in the earliest days after waking up in this life. If anything could make sense of my being here, it would be that. But despite the old stories Ingrid and Einar sometimes told at the hearth, I'd seen no druids or dragons, no glowing runes etched into the trees. Only people—rough and kind and tired. And dirt. A lot of dirt.
Still, I held onto hope.
And then came the honey jar.
That was the moment everything changed.
Just like that. Frozen midair.
Suspended in nothing. Held by nothing except for my own will to stop it from crashing to the floor.
"Be careful. Don't let anyone else see. Not even Einar. Not yet."
So I practiced in secret.
When Einar was out in the forest or dragging logs back to the shed and Ingrid was deep in her work, I slipped behind the house or into the trees, far enough to be alone. I started with pebbles. Stones. Pinecones. Little things that I hoped might be small enough to practice with.
Evidently not small enough.
I would sit in the dirt, arms outstretched like an idiot, breathing slow and trying to feel that same pull I'd felt with the jar. Days, and I got nothing but frustration and sore shoulders. But then, I'd feel it—that thread in the air, the tension just below the surface of thought.
And the pebble would tremble.
The System recognized it before I fully did.
~~~~~~~~~~~
[Skill: Telekinesis]
Rank: F (3%)
Small objects only. Line-of-sight. Mild fatigue per second.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I stared at that glowing text with a grin.
So it was real. I wasn't just lucky. I wasn't just dreaming.
I had magic.
After a few more days of sneaking off into the woods I could feel it every time I reached out. A current under my skin. A second heartbeat behind my ribs. I started setting goals—how far, how fast, how many objects at once. Sometimes I failed. Sometimes I passed out. Once I gave myself a nosebleed trying to lift two sticks at once.
But I got better.
The percentages ticked upward with glacial patience.
6%. 9%. 11%.
Each night before bed, I whispered "Status" beneath my breath, heart fluttering as the numbers updated. It was slow progress, but it was progress. I had been worried at first that I might only be able to summon the ability if I were under high stress—silly as stressing over a honey pot sounds—but I could use it at will. Which meant, the only barrier to getting better, was continuous effort. For the first time since waking in this new life, I felt like I was building toward something instead of just surviving.
There were patterns to it—rules, maybe. The more I focused, the more I controlled my breathing, the easier the magic came. Holding my breath or letting panic creep in always led to failure. But slow, steady breaths helped me stay connected to that inner thread. I'd close my eyes, inhale through my nose, and feel the current build like a tide just beneath the surface. A rhythm. A resonance.
One afternoon, feeling bold, I tried lifting a log. Not a massive one, but bigger than anything I'd dared to move before. I had barely started before a wave of nausea hit me like a hammer. My knees buckled, and I dropped to the ground, gasping and dizzy, the world spinning like I'd just run uphill for miles, and the log hadn't even budged. I just wasn't strong enough yet.
I promised myself then and there that I wouldn't rush. I would master the small things first. The same way you train a muscle—not by jumping to the heaviest weight, but by repetition. Endurance. Precision. I'd push myself to exhaustion, and then a little further the next time. Every day, I carried that line just a little further.
Soon it wasn't just about pebbles or pinecones. I started collecting objects for their variety—different weights, shapes, textures. A spoon. A spindle. A sliver of bone from the stew. Each one responded differently. I began cataloging the strain they caused. The longer I held them aloft, the more my head would buzz, but I learned how to dial it back just before it broke me.
There was a rhythm to it now. A routine. Even comfort.
Until the day I nearly got caught.
Einar came home earlier than expected, boots crunching through the underbrush while I was mid-session, hovering a bundle of pinecones I had strapped together low across the forest floor. I had let it go so fast it vanished into the leaves on the far side of the clearing, my pulse hammering. I was sure he'd seen me.
But Ingrid was there—suddenly, sharply—calling him toward the shed, insisting she needed help with a broken hinge. Her voice was too bright, too forced. And it worked. He followed.
Later that night, she didn't say a word. But when I met her eyes over the stewpot, she raised one brow just slightly, and I knew she'd seen it all.
I nodded. Just once.
She said nothing more.
I practiced again the next day. Only now, a bit more carefully.
It didn't take long for Ingrid to start letting me help around the house in little, almost imperceptible ways. She never made a grand gesture about it—no solemn nods or whispered warnings—but there was something in her voice, a warmth in her eyes, that told me she understood and accepted what I could do.
At first, I was anxious. The first time I floated down a jar of dried herbs from the rafters, I half-expected her to flinch or scold me. But she just looked up from kneading dough and said, softly, "You're getting better at that."
She smiled, too—not faint or distant, but fond. Almost proud.
"Top shelf," she would call out now and then, waving vaguely at whatever unreachable item she needed. A careful breath, a small nudge of will, and the bag of salt or bundle of nettle leaves would drift gently into her hands. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink anymore.
One morning, after I guided the firewood gently onto the hearth through the air, Ingrid chuckled under her breath and said, "If you ever manage to float a full bucket of water, I might finally get a day without aching bones."
I laughed—really laughed. It came easily, unguarded, and for the first time in this life, it didn't feel like I was butting in on someone else's happiness. It felt like mine like i belonged here.
There were other little things—socks caught behind the drying rack, a wooden ladle that always rolled under the cupboard. Small tasks, harmless and helpful. And slowly, Ingrid came to rely on them. Not demandingly, never with expectation—but with quiet trust.
It felt good. Not just to be useful, but to be known. To have someone I could confide in, even if we never spoke directly about it.
And when Einar came stomping around the corner, earlier than expected, Ingrid didn't need to say anything. One glance was all it took. A subtle shift in her posture, a twitch of her brow—and I knew. It was time to stop magicking.
She covered for me more than once. Redirected him with a question, handed him a task, or simply kept him talking long enough for me to return whatever I'd just been floating to its place on the ground or counter.
She was kind about it. Protective in her own quiet way.
And I was grateful. Grateful to have someone who didn't just tolerate what I was—but cared for me because of it.
I didn't know how long I had. Raven painted sails weren't on the horizon yet. But i knew it was only a matter of time. I didn't know what kind of magic existed in this world beyond what I had, but if I could lift a pebble today, maybe one day I'd lift a blade. Or hurl fire. So I can shield those I care for.
But I wasn't there yet.
I could summon a spoon from across a clearing. Smoothly. Precise. Without tremor.
And I wouldn't even break a sweat.
It wasn't much.
But it was progress