A City of Secrets - Whispers Beneath the Surface

  Leeds, in the mid-17th century, was a place where the old and new collided—an expanding market town nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire. The cobbled streets bustled with life, with traders haggling over goods and the clatter of horse-drawn carts echoing between timber-framed houses. Towering above it all was St. Peter’s Church, its spires reaching high into the sky, casting long, protective shadows over the town. This was the Leeds that the Daiwik family knew, a city where the wool trade reigned supreme. Farmers, weavers, and merchants gathered weekly in the marketplace, particularly on Saturdays, for the wool auctions that drew people from all over the region. The wool trade was the heartbeat of Leeds, and for the Daiwik family, it was the cornerstone of their prosperity.

  However, beneath the lively surface, something mysterious stirred. The recent scars of the English Civil War were still fresh in the minds of many. A sense of unease started to linger around the southern reaches of Leeds, where a small, dense patch of forest hugged the banks of the River Aire as it wound its way behind the town. The woods, stretching from the far south to the west side, seemed to hide a restless energy, their towering oaks and elms draped in a perpetual shroud of mist in the early hours. Those who ventured close spoke of unexplainable sights—shadows darting just beyond vision, strange shapes slipping silently between the trees, and fleeting glimpses of lights that vanished when approached. Such encounters sowed seeds of fear among the townsfolk, particularly those traveling to and from Bowman’s Lane by crossing the bridge leading into Briggate. By nightfall, the uneasy quiet of the woods came alive with eerie sounds—disembodied whispers, the rustle of unseen movements, and the occasional haunting wail carried on the wind.

  Merchants and laborers who once used the southern route into town began avoiding it altogether as dusk descended. Rumors spread like wildfire in the Silver Stag Pub—One of the most visited pubs after workhouse, where travellers and merchants started to tell tales about phantom figures that had been seen lingering near the river’s edge, and about muffled cries that had been heard where the water’s surface mirrored the pale light of the moon. Instead of crossing the large and more accessible south bridge after dark, travelers took the longer, safer path eastward, over the Tinible Bridge by St. Peter’s Church. The church itself, with its looming Gothic spires, seemed to offer silent sanctuary, a stark contrast to the foreboding woodlands beyond. For Leeds, caught in the grip of superstition and fear, the woods had become more than a place of nature; they were a boundary, both physical and mystical, separating the known world from the uncanny unknown.

  Yet, those who were more attuned to the world—particularly the few who could use magic—sensed a deeper truth lurking beyond the river Aire, into the dense woods.

  The Daiwik Estate was a modest yet well-structured expanse of land situated on the western outskirts of Leeds, roughly three kilometers from the town center. Neighboring the quiet flow of the River Aire and bordered to the west by a dense patch of woods, the estate embodied both practicality and quiet charm. It comprised a handful of built structures, like the servants' quarters, a rectangular building where some of the household's attendants lived, though many commuted daily from nearby homes; the small but sturdy stable for the family’s horses; and the compact farmyard, positioned in front of the stable, where hens pecked and the occasional goat wandered. At the rear of the estate, the backyard stretched toward a narrow branch of the River Aire. A small wooden bridge extended from this point, connecting the family’s land to the fringes of the looming forest across the water.

  At the heart of the estate stood the Daiwik family home, a robust three-story house crafted from the region’s iconic Yorkshire stone. Its slate roof and modest, narrow windows reflected a practicality born of necessity and pride rather than extravagance. The house, though unassuming compared to the estates of the wealthiest wool merchants in Leeds, spoke of a family rooted in diligence and tradition. Inside, it was comfortably appointed, blending the warmth of a bustling household with a legacy tied to honest wool trading.

  Within the once ordinary walls of the Daiwik household, the line between the mundane and the extraordinary had begun to blur. Lucian Daiwik, the youngest of seven children, had always stood out. After his twelfth birthday in May, strange occurrences began to gather around him, no longer mere coincidences but something undeniably unusual. He referred to them as his little ‘tricks,’ but they were becoming more frequent and increasingly difficult to ignore. His six siblings, particularly Leon and Linda, had witnessed some of these ‘tricks’—flowers blooming at his touch, sudden gusts of wind swirling indoors, and glowing orbs of light appearing at his command. To most of them, his tricks were just coincidences, luck or a source of amusement. Only Leon and Linda truly knew about Lucian’s most formidable tricks, however just like Lucian, they had no idea that what they witnessed was actually magic. They treated his strange abilities as if they were nothing more than playful wonders, whenever they were playing alone, they encouraged Lucian to perform them again and again, unaware of the deeper, untamed force behind them. What seemed like innocent fun hid a growing power that none of them truly understood.

  Lucian, for his part, had learned to start to hide his tricks, especially when he was at school. He never fully understood them himself, and the growing unease he felt each time he wielded this unknown power made him wary of letting anyone else see, especially because he wasn’t fully in control of them. Lucian kept the true extent of his unknown abilities a secret, starting to suspect that something was different about him in a way that set him apart from the rest of the world. Now Leopold had voiced his own fears and he reckoned his older brother might be right. He wasn’t sure what it meant, being different, but he knew enough to be cautious and keep it a secret.

  Outside the Daiwik estate, the woods unfurled like a tapestry of nature and mystery, dense with towering oaks, thick ashes, and twisting elms. For as long as Lucian could remember, the woods had been a refuge—a place where the air hummed with quiet secrets and where shafts of light danced playfully among the leaves, casting fleeting illusions. He often wandered through the undergrowth alone, drawn by an irresistible pull, as if something old and powerful slumbered beneath the forest floor. Yet recently, the woods had taken on a darker edge. Strange lights flickered at twilight, weaving between the trees like restless spirits, and the very air brimmed with an eerie mist, dense and charged.

  The magical community of Leeds, small though it was, had not failed to notice the shift. A ripple of unease spread through them, especially those who dwelled in town, for they could sense it clearly—wild, uncontrolled surges of magic radiating unpredictably from the area, small at first, but growing in frequency and strength. The disturbances did not go unnoticed by the supernatural beings either. Boggarts—Mischievous spirits known for causing chaos often creating havoc in homes or forests, Will-o’-the-Wisps—Mysterious lights that lure travellers off their path, and Black Shuck—A spectral hound associated with disasters and seen as an omen of doom, had been drawn to the edge of the forest, lured by the powerful magical energy emanating from the Daiwik estate. Unseen entities glided through the trees, their presence a harbinger of imbalance. The elders who governed the wizarding council of Leeds in Grovewell’s Magical Plaza were deeply unsettled, for the magic had drawn both creatures of light and darkness, which is quite uncommon—for witches and wizards could only draw magical energy from one of the primordial elements—Light or Dark Magic. Desperate to protect their community, the elders had erected invisible barriers along the outskirts of the woods, wards intended to repel the influx of magical beings. Yet, for all their efforts, the source of the disturbances remained frustratingly beyond their grasp. When the magic lay dormant, it left no trace to pursue, and though the surges were undeniably strong, they revealed no discernible pattern—leaving the council both troubled and powerless to uncover the heart of the growing peril. A danger they could feel swelling in strength, becoming ever more unpredictable with each passing occurrence.

  Witches and wizards around Leeds began to feel the presence of that unfamiliar and growing power more frequently, yet none among them could identify its source. Unbeknownst to the elders and practitioners, all the signs pointed to the youngest of the Daiwik family—Lucian—whose magic was rapidly intensifying. Though he remained unaware of the true extent of his abilities, his power stirred beneath the surface, inching closer to full awakening. Tension rippled through the magical society, a quiet unease settling over them as they feared exposure. So far, these strange occurrences had not yet reached the ears of Nullkins - the ordinary townsfolk, but the delicate line separating the magical world from the mundane was growing thinner. It was only a matter of time before the hidden forces lurking in the shadows would breach the wards and bleed into the visible world, threatening to expose the truth.

  The Daiwiks, unaware of the magical world hidden beneath their back door, carried on with their daily lives. Lucian’s parents, Thomas and Eleanor Daiwik, chose to ignore the strange occurrences that had begun to plague their estate—like the day the chickens laid stone eggs or the night the birds sang unnaturally loud, their song carrying far into the darkness. They busied themselves with their wool trade and daily chores, their heads turned away from anything that might disrupt the normalcy of their routine.

  As Lucian wandered the edges of the woods one late afternoon, he felt the familiar stir of power rising within him, unbidden. He paused, watching the sunlight filter through the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the sensation, but it was as if that strange and yet familiar power had a will of its own, slipping through the cracks in his control. A small, glowing orb appeared in his hand, flickering faintly. He quickly looked around to ensure no one was watching, then extinguished the light with a wave of his hand.

  Frustration welled up in him. Something was happening—something he couldn’t explain, something he didn’t understand. He could feel it growing inside him, a force that seemed to strengthen with each passing day, each more vivid nightmare. His fingers brushed the raw scrape on his knee, and in that moment, flashes from the dream surged through his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images to fade. When he opened them again, his breath caught in his throat.

  There, just between the trees, stood a shape—a hound-like figure, dark and looming, its eyes fixed on him. Lucian’s heart pounded in his chest as he instinctively turned and bolted. His feet pounded against the earth as he raced towards the backyard fence. Once there, he dared a glance back. The figure was gone. Nothing remained except a shimmer, flickering in and out of focus, as if an invisible barrier separated him from whatever had been watching. His gaze darted around the yard—he was alone.

  Looking down at his trembling hands, he saw a faint glow pulsing from them. Anger flared inside him, frustration at his inability to control whatever was happening to him. His emotions churned like a tempest, threatening to break free. With a clenched jaw, he turned and marched towards the backdoor, thoughts racing in a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

  For the moment, his secrets remained concealed, locked away behind the stone walls of the Daiwik estate. Yet deep within, Lucian knew this would not last. The strange figures, ever-shifting in the nearby woods, had begun to gather since he first performed his ‘tricks,’ and there was a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that something, or perhaps many things, were watching him. Things far beyond his comprehension. And soon, someone would take notice.

  A City of Secrets - Hidden Realms and Mundane Lives

  Beneath the bustling streets and cobblestones of Leeds, there lay a secret world—one that only a select few were privy to. It was a world veiled in plain sight, running parallel to the ordinary lives of the townsfolk, but unseen by those unaware of its existence. The bustling marketplace, the towering spires of St. Peter’s Church, the chatter of students on their way to Leeds Grammar School and the wool trade—all were mere surface distractions hiding the magical reality that coexisted alongside them.

  The magical community had long since learned to survive in secrecy. To the casual observer, they were no different from their non-magical neighbours - the Nullkins, as the wizarding community would call them. But those with the ability to see beyond the mundane knew of the enchanted glades that bordered the town, where trees hid secret magical beings, or the narrow alleyways that led to nowhere, bending and twisting in ways that defied the natural order. Here, amidst the hills and forests surrounding the town, magic lingered in every corner, a force as old as the land itself.

  The wizards and witches dwelling in Leeds were bound together by necessity, some living in the outskirts of town to avoid the dangerous gaze of those who would condemn them. Those who lived in the heart of Leeds blended in with the Nullkins, cloaking their magical abilities and attires. Whenever magical folk met while in the non-magical world, they would meet in secret under the cover of night, in hidden glades or in rooms cloaked by powerful wards. Discretion was the key to their survival, and their gatherings were protected by one of the most essential spells in their arsenal—the Blinder’s Barrier Spell. This spell provided a magical veil around their meetings, ensuring that non-magical folk, or even those who might suspect magic’s existence, could neither see nor hear what took place within.

  The Festival of Spring Equinox, an annual event, was held deep within the Temple Newsam Woods, where Grovewell’s Magical Plaza lay hidden. Grovewell, a mystical enclave veiled from the eyes of Nullkins, served as a central hub for the magical community. Nestled in a hollowed clearing, Grovewell’s stone arches and marble-stoned mosaic paths shimmered with powerful enchantments, making it both a sanctuary and a gathering place for all magical practitioners.

  The festival gathered witches and wizards from across all corners of the country, making it a grand occasion where magic thrived openly, yet remained shielded by powerful spells of protection, illusion, and secrecy. Especially to ensure that Nullkins remain unaware of magical travellers arriving in the city outside the network of the magical plazas. Chief among these wards was the Undetectable Spell, an enchantment that ensured none from the outside world could stumble upon their celebrations. This powerful enchantment was normally cast by the most senior and most skilled members of the magical community, its strength and longevity determined by the experience and power of the wizard who wove it. The more senior and expert the wizard, the stronger and longer-lasting the spell’s protection. Here, amidst the Temple Newsam Woods wizards from across the region gathered to honour the balance between light and dark, casting spells and exchanging knowledge in a space where their powers could flow without restraint.

  During the festival, the Temple Newsam Woods became alive with activity, inside as well as outside Grovewell’s Plaza, though the nullkins of Leeds remained blissfully unaware. The towering trees seemed to guard the event, their branches forming a natural canopy that concealed the magical gathering from prying eyes. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the long shadows cast by the trees veiled the world within, protecting the secrets of the Grovewell and the wizards who celebrated in its depths.

  The Daiwik family, however, knew nothing of this hidden world. Their lives were rooted in the mundane—woven into the rhythm of wool trading and the daily responsibilities of a prosperous middle-class family. Their home, a modest stone house situated on the outskirts of Leeds, was a world away from the whispers of magic that crept through the nearby woods. The River Aire flowed peacefully past their backyard, and the hills rose behind the estate, giving the family a serene, pastoral existence.

  But even within the Daiwik household, the familiar rhythm of life was beginning to fracture. Lucian, once as inseparable from his twin Leon as the stars were from the night sky, had grown quieter, his presence muted like the fading embers of a once-bright fire. Over the past few months, something within him had shifted—his once-eager conversations now trailed off into silence, and he drifted away even in the midst of his family’s lively gatherings. It wasn’t just the silence that unsettled them; strange occurrences seemed to trail after him, like whispers of an unseen storm. Objects moved when no one touched them, shadows seemed to lengthen in his presence, and flickers of light danced in the corner of one’s eye. His siblings, Leon and Linda, laughed these off as mere tricks, curiosities, but to Lucian, they felt like tremors before a great quake.

  Inside, Lucian wrestled with feelings he dared not share. Beneath the surface, a volatile energy roiled—a chaotic force he neither understood nor fully controlled. Every flicker of power brought with it a strange mix of pride and fear, leaving him in constant turmoil. Leon and Linda, fascinated as they were, couldn’t grasp the weight of what those moments truly meant. Lucian preferred it that way. How could he tell them, or anyone, that these so-called tricks weren’t deliberate, that the force within him acted of its own accord, unpredictable and untamed? In a world that punished those who stood out, Lucian kept his growing dread to himself, each new instance of uncontrollable power tightening the chains of secrecy around him. And so, he withdrew—his voice became quieter, his laughter rarer, and his connection to those he loved dimmed like a candle burning low.

  The stillness in Lucian followed him to school. As he sat on a weathered bench in the schoolyard during the midday break, his best mate, Henry Hardwicke, plopped down beside him with the carefree air of someone who carried no secrets. Henry unpacked a small container of bread and fruit, taking a loud bite as he stretched out his legs.

  “Latin studies is rubbish,” Henry said, crumbs spilling as he spoke. “And after the break, it’s Greek studies. Can you think of anything worse?”

  Lucian barely glanced at him, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, beyond the swaying branches of the schoolyard trees.

  “Hmm,” he murmured vaguely, not really listening.

  Henry swallowed and leaned in, his brows furrowing.

  “Oi, what’s the matter with you? You’ve been like this for weeks.”

  Lucian hesitated, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the bench. His Lunch untouched over his lap.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve just… been feeling off lately. Like I’m not quite myself.”

  “Off?” Henry scoffed, brushing a crumb from his tunic. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No, not sick. Just… off,” Lucian said, searching for words that wouldn’t betray his deeper worries. “Like there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  Henry grinned, clapping Lucian on the back with an exaggerated flourish.

  “Mate, that’s just us becoming men! Happens to all of us—you feel off, you grow a bit taller, your voice cracks like a squeaky floorboard. Next thing you know, you’ll be stealing pies from the kitchen and eyeing Farmer Winthrop’s daughter.”

  Lucian couldn’t help but huff a small laugh.

  “I don’t reckon it's that.”

  “Sure it isn’t.” Henry leaned back smugly, stretching his arms. “But hey, I’ll tell you one thing—you’ve been ridiculously lucky lately. Don’t think I didn’t notice you winning every single match of Mob Football. What’s your trick, eh? You're drinking your milk directly from your cows, aren't you?”

  Lucian’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

  “Maybe I’m just better than you.”

  “Ha!” Henry barked, nudging him with an elbow. “Better? Don’t make me laugh. You’re terrible at kicking straight. The ball practically comes to you on its own! Whatever it is, you’re getting really good.”

  Lucian shook his head, his smile fading into thoughtfulness.

  “Yeah.”

  Henry frowned, sensing Lucian slipping back into his quiet broodiness.

  “Cheer up, will you? It’s just a game. You’d better be ready for the next match, though. This time, I’m stealing your lucky streak.”

  Lucian didn’t respond, but his gaze softened, the weight on his shoulders momentarily eased by Henry’s easygoing banter. Whatever storm brewed inside him, for now, it remained hidden beneath the surface, safely out of reach of even his closest friend.

  The power Lucian carried inside him was growing stronger, and despite his best efforts to conceal and control it, the signs were becoming harder to ignore. Strange things continued to happen around the Daiwik estate. The trees in the woods seemed to have eyes watching, whenever Lucian walked beneath their branches on his way home, and at night, the lights in the sky flickered in strange patterns, as though responding to his presence.

  Unbeknownst to the Daiwik family, their estate had become the subject of growing whispers within the magical community. Lucian's siblings, though unaware of the full truth, had started to suspect that Lucian was somehow connected to the strange events happening around their home. Leon, in particular, kept a close eye on his twin, sensing that there was more to Lucian’s ‘tricks’ than he let on.

  As the days passed, the tension grew palpable. The magical and non-magical worlds, once separate and distinct, were beginning to blur, and it was only a matter of time before the fragile balance was broken. Lucian, unaware of the storm brewing around him, could feel that weirdly pleasing power inside him growing stronger, and for the first time, he began to fear that he might not be able to keep it hidden and under control for much longer.

  A City of Secrets - Daiwik Family Members

  The Daiwik estate stood with quiet dignity on the outskirts of Leeds, an embodiment of both the family's prosperity and the modesty expected of a wool merchant. Constructed from enduring Yorkshire stone, the estate exudes a timeless presence, its steadfast walls bearing silent witness to the town's growth and shaping its historical narrative as an indelible cornerstone of Leeds' development. From the marketplace at the heart of Leeds, one would journey westward along Boar Lane, a bustling street that connected Leeds with its surrounding areas. As the cobblestones of the lane gave way to dirt paths, the estate emerged from the mist, its outline softened by the shadows of towering trees and the ever-present River Aire winding silently behind it.

  The estate was a modest three-story stone house, well-constructed, its slate roof glinting in the weak sunlight of the late afternoon. Behind it, the land sloped gently towards a small branch of the River Aire, which meandered peacefully at the end of the backyard. A narrow stone bridge crossed the stream, leading to the dense woods that stood tall at the back of the family’s land. These woods were both a source of fascination and unease for the Daiwik children, particularly Lucian, who often felt the strange pull of the forest's shadowy secrets.

  On the far left of the property, a modest stable housed the family’s horses, their coats sleek and well-cared for under the watchful eye of the stable hand. The farmyard, though unpretentious, operated with remarkable efficiency, producing enough to sustain the Daiwik family while offering a modest surplus for trade in the bustling Leeds market. Beyond the main house, the servants’ quarters were tucked neatly within the estate’s outbuildings. Though plain, these accommodations were thoughtfully designed, providing both practicality and a sense of community for the small, devoted staff. Thomas Daiwik, now a prosperous wool merchant, eschewed extravagance, favoring functionality and tradition over opulence. His roots in Guisborough, a quiet market town in the North Riding of Yorkshire, had instilled in him an appreciation for hard work and resilience.

  Mr. Daiwik had endured the tumult of the English Civil War, surviving the loss of most of his family to the chaos of the conflict. Orphaned by his parent’s passing, he relocated with his remaining siblings to Leeds, where he inherited his uncle’s wool mill at just seventeen. Despite his youth, Mr. Daiwik quickly proved himself a capable and driven businessman, transforming the mill into a cornerstone of the local economy.

  The estate employed a tight-knit group of loyal servants, each indispensable to the smooth running of the household. Among them was Oswald Beckett, the coachman—a stout, middle-aged man whose sturdy demeanor mirrored the reliability of the carriages he maintained with pride, transporting the Daiwik’s family whenever necessary. Jacob Thorne, the stable hand, was a wiry, taciturn figure in his early thirties, whose quiet understanding of horses made him indispensable in the care of the animals. Within the household, Mrs. Edith Browne, the housekeeper, presided over the domestic staff and errand boys with a calm authority. Maggie Hall, the housemaid, was sharp-witted and swift, her efficiency ensuring the estate’s interiors were always immaculate.

  The heart of the kitchen was Mary Dutton, the cook—a plump woman in her mid-forties with ruddy cheeks and a warm smile that could rival the heat of her oven. Having served the family for over a decade, Mary worked seamlessly alongside Mrs. Browne to oversee the other maids. Together, they managed the domestic affairs with precision, though not without the occasional challenge. The estate was rocked by a quiet scandal when Mrs. Browne discovered a silver spoon, etched with the family crest, hidden among the belongings of the oldest maid, Martha Cromwell. The discovery left Mary and Mrs. Browne astounded, their trust shaken, as they struggled to reconcile the theft with the years of service Martha had given to the family. The incident sent ripples through the household, a reminder that even in the most tightly bound communities, secrets could fester.

  The Daiwik household was large, consisting of Thomas and Eleanor Daiwik and their seven children. During the warm embrace of summer, the household came alive with a cherished tradition. Mrs. Daiwik, ever mindful of instilling independence and self-reliance in her children, insisted they rise early with the sun. Under her watchful yet encouraging eye, the children ventured to the farmyard, the dewy grass cool beneath their feet, to collect fresh eggs from the clucking hens and milk from the placid cows. The morning air was filled with a quiet hum of activity as they returned to the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, to prepare their own breakfast. This ritual not only fostered a sense of responsibility but also allowed the household servants a rare indulgence—a later start to their busy day. It was a simple yet profound gesture, binding the family closer together and instilling values that would echo throughout their lives.

  The three-story house was both practical and elegant, its spacious interior accommodating the Daiwik family, their loyal servants, and the occasional influx of impromptu guests. Many visitors arrived with purpose—discussing wool contracts or negotiating farmyard trades—but often stayed longer, charmed by the warmth of the household, their renowned aged mead or refined wine. The front yard, meticulously tended by skilled gardeners, offered a welcoming sight, with vibrant flowers and neatly trimmed bushes framing the stone pathway that led to the grand entrance.

  Inside, the ground floor was thoughtfully arranged to balance function and hospitality. The parlour, a formal space with polished furnishings, provided an elegant setting for receiving visitors. Nearby, the kitchen opened toward the farmyard, its comforting aromas of fresh bread and herbs mingling with the earthy scents from outside. The living room, centered around a magnificent stone fireplace, exuded coziness, inviting the family to gather on chilly evenings. The formal dining room, with its wide windows overlooking the serene backyard, offered a peaceful space for meals, where the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the river completed the atmosphere.

  Ascending to the second floor, the heart of the family's private quarters, the master bedroom could be found at the end of the corridor, where Thomas and Eleanor Daiwik shared a space of understated comfort. Adjacent to it was Mr. Daiwik’s study, a room that bore the essence of his industrious nature. The scent of ink and wool filled the air, blending with the faint creak of the heavy oak desk beneath stacks of ledgers and correspondence. Papers detailing wool trades with merchants from London and beyond spilled across the surface, evidence of his tireless dedication to the family business. The large study, cluttered but purposeful, was both a sanctuary of strategy and the nerve center of the estate's most profitable operations.

  The third floor housed the children’s bedrooms. Leopold, the eldest, had a bedroom for himself, while his twin sister Lena shared a bedroom with their sister, Linda. Lewis and Luke also had their rooms here. At the end of the corridor a narrow staircase led to the attic. It was here that Lucian and his twin brother Leon slept, their beds tucked beneath the sloping beams. The attic's small dormer windows offered a view of the woods and river behind the house, a sight that Lucian often gazed upon with quiet introspection.

  The family routine was diverse and their daily tasks took most of their time. Thomas Daiwik, the head of the family, was out at the market, overseeing the sale of wool. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the bustling marketplace as he bartered and negotiated with the city’s traders. His reddish-purple hair, peppered with streaks of grey, was neatly combed back, and his trimmed beard gave him a rugged look. On his left cheek, a star-shaped birthmark added a unique touch to Mr. Daiwik's appearance—peculiar yet undeniably distinguished, setting him apart in a way that seemed almost fated. Renowned for his unwavering fairness and integrity, Mr. Daiwik commanded deep respect in Leeds, where his thriving wool business became a cornerstone of the community. His reputation extended beyond commerce; his honest dealings and personable nature earned him admiration among both merchants and townsfolk. Most days, he and his eldest son, Leopold, could be found in the bustling heart of the town, overseeing transactions, negotiating contracts, and ensuring the smooth operation of their enterprise. Meanwhile, the younger boys of the family pursued their studies diligently at Leeds Grammar School, while the girls remained at home under the nurturing guidance of their mother, who instilled in them the virtues of independence and responsibility.

  Eleanor Daiwik, the mother and the heart of the household, was busy with her own duties. With her elegant, dark blond hair let loose, cascading down her back, Mrs. Daiwik was the image of warmth and comfort. Unlike the rest of her children, she lacked the star-shaped birthmark on her left cheek. She spent her mornings tending to the household servants, or making sure everything around the estate was in order, before retreating to the family library on the first floor, where she took refuge in the pages of her beloved books. Mrs. Daiwik often watched over her children, offering gentle guidance when needed. Though she rarely spoke of the strange occurrences around the estate, a sense of worry had settled in her heart, especially when it came to Lucian. Her blue eyes often lingered on him, as if she sensed something she couldn’t quite explain.

  Mostly on Sundays, after the weekly Church attendance in the morning service, the children would have the day free. The eldest, Leopold Daiwik, was found during his free time in the study on the first floor, going over the family’s accounts. With dark brown hair neatly parted and his blue eyes sharp and focused, he was the most responsible of the siblings. His stern demeanour and sense of duty mirrored his father’s, and though he sometimes came across as distant, Leopold carried his family’s expectations and well-being in his heart. Lena Daiwik, his twin sister, was happily busy helping Marry, the cook, prepare for meals. Her dark brown hair, often braided down her back, framed her face, giving her a poised and elegant look. Lena was the nurturer of the family, always ensuring her younger siblings were cared for. Her blue eyes held a quiet strength, and she exuded calm in the often hectic household. Both twins bore the distinctive family birthmark on their left cheeks—a star-shaped mark that was as much a source of pride as it was a mild irritation. It drew frequent questions and curious stares, with strangers speculating whether its origin was purely natural or something more enigmatic, perhaps even otherworldly. The mark seemed to carry an air of mystery, often casting the Daiwik children in a light that both set them apart and bound them together in shared fascination and occasional exasperation.

  Lewis Daiwik was the energetic second son of the seven children with his unruly reddish-purple hair resembling his father’s, and his birthmark as vivid as his hair on his left cheek. He was often seen tinkering with one of his many creative and mischievous projects. Linda Daiwik, the second daughter, liked to quietly observe, sitting often in the corner of the kitchen, her dark red bushy hair falling over her shoulders, oft covering her small start-shape birthmark on her left cheek. Just like her mother, she was often carrying a book, as she watched or heard what was going on around her. The gentle hum of daily life filling the house.

  Sundays were especially fun for the youngsters of the siblings, often seen outside in the backyard that gently sloped towards the River Aire. This Sunday in particular, the twins Leon Daiwik and Lucian Daiwik, and their older brother Luke Daiwik were again in the midst of a playful mob football game of three. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow across the lawn as the three boys ran, jumped, and laughed, momentarily free from the worries that had begun to plague their family.

  Lucian, with his dark blond hair and fringe, was fully immersed in the game. He was quick on his feet, darting between his brothers as they tried to steal the ball from him. Leon, his identical twin, was just as fast, though he had always been the more outgoing of the two. The bond between them was undeniable, and despite the strange occurrences that had begun to happen around Lucian, Leon never questioned his brother’s differences. Instead, he embraced them. Luke struggled to keep up but laughed heartily, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. All of them displayed the same pale salmon colour birthmark that resembled a five points start on their left cheeks.

  As the game wore on, Lucian’s natural agility seemed to become something more. Without realising it, his movements became unnaturally swift, and as the ball soared into the air, it hung there for a moment longer than it should have, defying gravity. Lucian jumped and caught it effortlessly, landing with an ease that surprised even him. Leon and Luke froze, their eyes wide.

  Signs of Magic - Unpredictable Tricks

  The warm Sunday afternoon in mid-June stretched lazily across the Daiwik backyard, the golden light of the sun dappling through the trees and casting playful patterns on the grass. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the scent of blooming wildflowers and the faint, rhythmic murmur of the nearby River Aire. The laughter and chatter from moments before had faded into a stunned silence as the boys stood frozen in place, their gazes locked on Lucian. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, the ordinary day charged with an unexpected energy. The backyard, once a scene of carefree play, now felt like the stage for something strange.

  “Did you see that?” Luke asked, glancing at Leon.

  Leon frowned, rubbing his chin.

  “Lucian, how did you do that?”

  Lucian looked down at the ball in his hands, his heart pounding.

  “I... I don’t know,” he stammered, quickly tossing the ball back to Luke. “It just happened.”

  But Luke was not so easily convinced. He exchanged a look with Leon, both of them starting to suspect that their brother’s wins were not purely by skill. Lucian shifted uncomfortably under their gaze, his blue eyes darting to the ground. He had not meant to do anything unusual, and yet, it had happened again—just like the time he had made the flowers bloom out of season or caused the lights to flicker during a stormy night. Lucian clenched his fists, a familiar unease settling over him.

  “Let’s keep playing,” he said quickly, trying to divert their attention.

  But the moment lingered with unspoken questions.

  Inside the house, Mrs. Daiwik watched from the library window, her hands resting on the sill. Her blue eyes followed her children as they played, but her gaze lingered on Lucian, she looked at his scraped knees, thoughtfully. She couldn’t explain it, but something about him felt different. The boy she had raised was growing more distant, his oddities becoming harder to ignore.

  Later that evening, the family gathered around the long wooden table for supper. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted vegetables filled the air, a comforting contrast to the tension that had slowly begun to settle over the household. Mr. Daiwik, having returned from a small inspection of their Wool Mill, sat at the head of the table, his face tired but satisfied. He discussed business with Leopold, the conversation flowing easily between father and son, but Lucian’s mind was elsewhere.

  Sitting between Leon and Linda, Lucian picked at his food, the events of the day replaying in his mind like a broken record. His fingers absently pushed a piece of bread across his plate, his appetite long gone. Every so often, he glanced at Leon or Luke. Leon sat beside him, watching him with a careful, almost calculating expression, as though waiting for an explanation that Lucian did not have. Luke sat across from the twins, but he seemed to already have forgotten what had happened while they were playing mob football in the backyard, his mind was elsewhere.

  Linda, always the silent observer, sensed the tension between the brothers. Her blue eyes darted between them, curious but patient, she kept quiet. She knew better than to ask or talk about what was going on, in front of their parents.

  The evening wore on, the family slipping into their usual routines, but the strange occurrences of the day lingered between the twins. Lucian excused himself early, retreating to the attic room he shared with Leon. The soft creak of the wooden stairs echoed in the house, each step sounding louder in his mind. His thoughts were a whirlpool of confusion and fear, spinning out of control with every passing moment. He could feel something shifting inside him, something he could not grasp, much less control.

  Leon followed shortly after, the door closing with a soft click behind him, he sat in his bed, across from Lucian, who avoided his gaze. The sun was setting and the last sun rays of the day streamed through the small dormer window, casting long shadows across the room, illuminating the worn wooden floorboards. For a long moment, they sat in silence. It was Leon who finally broke the quiet, his voice low and tentative.

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  “You know, Lucian... there’s something strange about your tricks lately. It’s weird… they happen when you don’t even know it, and they’re getting... more often.” He paused, watching his brother carefully, searching for some kind of reaction.

  Lucian didn’t respond right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the darkening woods outside, his breath shallow. The trees swayed gently in the dusk breeze. He felt the same way—caught in a force he could not understand or stop, swaying between fear and uncertainty.

  “I know. I know it’s weird. I know I’m weird but I… I don’t mean to do them,” Lucian whispered after a long pause, his voice barely audible, still avoiding Leon’s eyes. “I don’t even know how I do them. Or what they are… They’re just... They just... happen.”

  He turned his head to face Leon, his blue eyes shimmering with fear and something deeper, something darker.

  “It’s like there’s something inside me that awakens. And when it does... it feels—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “—off, like if there are two Lucians inside of me. One good and one bad and they fight for control. Most of the time I barely notice them, but sometimes, it’s like cats fighting inside of me.”

  Leon frowned, the concern in his eyes deepening.

  “What do you mean?”

  Lucian swallowed hard, his throat tight.

  “Look, I don't know. I don’t understand it. I’m scared, Leon. I’m scared because I don’t know how to stop them, I mean ‘it’. And what if... what if it gets worse? What if someone finds out?” He could hear his voice rising, the panic seeping into his words.

  Leon furrowed his brow, his hand instinctively reaching for Lucian’s shoulder, offering some kind of comfort.

  “It’s scary, I know but I don’t reckon anyone’s going to find out. You just have to hide it… I think…”

  Lucian shook his head, pulling away slightly.

  “But what if I can’t and what if they do, Leon? You remember the stories. What Granddad told us... about the witch hunts. About what they did to people that were different. People like me.” His voice trembled with the memories and the fear of those tales. Tales, still so vivid in his mind, now more than ever before.

  “They were hunted, tortured and burned, Leon. Hunted down like animals. The townsfolk didn’t care if it was true or not. Magic, I mean… They were afraid. And I don’t know what to do.”

  Leon looked down. He too felt now afraid, more afraid than he felt during his whole life. He looked back at his twin, trying to find the right words.

  “Lucian, those stories are from long ago.” He said, trying to control his own fears. “Things are different now. You’re just.. They’re just tricks! They aren’t dark ‘magic’....”

  “How can you be sure?” Lucian’s eyes flashed with desperation. “You don’t know what it’s like... when it happens, when it awakes. I can feel it, building up inside me, like a struggle I can’t stop. And then... it’s just there. I didn’t want to knock over those plates at dinner, or—” he hesitated, his voice dropping, “—or make the windows crack this morning when we left for church. But it just happened.”

  Leon’s brows went up, his face looking surprised.

  “Ooooh, it was you?” He paused, his voice firm but gentle. “Well, Listen here. We’re twins, Lucian. We face things together, remember? And I know it scares you and it scares me too but you don’t have to deal with this all by yourself… I mean I can help, I… I guess…” He added, unsure on how he could even start helping Lucian with this kind of problem.

  Lucian wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that he was not alone, that Leon could somehow make this all go away, or at least help him understand it. But deep down, he feared the truth. He was different. And in a world that feared difference, that could be dangerous.

  Lucian let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing for a moment as he tried to steady himself.

  “What if one day I can’t stop it? What if it gets out of control?”

  Leon held his own chin and crossed his arms, and for a moment, he was quiet, as though weighing his next words carefully.

  “Then we’ll find a way to make sure it doesn’t. Maybe we can practise—try to figure out what’s triggering it, learn how to control it.”

  “You really think that’d work?” Lucian looked at him, doubt clouding his face.

  Leon smiled faintly, the corners of his lips lifting in that reassuring way he always did when trying to make things seem less frightening.

  “I don’t know. But it’s better than doing nothing, right?”

  Lucian nodded, his expression softening just a little. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind, but somehow, with Leon beside him, it felt a little more bearable.

  “I just... I don't want to hurt anyone.”

  “You won’t,” Leon said firmly. “You’re not bad, Lucian.”

  The bond between them, unspoken but undeniable, seemed to strengthen in that moment. Lucian knew his brother would stand by him no matter what, but that didn’t erase the gnawing dread inside him. The fear that one day, the power he couldn’t control would spiral out of his hands, and when it did, it would change everything.

  And the moon slowly climbed across the sky, casting long shadows over the brothers. They sat together in silence, both knowing that their world was shifting, that magic was slowly pulling them into its unpredictable and dangerous depths.

  Signs of Magic - Magic in the Shadows

  The Silver Stag Pub was a familiar haunt in Leeds, where merchants, clothiers, and travellers gathered to unwind and conduct business. Nestled along the famous Kirkgate—a central artery of trade and social activity and one of the oldest streets of the prosperous town, near the marketplace, its timber-framed structure stood resilient against the crisp Yorkshire winds that howled at night. Inside, the warmth of a crackling fire and the smell of ale and stew filled the air, along with the constant hum of chatter and laughter. It was a place where stories were shared, gossip was passed around like bread, and suspicions grew in the corners of hushed conversations.

  At one table near the hearth, Martha Cromwell, a former maid of the Daiwik household, leaned forward, her voice low yet full of indignation. She glanced around, ensuring the curious eyes of strangers weren’t upon them. Her audience, a group of townsfolk huddled closely, hung onto her every word—some with wide-eyed fascination, others with sceptical frowns.

  “I’m tellin’ you,” Martha hissed, her hands clutching the pewter mug, “strange things happen in that house. Things I wouldn’t believe if I hadn’t seen ‘em myself.” Her voice trembled with a mix of resentment and fear.

  “Like what, Martha? More of your fairy stories?” Marcus Fletcher, a well known cloth dyer in Leeds, chuckled from the back of the group, his grizzled face lit by the fire. Martha shot him a sharp glare.

  “You think I’m making this up, Fletcher? I was fired from that house for speakin’ the truth, not for stealing! They said I stole silver spoons, but that’s a lie! I saw things! Bluish lights floatin’ in the air like fireflies—they disappeared before I could catch ‘em!” She paused, taking a long gulp of her drink. “And the broom I’d just put down? I turned my back for a second, and it was outside, by the garden gate! Tell me how a broom walks by itself!”

  One of the women at the table, a plump baker’s wife, crossed her arms.

  “You’re just bitter ‘cause you got dismissed, Martha. Don’t act like you weren’t caught red-handed with those spoons. Stealing's a crime, and everyone knows it.”

  “I don’t need to lie about what I saw!” Martha snapped back, her face red. “You ever seen a half-eaten supper suddenly appear untouched? Or heard strange voices comin' from the hearth when no one was there? I'm tellin' you, there's somethin’ wrong with that house! Mark my words.”

  There was a moment of silence as the townsfolk exchanged glances. Some were visibly shaken by Martha’s words, others still doubtful, but the unease had already settled in.

  “I’ve heard things too,” another man, a blacksmith, piped up, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “Walked by the Daiwik place one night. Could’ve sworn I saw shadows movin’ on their own in the woods behind the house. Gave me chills, it did.”

  “Bah, all of you are as daft as she is,” Marcus Fletcher sneered, though his voice wavered slightly. “Shadows, floating lights… It’s just the wind or a trick of the eye. You all want to believe in ghosts and magic, don’t ya?”

  From behind the pub’s counter, a Chinese woman silently cleaned a beer mug, her movements slow and deliberate. Her sharp eyes, almond-shaped and deep brown, watched the scene unfold with quiet curiosity. Her face was unreadable, but she missed nothing—every word, every glance, every flicker of doubt or fear in the pub was absorbed. Her hands, steady and calm, continued to clean the mug even as her ears sharpened.

  A quiet tension drifted through the group as Jiang set her mug down, the faint clink almost lost in the soft hum of conversation filling the pub. Her sharp eyes, usually so patient, flickered with the resolve of someone who had heard enough. She paused for a second, her mind racing. There was no other way, they must be contacted at once. They would not like to be called upon so unexpectedly but the situation was dire and Jiang knew they were in town that Sunday. She looked over, the bustling pub was alive with loud chatter and an animated atmosphere.

  ‘There is no other way.’ She thought, ‘I must inform them. But first things first.’

  Without drawing attention, Jiang rose from her seat, muttering she would be right back to her clerk, who was busy filling up beer mugs. She made her way toward Martha’s table and the townsfolk.

  “Martha Cromwell,” she said clearly and simply with her thick Chinese accent. “I understand you were dismissed.”

  Martha looked up, her cheeks flush and her gaze somewhat unfocused.

  “Aye! Unjustified and wrongfully dismissed, if I may add.”

  Jiang nodded.

  “Would you like to work for me?”

  “Work? For ya? Where?”

  “Well here, of course. In the silver stag. I’ll need assistance in the back and in tidying up the tavern’s rooms.”

  Martha looked confused, she had had a lot to drink. The townsfolk around her smiled and nodded in agreement, nudging her on.

  “Alright, I….” She composed herself. “Yes!”

  “Then it’s settled.” Jiang said. “I’ll be expecting you tomorrow morning to discuss arrangements. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Jiang turned and marched to the side door of the pub, weaving through the maze of tables, the patrons gathered together, immersed in their gossip and news of Martha’s good fortune.

  Outside, Jiang walked down the side street towards a narrow alleyway that led to the windowless back wall of the pub, dimly lit by the soft glow of the moon above. The mist swirled lazily around her feet, thickening as it drifted from the nearby woods, casting an eerie atmosphere over the streets. Jiang Li glanced over her shoulder, ensuring she was alone before stepping further into the shadows. Her fingers found the smooth surface of the jade talisman hanging around her neck, its coolness grounding her amidst the growing unease.

  With a soft whisper in Mandarin, her breath visible in the cool night air, the talisman responded. It glowed faintly, the jade’s green light reflecting off the walls of the alleyway, casting long, sinuous shapes across her face. The light brightened for a moment, then dimmed, leaving the silence more palpable than before.

  “We must meet now,” she murmured to the still night, her voice carrying a distinct urgency.

  As the glow faded completely, Jiang dissolved into the shadows, her movements swift and deliberate. She left the town behind, her path winding through the silent streets until she reached the river air, the edge of the woods looming across from it. The towering trees creaked and groaned by the moon light. She looked around, she was alone, with quick hand gestures, a greyish cloud appeared in front of her, she stepped onto it and it began to glide, carrying her to the other side of the river. Jiang leapt out of the cloud and made her way into the dark woods.

  Beneath the waning moonlight, the woods had an ethereal quality, the branches of the trees bending and swaying with a life of their own. It stretched onwards, connecting Leeds to Temple Newsam Woods, where Grovewell Magical Plaza was located, shrouded from non-magical eyes, hidden deep within the forest.

  In a small clearing ahead, three cloaked figures waited, their hoods pulled low over their faces. The air around them seemed to crackle with magic, vibrating faintly. As Jiang approached, her silhouette barely visible, the tallest of the three figures stepped forward, he carried a silvery cane on his left hand, his dark reddish cloak parting just enough to reveal a lined thin face, his features harsh in the moon’s glow.

  Elder Arin Sorrell—one of the founders of the Magical Plazas in England—regarded Jiang with a piercing gaze. His hair, once a platinum blond, had silvered with age, though his sharp eyes retained the brightness of his youth. Despite the years, he held himself tall, his presence commanding as he looked down at Jiang.

  “Why have you summoned us, Jiang Li?” His voice was gravelly and somewhat tired, holding the authority of someone used to being obeyed. “We don’t meet on a whim, especially not whilst we’re amongst the nullkins.”

  Jiang stepped closer, her face partially illuminated by the moonlight.

  “Elder Arin, I apologise for the suddenness, but time is no longer our ally.” Her tone was urgent but respectful. “It is about the Daiwiks. The whispers in the town grow louder. The nullkins have begun to notice strange occurrences—things they should not. And all trails lead back to the Daiwik estate.”

  Beside Arin, the second cloaked figure stirred. Elder Maira Veylon, her silver-streaked hair spilling out from beneath her black hood, looked at Jiang with a deep frown. Her deep green eyes were sharp and alert, as she spoke.

  “Yes. The Daiwiks. We’ve been sensing disturbances more frequently,” she said slowly without taking a break, her voice calm yet firm. “The magical community has felt them since May. We also could sense the magic from inside of Grovewell, quite strong and different. Not to mention the increase of magical creatures gathering, here, in the woods, probably seeking the source of the power. We’ve placed barriers to ward them off and protect Leeds’ nullkins. You’ve surely gotten the flamewing notice, have you not? And we can’t act without certainty. Do you have any proof that one of the Daiwiks is the source?”

  Jiang shook her head, her brows furrowing.

  “I do not, at least, not yet, Elder Maira. And yes, I have got the flamewing notice. However, it cannot be denied that the power radiates from that region, and the Daiwiks are the only ones living within those boundaries. The gossip is spreading. If we delay any longer, the nullkins will grow suspicious, and we all know it takes little more than a rumour to spark a witch hunt.”

  The third figure, Elder Linnea Blackwell, leaned heavily on her cane as she stepped forward. On her finger an old silver ring with a black stone that seemed to glow faintly. She seemed to be the oldest of the three, her once vibrant brown eyes now clouded by age but still piercing beneath her pale green hood. Her frame appeared frail, but her voice, when she spoke, was unwavering.

  “I reckon Jiang’s right,” she said, her words firm. “We haven’t forgotten why you came to this country, Jiang and your Asylum has proven to be of great help for our cause. I say we act on your suspicions. If you are right, we cannot let this situation spiral into chaos. The town has barely recovered from the plague. The last thing we need is another round of witch hunts.”

  Elder Arin crossed his arms, his cane stayed in place, as if waiting for his hand to return. His expression hardened as he considered their words.

  “We have sensed the power for weeks now, and it has grown stronger with each passing day and is rather unpredictable.” His voice was deep, and though his words carried concern, there was an edge of indecision. “Yet no magical incidents have been directly linked to this presence or the estate’s surroundings. The power seems to be somehow cloaked when inactive. I must say I myself have never experienced this kind of wavering presence before. However If we act prematurely and in the dark, we risk exposing ourselves.”

  Elder Maira’s eyes darkened. She looked up at Arin, frowning.

  “Aye. That might be true,” She stepped forward, her step shaky, moving slowly due to her old age. “The fact does not change in any case that we must prevent further disruptions to the natural order. You’ve seen the creatures lurking in the woods. Even the fae have made their presence known. Without your wards, Arin, the children of this town might have been taken by now.”

  A long silence settled over the group. Arin’s gaze drifted towards the woods, where the trees seemed to sway ominously in the night breeze, as if they, too, sensed the danger creeping ever closer. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resolute.

  “We shall contact London.” He closed his fists, his cane now floating by his side. “We need their counsel. This power is growing too rapidly. We may need to take drastic action before something catastrophic occurs. Even the magical creatures are drawn to it, which poses a threat to the secrecy of our world. We’ll require reinforcements and strategic thinking.”

  He looked questioningly at Elder Maira and Elder Linnea. They held his gaze and slowly nodded in affirmation.

  Jiang stiffened slightly. Though her expression remained neutral, her thoughts whirled. Contacting London? That could only mean one thing. They would summon him. The man she had hoped to never ever meet again.

  “London?” she asked, her voice carefully measured. “Elder Arin, are you certain this is wise?”

  Arin’s brows lifted, disappearing under his hood, his cold gaze met hers, unyielding.

  “We have no choice, Jiang. If you are right, this enigma and its threat to our secrecy grows too large for us to contain alone.”

  Elder Maira nodded solemnly.

  “I am afraid Arin’s right. This power is not something we can ignore any longer.”

  “Aye…” came simply from Elder Linnea’s faint agreement, she seemed even paler now.

  Elder Arin straightened, his decision made.

  “Maira, Linnea, we must return to Grovewell immediately.” He said, grabbing his cane mid float. “I’ll inform Elder Bakari once he returns from his travels, and we’ll send word to London through Spritefly Express tonight. It’ll be the fastest way to reach them. We’ll need all the support we can gather to solve this crisis without waking further suspicions of the nullkins.”

  Elder Maira placed a hand on Elder Linnea’s arm, her eyes filled with concern.

  “Linnea, you should rest. You’re still not fully recovered. Head to your spire once we return.”

  Elder Linnea smiled faintly, though the effort seemed to drain her.

  “I shall be fine,” she replied, her voice gentle but determined. “I’m glad I’ll be able to see my grandson one last time…”

  Elder Arin and Elder Marira exchanged worried glances.

  Jiang lowered her gaze, she found herself disconnected from the gathering, from the moment they mentioned London. Her thoughts were going off like a cannon. A flicker of unease flashing across her face. She would follow her orders, of course, but the thought of facing that man sent a chill down her spine. The situation was dire, but this was not a path she had hoped they would take.

  “Jiang,” Elder Maira’s voice broke her thoughts. “Thank you for your help. I’m entrusting you with further surveillance. Watch the Daiwiks, but please don’t interfere. Report directly to me if anything unusual occurs. We’ll reconvene in the Grovewell’s Council Chambers to discuss further action.”

  Jiang bowed her head.

  “As you wish, Elder Maira.”

  With that, she placed two fingers on her talisman once more, summoning a swirling grey cloud at her feet. With a graceful step, she mounted the cloud, which rose swiftly into the sky, carrying her over the woods toward the distant horizon.

  As she soared through the cool night air, her thoughts remained troubled. The council’s decision to summon aid from London might be their only chance to control the growing threat without directly involving the nullkins, but Jiang could not shake the feeling that they were racing toward a much larger danger. One of the Daiwiks, whether knowingly or not, was at the heart of this mystery, and if they did not intervene soon, Leeds itself could fall into chaos.

  ‘I must reach them first,’ she thought, her resolve hardening as she disappeared into the night.

  Signs of Magic - Whispers of Suspicion

  The weeks that followed were marked by a lingering tension that settled over the Daiwik family. Though they continued their daily routines, the atmosphere within the house felt strained. Outside the estate, the rumours had already begun to weave their way through the city, spreading like wildfire. What had once been simple curiosity was now becoming twisted with every retelling, igniting the imaginations of the townsfolk.

  In the bustling marketplace, where the clatter of carts and the lively chatter of bartering filled the air, a small group of shopkeepers gathered near their stalls, speaking in hushed tones. The cobbler, a wiry man with nervous eyes, leaned in closer to his companions.

  “Have you heard about the Daiwiks?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din. His eyes darted around, scanning the crowd as if ensuring no one else could overhear.

  “They say their house is cursed. Lights in the woods, shadows moving about... and last night, I swear, I heard wailing coming from the river.”

  “Nonsense,” scoffed the butcher, a stout man with arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head dismissively, though his brow furrowed. “You’re letting old superstitions get to you. The Daiwiks are decent folk, always have been. Been buying their meat from me for years. There’s nothing wrong with them!”

  The cobbler, undeterred, pressed on, his voice lowering further.

  “But how do you explain all the strange things happening? Shadows don’t move on their own, and lights in the woods? That’s not normal.”

  Another shopkeeper, a woman with her apron tied tightly around her waist, chimed in.

  “I’ve seen it too. Flickering lights near their property, shadows moving where there shouldn’t be any. And those children of theirs—they have always been a bit... odd. Especially with those strange birthmarks” Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms more tightly. “I’m not sure I’ll be letting them in my shop again.”

  As the group murmured in agreement, their voices full of unease, one of them suddenly hushed the others.

  “Look!” the woman whispered urgently, pointing toward the street.

  The group fell silent, turning in unison. There, walking home from grammar school, were the Daiwik twins—Lucian and Leon, and Luke accompanied by Henry Hardwicke walking animatedly in front of them. They were deep in conversation, oblivious to the eyes watching them. The crowd exchanged uneasy glances, a palpable tension simmering between them, fueled by suspicions. Slowly, they began to disperse, each retreating to their stalls, though their minds buzzed with the dark gossip they had just shared.

  The late afternoon sun dipped behind the horizon as the three brothers—Leon, Lucian, and Luke—made their way home from school. Henry, Lucian’s best friend, accompanied them, every Thursday Leopold would stay home to help his brothers with Latin and Greek Studies, languages being a speciality of Leopold’s. The cobbled streets of Leeds grew quieter as they ventured toward the outskirts, leaving behind the bustling heart of Swinegate. Lined with modest shops, inns, and cottages, Swinegate was the lifeblood of this growing market town, but as they continued down its winding path, the landscape shifted. The cobblestones slowly gave way to a dirt road, the signs of civilization thinning out as they moved closer to the Daiwik estate?.

  To their left, the River Aire meandered gently, its waters glistening in the dimming light of day. The river curved like a faithful companion, flowing directly toward the estate, nestled between rolling hills and dense woods that now stood ahead of them. This branch of the river had long been a vital artery for the town’s economy, powering mills and ferrying goods, but now, as the boys followed the dirt road, it served as a tranquil guide through the growing shadows of the late afternoon.

  The effects of the English Civil War, though several years past, still lingered in Leeds. Leon, usually filled with energy, was uncharacteristically quiet, his sharp blue eyes darting nervously between the trees. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching them—something that seemed to move in the darkness with a purpose. His thoughts lingered on his brother Lucian’s strange tricks, the ones that just happened without warning. He hadn’t told anyone about his growing fear, but the knot of anxiety in his chest tightened with every step.

  As they neared the wood patch closest to the river branches, the familiar towering trees loomed ahead, casting dark, stretching shadows across the path. People and horses passed by coming and going from their end of day commute. The air grew colder despite the summer air. The rushing of the river mingled with the rustling leaves, heightening Leon’s unease. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to catch a glimpse of something moving between the trees—a shadow slipping through the light, too far to make out but close enough to send a chill down his spine.

  “Lads,” Leon said quietly, grabbing his younger brother's arm. His voice was tight with urgency. “We need to hurry.”

  “What?,” Henry said untroubled, a grim expression on his face. “Are you so eager to revise Latin?,”

  “No,” Leon said, hurrying his pace, “Someone… following… by the trees!”

  Lucian, sensing the tension in his brother’s voice, didn’t question him. He quickened his pace, and Luke, always alert to his older brothers, did the same, grabbing a complaining Henry by his arm and dragging him along. The four of them moved faster now, their footsteps echoing in the quiet, their satchels thudding rhythmically against their backs. Henry jerked his arm free and looked behind. The figure seemed to grow closer, moving with alarming speed.

  “Who is that?” Henry said loudly, the three brothers looked behind them and saw a dark figure running along the river’s side towards them. Without warning, Leon and Luke bolted, sprinting down the narrow path toward the safety of their home. Luke, in the lead, neared the edge of the woods where the path opened up into the yard of their estate.

  Lucian wanted to follow, his heart pounding in his chest as his legs burned, each step harder than the last. His school satchel weighed him down, but fear drove him forward. He looked back and saw that Henry stood there, mesmerized by the scene of the cloaked man running.

  Without thinking he turned around and sprinted towards Henry, grabbing him by his satchel and pulling him towards the opposite way. They stopped to see as the man jumped over the River Air, an impossible jump, towards them.

  It was then that something extraordinary happened. Lucian felt it—an unfamiliar force stirring deep within him, building like a storm beneath his skin. The air around the boys crackled with energy, and before Lucian knew it, a powerful gust of wind tore through the trees, sending leaves and branches spiralling into the air towards the cloaked man. The wind’s fury was violent and uncontrolled, catching the figure that had pursued them as he jumped and flinging him into the River Aire with a deafening splash.

  Lucian blood ran cold, his vision blurring, chest heaving, that familiar exhaustion taking over him, wide-eyed in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Henry looked at him and back at the man being dragged by the river current. Lucian’s mind raced, the sickening realisation settling over him—he had done this. Without meaning to, without even knowing how, the power inside him had surged out, wild and untamed.

  "What... what was that?" Henry asked, his words shaky, the terror clear in his eyes.

  Lucian shook his head, his throat dry, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

  "I... I don’t know," he stammered, feeling his exhaustion reach a breaking point. His head spun. “I feel sick... I think I need to lie down.”

  Henry’s fear deepened, not just of the figure that had chased them, but of his best mate. He grabbed Lucian’s arm, gripping it tightly.

  "We need to get inside. Now." Lucian’s voice was weak but urgent, panic bubbling just beneath the surface. There had been too many strange things lately, things he could no longer explain. And passer-bys were starting to look at them.

  As they neared the house, Luke and Leon were waiting by the front door, faces full of concern.

  “Is he alright? He looks terrible! What happened?” Leon’s voice was edged with worry.

  Henry glanced at Lucian before responding.

  “That man… he was... really following us, I reckon. He jumped or fell into the river!”

  Luke’s eyes widened.

  “Are you serious?” Asked Leon, his face pale, looking at Lucian.

  “Yeah,” Henry pulled on Lucian’s arm, “ Oi, help me get Lucian inside, he is not feeling well.”

  “Sure!” Luke and Leon rushed forward, taking Lucian’s arms.

  As the four boys made their way into the safety of the estate, the tension from what had just transpired lingered between them. Leon's mind swirled with uncertainty and fear. Could Lucian be behind this? Was his brother somehow responsible for what had just happened? The question gnawed at him—could Lucian be dangerous?

  Inside the house, Lucian’s heart sank as the truth settled in his mind—these were not just tricks, they were something far more dangerous, something beyond his control. He had lost control again, and the consequences were becoming harder to ignore. The reality of his abilities, raw and unpredictable, was no longer an uncertainty. And for the first time, Lucian was not sure if he could ever regain control.

  Unknown to the boys, far off in the distance, Jiang Li, the Taoist sorcerer, had been watching. From her hidden vantage point, floating on top of her magical grey cloud, she narrowed her eyes, watching as the four boys entered the house. The pulse of magic that had surged from their location was unlike anything she had sensed in Leeds before. It was raw, willful, and dangerous. Wasting no more time, she floated towards the mob gathering next to the river banks, where the cloaked man fell. To her surprise, the townsfolk gathered around a visible wet patch of grass, but the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen.

  The sun had long dipped below the horizon of another summer day, casting Leeds into a cool twilight. Thomas Daiwik sat wearily in the coach as it rattled through the narrow streets, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Oswald, the family’s steadfast coachman, guided the sturdy horses with practiced ease, his broad hands steady on the reins. Behind the carriage, Jacob, the wiry and ever-efficient stable hand, had deftly loaded the bundles of wool and supplies Mr. Daiwik had purchased earlier from the marketplace.

  The faint smell of wool clung stubbornly to Mr. Daiwik’s fingers, mingling with the earthy scent of the packed materials around him. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders, each jolt of the coach serving as a reminder of the day’s labor and the rumours he had overheard at the mill—fragments of unease that now swirled in his mind. The usual reprieve he found in the journey home eluded him tonight. Even as the soft glow of the River Aire shimmered in the distance and the familiar silhouette of the stone house emerged against the darkening sky, the sight brought him no solace. The clatter of the wheels on cobblestone echoed his restless thoughts, and not even the reliability of Oswald or the efficiency of Jacob could lighten the growing burden that weighed upon him.

  As Mr. Daiwik approached the estate, he noticed Mrs. Daiwik standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a sombre expression on her face. She stepped aside as her husband got out of the coach, shouting instructions to Jacob, her sharp gaze following him.

  He followed the frontyard’s path to the entrance door.

  “You're late,” Mrs. Daiwik murmured, though there was no accusation in her voice, only concern.

  Mr. Daiwik hung his cloak on the peg by the door, sighing deeply.

  “Long day at the mill and afterward I had to pick up supplies.Oh, and there’s been talk—talk about our family.”

  Mrs. Daiwik’s eyes darkened as she led him into the dimly lit parlour.

  “It’s not just at the mill,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s spread to the shops, the streets. Even tonight, at the grocer's... Maggie was refused service.” She looked away, biting her lip.

  “They slammed the door in her face, she told me in tears. She mumbled something about not wanting bad omens around.”

  Mr. Daiwik sat heavily on a chair by the hearth, rubbing his temples.

  “I overheard similar things at the mill. People are saying we’re cursed. They’re speaking about strange things happening near the estate—lights, shadows moving where they shouldn’t be, voices no one can explain.” His voice grew quieter.

  “I’m worried. If this keeps spreading, we’ll lose business. No one will want to trade with a family thought to be cursed.”

  Mrs. Daiwik crossed the room and sat across from him, her brow furrowed.

  “It’s not just that. I’ve noticed changes in Lucian. He’s been distant. He stays in his room longer, sometimes skipping meals entirely. His knees were scraped the other day, and he didn't even mention it ... There's something... off about him.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m not saying he’s to blame, but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s happening out there—” she gestured toward the darkened window— “has something to do with him.”

  Mr. Daiwik exhaled sharply, his wife’s words settling deep within him, however his logical thinking disregarded it.

  “Lucian? He’s just a boy, Leanor. You’re reading too much into this. The townsfolk are scared, that’s all. I saw Marcus Fletcher tonight as we were loading the goods in the coach, he told Martha is the one behind the rumours, I reckon she is still hurt about her dismissal. It’ll pass, surely.”

  “But what if—” Mrs. Daiwik started, but Mr. Daiwik waved her off, yawning deeply.

  “I’m too tired for this tonight,” Mr. Daiwik muttered, rising to his feet. “I’m heading to bed. I’ll deal with all of this in the morning.”

  “Before you go,” Mrs. Daiwik said, standing up as well, “you should check the correspondence. There’s an official letter addressed to you—it arrived earlier today.”

  Mr. Daiwik paused, his hand halfway to the stair railing, and turned back.

  “An official letter?” he asked, frowning.

  Mrs. Daiwik nodded, pointing toward a sealed envelope resting on the wooden desk by the window, its wax seal unbroken but unmistakable.

  With a sigh, Mr. Daiwik crossed the room and broke the seal. His eyes scanned the parchment, and the deep lines of surprise creased his face.

  “What...?” he muttered, looking up at his wife, who had drawn closer, her expression tightening with concern.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Daiwik asked, her voice carrying an anxious tremor.

  Mr. Daiwik handed her the letter, his voice distant, almost hollow.

  “It’s a royal letter. I’ve been summoned. To London.”

  Mrs. Daiwik’s eyes widened as they skimmed over the words, her fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the edges of the letter.

  “The palace?” she whispered, disbelief etched into her features.

  Mr. Daiwik nodded slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension that had gathered there.

  “A business matter,” he explained, his tone wearied. “They demand to discuss a potential wool trade. It’s urgent.”

  Mrs. Daiwik blinked, her brow furrowing.

  “But why you, of all the merchants in Leeds?”

  Mr. Daiwik let out a slow breath.

  “Well, I reckon it’s because the town has become a key hub for the wool trade now, hasn’t it? Our mill has been well-regarded for its quality for ages, and it seems that the palace has taken notice. Likely through Merchant Adventurers or some other intermediary." He looked down at the letter again, his mind racing. "Still, it is not every day a mill owner in Leeds is summoned by the Crown. They’ve mentioned their interest in securing high-quality wool for military and ceremonial purposes. No doubt, they see us as a crucial supplier.”

  His words hung between them, and for a moment, the room was wrapped in a charged silence. The implications of the letter were profound—not just for their business, but for their family. Summons from the palace were not to be taken lightly, and the attention of the Crown, though lucrative, brought its own dangers.

  “I’ll need to leave in a few days,” Mr. Daiwik added, his voice quieter now, laced with exhaustion. “It’s an opportunity, but it carries risks. Business with the Crown always does.”

  Mrs. Daiwik stood motionless, her mind swirling with thoughts of what this could mean for them.

  “Do you think this has to do with the recent disturbances?” she asked, her voice low, barely above a whisper.

  Mr. Daiwik’s eyes darkened as he considered her words. The rumours in the town had grown louder, the whispers of strange occurrences and sightings in the woods troubling the minds of the townsfolk. And with their family now at the centre of suspicion...

  “I don’t know El,” he replied after a pause. “But I must tread carefully. The palace’s interest could either prove beneficial or bring further scrutiny.”

  Mrs. Daiwik sighed deeply, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the darkening sky signalled the end of another troubled day.

  “The timing seems... too coincidental,” she muttered.

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Coincidental or not, I must prepare for the journey.” He glanced back at her, offering a faint, tired smile. “For now, though, we ought to rest.”

  As he turned and began to climb the stairs, Mrs. Daiwik remained behind, the letter still clutched in her hands. The palace’s attention could mean wealth and stability, but it also brought an uncomfortable scrutiny—one that could threaten their already precarious position.

  The tension outside their home was palpable, with rumours of odd occurrences spreading rapidly through the town. As Mr. Daiwik disappeared upstairs, the dim light of dusk washed over the room, leaving Mrs. Daiwik standing in the gathering gloom, her heart filled with both dread and uncertainty.

  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon once more, the whispers of the townsfolk reached a fever pitch. The Daiwik family, once respected for their prosperous wool mill, now found themselves at the centre of a growing storm—one they could neither escape nor control. And as Lucian’s powers continued to manifest, still shrouded in mystery, the dangers that loomed felt closer than ever.

  For Lucian, the days ahead would only grow darker. His powers, though misunderstood and feared, were becoming increasingly difficult to conceal. And with every passing day, the gap between him and the rest of the world widened, leaving him more isolated and terrified than ever before. The unease was building, and he knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down.