My New Hatred for Bathrooms

 Living in a magical tower sounds glamorous, right? A place where every room can shift, appear, or disappear at will, creating a labyrinth of endless possibilities? Wrong. Dead wrong.

Because when you need to find a bathroom in a tower that’s having a bad day, it’s the opposite of glamorous. It’s maddening.

Picture this: It’s late at night. I’ve just settled into bed, Blizzard snoring softly on the rug. I’m halfway to dreamland when my body decides it needs the bathroom. Okay, fine. I’m not thrilled, but I figure it’ll be a quick trip. I grab my candle and step into the hallway, ready to shuffle my way to the usual spot.

But guess what? The bathroom isn’t there. Of course it isn’t. The tower’s in one of its moods.

I try the door next to my room—normally a storage closet. Nope, now it’s the library. I love books, but they don’t help in this situation. I mutter a few choice words under my breath and shuffle farther down the hall.

Second door? The alchemy lab. Great. If I wanted a potion to make me not have to pee, this would be perfect.

Third door? A broom closet. Not even a big one.

By this point, I’m starting to regret every cup of tea I drank that evening. Blizzard trots up behind me, looking all smug and cozy, because she doesn’t have to deal with this nonsense. She just goes wherever she wants—literally.

I try going downstairs. The staircase is longer than usual, like the tower’s stretching itself out just to annoy me. When I finally get to the ground floor, I try another door. Kitchen. Next one? Dining room. Finally, I open a door, and there it is—the bathroom!

Or so I thought.

Turns out, it’s not the bathroom. It’s some random staircase that looks like a bathroom entrance but leads straight to the attic. Why does the tower even have an attic staircase disguised as a bathroom door? I don’t know. Nobody knows.

By now, I’m practically begging the tower out loud. “Please, just give me the bathroom! I’ll clean my room, I’ll organize the bookshelves, I’ll even mop the floors!” But the tower doesn’t care. It’s like it’s laughing at me.

Finally, after what feels like hours (but was probably only fifteen minutes), I stumble into a room that actually is the bathroom. Sweet, sweet relief! But here’s the thing—I can’t even enjoy it, because I know the tower’s just going to pull the same trick as I try to find my bedroom on the way back!

And guess what? It does.

I step out of the bathroom, thinking I’ll just retrace my steps. Easy, right? Wrong. The hallway has completely changed. My bedroom door is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s a stairwell that spirals down to who-knows-where, a random storage closet that smells like mothballs, and—somehow—a second bathroom. Where was that when I needed it?

I should’ve known better. This isn’t even the first time the tower’s pulled something like this. A couple of weeks ago, I was on my way to the kitchen to grab a late-night snack. Simple enough, right? Except the tower decided that was the perfect time to have a tantrum.

I swear, the second I opened my bedroom door, the hallway was replaced with an endless spiral staircase. At first, I thought, “Oh, maybe the kitchen is just on a different floor tonight.” (Because, yes, that’s an actual thought I have to have in this ridiculous place.) So I start walking down the stairs. And walking. And walking. It felt like I’d been walking forever, and I still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Finally, I stopped and thought, “Okay, maybe the stairs don’t actually end.” I turned around to go back up, only to find that the stairs behind me were gone. Just gone. Like, poof! No way back.

At that point, I was getting cranky, so I started yelling at the tower. You know, the usual stuff: “Why are you like this?” “I just want some bread!” “If this is about me leaving my books in the kitchen, I swear I’ll clean them up!”

Eventually, a door appeared in the wall, so I stomped through it, figuring it had to be the kitchen. Nope. It was a broom closet. Filled with brooms that immediately started sweeping around my feet. One of them actually tried to trip me. A broom!

By the time I finally found the kitchen, I was too tired to even bother with a snack. I just grabbed an apple, muttered something about how the tower was the least magical place I’d ever been, and went back to bed. At least that time, my room was where I left it.

But tonight? Nope. The tower is on a mission to make me lose my mind. Blizzard, of course, has already found her bed and is curled up like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I swear she knows some kind of secret tower password.

After another twenty minutes of wandering, dodging mysterious staircases and avoiding an ominous door that was humming (seriously, why does a door need to hum?), I finally find my room. I practically dive into bed, pulling the blankets over my head like that’ll protect me from the tower’s shenanigans.

So, if you ever think it’d be fun to live in a magical, shape-shifting home… think again. Because trust me, it’s a lot harder to appreciate the wonders of enchanted architecture when you’re stuck wandering the halls in your pajamas, just trying to get some sleep—or a snack.

 

Pickles, My Hero

 

When I was ten years old, something happened that I’ll never forget. It wasn’t just a big moment—it was the kind of moment that sticks with you forever. Because that day, Pickles saved my life.

Pickles isn’t your average pet. He’s a basilisk—twelve feet long, covered in tough, gleaming scales, and with golden eyes that seem to stare straight through you. He’s grumpy, massive, and definitely not cuddly. But despite all that, he’s fiercely loyal. And that day, he proved just how much he cared.

It all started like any other morning. Father had left for a quick errand, promising he’d be back in an hour. “Stay inside,” he’d said. “Blizzard will keep you company.” I figured it would be fine. I had Blizzard, my mischievous ice elemental fox, and we always found ways to pass the time.

That morning, I decided to try teaching Blizzard a new trick: balancing an ice cube on her nose, like the seals I’d read about in one of my books. Blizzard hated it. She kept sneezing the ice cubes onto the floor and giving me the most unimpressed glares. I was laughing so hard, I almost didn’t hear the door creak open.

At first, I thought it was Father coming back early. But then the door slammed, and a woman in a dark cloak stormed inside. She didn’t say a word, just threw a glowing, crackling net at Blizzard. The net wrapped around her in an instant, and Blizzard yelped, thrashing and growling as she tried to break free. But the net was enchanted—no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t escape.

Before I could react, the woman lunged toward me, her hand like a viper striking. She clasped a cold, heavy necklace around my neck, the metal biting against my skin. Instantly, I felt… hollow. It was as if something inside me had been snuffed out—a warmth, a spark. My magic. I reached for it instinctively, trying to summon even the smallest spell, but nothing happened.

The woman smirked, satisfied, and grabbed my arm in an iron grip. “You’re coming with me,” she growled, her voice sharp and unyielding. I struggled, pulling back with all my might, but she was far too strong. She dragged me toward the staircase, her movements quick and deliberate.

Blizzard growled furiously, still trapped in the glowing net that crackled and shimmered with magic. She thrashed, her icy fur bristling, her blue eyes blazing with helpless rage. I could feel her frustration, her desperate attempts to free herself. It only made my own fear worse.

The woman muttered to herself, her voice low and bitter.  "Took forever for your father to leave. I'm not wasting this opportunity. We need to leave now before he gets back."

I stumbled as she pulled me along, my feet barely keeping up as we climbed the stairs. She was heading back toward the main door—or at least, I thought she was. But something was wrong. We should have reached the entrance by now, but instead, the hallway stretched endlessly ahead of us. The same corridor, the same twisting staircase, over and over again.

The woman’s steps faltered, her grip tightening on my arm. “What…?” she muttered, her sharp eyes narrowing as she looked around. She spun us around and tried retracing her steps, dragging me back toward where we’d started. But instead of the main hall, we were at the top of the tower stairs, staring down a new corridor—a narrow, twisting path lit by flickering sconces that hadn’t been there before.

I bit back a tiny, grim smile despite my fear. The tower was protecting me.

The woman’s muttering grew louder, more agitated. “Tricks. Always tricks.” She yanked me forward again, heading down the unfamiliar hallway. My heart pounded as I glanced back toward Blizzard, still trapped below. I wanted to scream, to call for Father, but he was too far away to hear me.

And then, I heard it. That sound. A faint scraping noise, sharp claws against stone, growing louder with every second. My heart leapt as I realized what it was. Pickles.

Before the woman could react, the window shattered with an earsplitting crash, and Pickles climbed in. He was enormous, his scaly body filling the room, and his golden eyes locked onto the woman. He let out a deep, rumbling hiss, his tongue flicking out like he was tasting the air for danger.

The woman stumbled back, letting go of me. “What… what is that?” she stammered, her voice trembling.

“That’s Pickles,” I said, my voice shaking but with a tiny bit of triumph. “And you’re in big trouble.”

Pickles didn’t waste a second. He lunged at the woman, his claws scraping against the floor. She tried to pull out a dagger, but it was no use. Pickles opened his massive jaws and—well, there’s no delicate way to say this—he swallowed her whole.

I stood there, stunned, as Pickles straightened up, his tongue flicking out like he was satisfied. He turned to me, his golden eyes softening just a little, and let out a low huff, as if to say, You’re safe now.

Pickles wasn’t done yet. He moved over to Blizzard, who was still tangled in the magic net. With surprising gentleness, he used his claws to tear it apart. Blizzard jumped up, shaking herself off and glaring at the remains of the net like it had personally offended her. She gave Pickles a cautious look, then padded over to me, her icy fur bristling.

I threw my arms around Pickles’ thick neck. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. He gave a little huff, nudging me with his snout before turning back to the window. With one smooth motion, he climbed out and disappeared down the side of the tower.

When Father came home, I told him everything. I couldn’t leave anything out—not even the part where Pickles ate the woman. It felt too important, even if it was, well, a little gross.

Father’s face went through every emotion possible: shock, concern, anger, and finally, a kind of grudging respect. “And Pickles… ate her?” he asked, half-incredulous.

I nodded. “Yep. Swallowed her whole. It was kind of gross. But also amazing.”

Father sighed, rubbing his temples. “Efficient, I suppose,” he muttered. “But we’ll need to reinforce the wards.”

Later, Father went to check on Pickles in the stables. I followed, curious to see what Pickles was up to. He was lounging in his stall like nothing had happened, his golden eyes half-closed in that lazy, content way he gets after a big meal.

“You really are something else,” Father murmured, almost to himself. Pickles huffed, flicking his tail like he couldn’t care less about the fuss.

Even now, years later, I can’t think about that day without feeling a mix of awe and gratitude. Pickles might be grumpy and terrifying, but to me, he’s a hero. A weird, scaly, slightly gross hero—but a hero all the same.

 

Learning to Heal: My First Steps into Potion-Making

For as long as I can remember, my father has been a healer. Whether disguised as a simple traveling doctor or working his subtle magic in secret, he’s always been the one people turn to when illness or injury strikes. He’s brilliant, compassionate, and endlessly patient—though I’m sure I’ve tested that last trait a bit over the years.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much he does for others, and how little I’m able to help. He spends hours, sometimes days, mixing tonics and remedies, researching new methods, and tirelessly caring for the sick. Meanwhile, I’ve been… well, baking pies and chasing Blizzard around the tower.

That’s why I decided it’s time to change things. I want to help him—not just in small ways, like fetching herbs or boiling water, but really help. I want to learn how to make tonics, tinctures, and elixirs that heal and soothe. After all, magic is wonderful, but there’s something special about crafting something tangible, something physical, that can ease someone’s pain.

When I told Father about my plan, he looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded and said, "If you’re serious about this, it won’t be easy. Potion-making requires patience, precision, and a lot of trial and error. Are you ready for that?"

I nodded—though, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was ready. But I knew I wanted to try.

The first thing Father taught me was the importance of ingredients. We spent an entire morning in the apothecary, identifying dried herbs, powdered minerals, and bottled extracts. Some smelled sweet, like lavender and chamomile, while others—like valerian root—smelled like wet socks. (Father assured me it was worth it for its calming properties, but I’m still skeptical.)

He explained how each ingredient has its own unique properties. Some are calming, some are energizing, and others are outright dangerous if used incorrectly. "Potion-making isn’t just mixing things together," he said. "It’s understanding how they work together."

After a long lecture on safety (which included a particularly vivid warning about mistaking powdered nightshade for ground cinnamon), Father let me choose a simple recipe to start with: a basic health tonic meant to boost energy and vitality.
 

The recipe was straightforward enough—boil water, add dried nettle leaves and ginseng root, simmer, and stir in a few drops of honey. Easy, right?

Well, let’s just say my first attempt didn’t go quite as planned.

I misjudged the amount of nettle and ended up with a brew so bitter it could’ve doubled as paint remover. Then I accidentally left the pot boiling too long, reducing the tonic to a thick, sticky sludge. Blizzard sniffed it once, sneezed, and promptly ran out of the room. Not exactly the glowing success I’d hoped for.

Father, to his credit, didn’t laugh (much). Instead, he guided me through the process again, this time emphasizing the importance of precise measurements and timing. "Potion-making is a lot like cooking," he said. "But with far less room for improvisation."

On my second attempt, the tonic actually turned out drinkable! It wasn’t perfect—the flavor was still a bit strong, and the honey didn’t quite mask the bitterness—but it was a start. Father even took a sip and said it was "adequate," which, coming from him, felt like high praise.

I’m still a long way from mastering potion-making, but that’s okay. Each batch teaches me something new, whether it’s how to balance flavors or why you should never grind herbs near an open flame. (The smell of singed rosemary still lingers in the apothecary.)

Most importantly, I’ve learned that healing isn’t just about the end result—it’s about the care and effort that goes into it. Every tonic Father makes is infused with his dedication to helping others, and that’s what I want to emulate.

I’m not sure what my next potion will be—Father says I’m not ready for anything too complex yet, which is probably for the best. But I’m excited to keep learning, to keep trying, and to eventually create something that can make a real difference.

For now, I’ll stick to the basics, but who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll be the one crafting the remedies that save lives. Until then, I’ll just keep practicing—and maybe keep a bit of extra honey on hand to mask the bitterness.

My First Spell: A Humbling Experience

When I was seven, I learned a very important lesson about magic: it’s a lot harder to control than it looks in books. Especially when you’re a kid with no real training and far too much imagination.

It all started on an ordinary evening. Father had drawn me a warm bath, the room steaming up with that cozy, foggy glow. My little wooden boats and carved animals floated lazily in the water, and for a while, I was perfectly content to splash around and play.

But then, inspiration struck.

I’d been reading about the Ice Isles—distant lands filled with glaciers, icebergs, and frigid seas. It sounded so exciting, so adventurous. And as I looked at my toys bobbing in the water, I had the brilliant idea that they needed icebergs. Real ones. Magic icebergs.

At that age, I hadn’t quite grasped the finer points of spellcraft, but I’d seen Father cast plenty of spells before. How hard could it be? I closed my eyes, stuck out my hands toward the water, and whispered, "Just a little ice... just a little bit."

The results were... immediate.

First, the water went cold. Not just chilly, but freezing. I gasped, pulling my arms back, but it was too late. A loud crack echoed through the bathroom as the surface of the water hardened, the steam vanishing in an instant.

I opened my eyes to find the entire tub frozen solid. My bath toys were stuck mid-splash, little wooden animals half-submerged in a perfect sheet of ice. And I—well, I was stuck too. Literally.

The warm bathwater had turned to ice around me, locking me in place. My legs were trapped, my back was pressed against the frozen tub, and the cold was creeping into every part of me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even wiggle my toes.

Panic set in.

"Father!" I yelled, my voice high and frantic. "Father, help! I—I froze the bath!"

It only took a few seconds for him to arrive, but it felt like an eternity. When he burst through the door, his expression shifted from alarm to... well, something between exasperation and amusement. I must’ve been quite the sight: a tiny, shivering girl sitting in a block of ice, her toys frozen around her like some bizarre winter sculpture.

"Sarra," he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of a chuckle, "what exactly were you trying to do?"

"I—" My teeth chattered as I tried to explain. "I just—wanted—icebergs—for my toys!"

Father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Icebergs. Of course."

He knelt by the tub, inspecting the damage, while I sat there, too cold and embarrassed to speak. After a moment, he shook his head and muttered something about "ambitious for her age" before setting to work.

With a few careful movements, he cast a heat spell. Warmth spread through the room, and the ice around me began to melt. It wasn’t immediate—he worked slowly, making sure I didn’t get scalded in the process—but eventually, I felt my legs loosen, and the water returned to its proper liquid state.

"There we go," he said, helping me out of the tub and wrapping me in a thick towel. "You’re safe now."

I clung to the towel, shivering as the heat seeped back into my limbs. "I’m sorry," I mumbled, my cheeks burning with shame. "I just wanted to make the bath more fun."

Father crouched down to my level, his expression softening. "Magic is a powerful tool, Sarra," he said gently. "But it’s not something to take lightly. You’re lucky this time, but next time—" He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Let’s practice before you try anything like this again, alright?"

I nodded, sniffling, and he pulled me into a warm hug. "We’ll work on it together," he said. "But no more freezing baths, okay?"

"Okay," I whispered.

Looking back now, it’s one of those moments that’s equal parts mortifying and hilarious. At the time, it felt like the end of the world, but now I can’t help but laugh. That was the day I learned two very important lessons: magic requires caution, and icebergs do not belong in bathwater.

To this day, Father still teases me about my "arctic adventure." And every time I see ice, I think back to that seven-year-old girl stuck in the tub, yelling for her dad to save her. It wasn’t exactly the start to my magical journey that I’d imagined—but hey, we all have to start somewhere.

Maréa’s Little Miracle

There’s an air of quiet excitement in the tower today, one that I can’t help but feel bubbling under my skin. It’s not often I get to share big news about the creatures who inhabit our secluded world, but this—this is something truly special.

Maréa, my father’s magnificent Duskwalker Elk, is pregnant!

I’ve grown up watching Maréa move with an almost otherworldly grace, her antlers shifting with the seasons and her presence calming even the most turbulent days. She’s more than a companion to Father—she’s family. And now, she’s carrying her own little one.

When Father told me the news, I think I squealed. Loudly. For a moment, he even looked startled, which is a rare thing for him. But how could I not? The thought of Maréa, so stoic and serene, with a tiny calf trotting beside her, is almost too wonderful to imagine.

She’s resting at my grandmother’s estate now, where she’ll have plenty of space and care as she prepares for the little one’s arrival. I miss her presence around the tower—the soft rhythm of her steps on the stone, the quiet way she’d nuzzle my hand when I was lost in thought. But knowing she’s safe and comfortable is worth her absence. After all, this is her time to focus on herself and her calf.

Father told me it’s not uncommon for Duskwalker Elks to show subtle changes in their behavior when they’re expecting. Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t notice. She’s always been gentle, but in the past few weeks before she left, she seemed more careful, more deliberate in her movements. Even her usual stoic demeanor had softened, as though she was already preparing to nurture something precious.

I’ve already started planning for when we visit her and her calf after the birth. I’m not sure how Duskwalker Elks celebrate new life (if they celebrate at all), but I think a handmade wreath of flowers and vines would make a lovely gift. I’ve also considered baking something special, though I doubt Maréa would be interested in my cakes.

Father has been more subdued about the whole thing—no surprise there—but I can tell he’s just as excited in his own way. He talks about the calf with the same quiet pride he has when he mentions his work or my magic. It’s a rare softness in him that I cherish.

For now, I’ll wait, counting the days until we can visit Maréa again. I can already picture it: the little calf, wobbly on its legs, peeking out from behind Maréa’s strong frame. And when that day comes, you can be sure I’ll be the first to welcome it into our little family.

Until then, I’ll be dreaming of the sound of tiny hooves echoing in the tower halls, a reminder that even in the most enchanted places, life finds its way to surprise and delight us.

Blizzard vs. Pickles: A Tower Drama

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about sharing a home with two incredibly unique magical creatures, it’s that coexistence doesn’t always mean harmony. Blizzard, my fiercely loyal ice fox, and Pickles, my father’s formidable basilisk, have a relationship that can best be described as… complicated.

Let me start by saying they don’t hate each other. Hate would require energy, and neither of them is willing to expend that much effort on the other. No, it’s more like a mutual agreement to ignore each other’s existence as much as possible.

Blizzard: The Regal Queen

Blizzard is everything you’d expect from a magical ice fox: elegant, graceful, and undeniably cool (pun intended). She pads silently around the tower, her icy blue fur shimmering in the light, as if she’s perpetually bathed in moonlight. Blizzard exudes an air of calm authority, always watching and assessing. She’s my protector, my companion, and occasionally my pillow thief.

But when it comes to Pickles? Blizzard’s tail fluffs up a little more, and she pointedly chooses the farthest corner of any room he’s in. She’ll pretend he’s not there, but I’ve caught her sneaking the occasional glare in his direction, as if to say, “I’m watching you, giant lizard.”

Pickles: The Unbothered Titan

Then there’s Pickles. He’s my father’s basilisk, and everything about him screams indifference. With scales the color of mossy stone and eyes that glow faintly in the dark, he’s an intimidating figure—if he bothers to pay attention to you. Pickles spends most of his time lounging in the stables or sunbathing in the tower courtyard, perfectly content with his own company.

When Blizzard is near, Pickles doesn’t seem to notice… at first. But if Blizzard gets too close, his tail will swish with a slow, deliberate motion, almost like he’s drawing a line in the sand. It’s as if he’s saying, “This is my space. You stay over there.”

The Drama Unfolds

There was one memorable day when the two accidentally found themselves in the same room for an extended period. I was rearranging books in the library, completely unaware that Blizzard had curled up under the table for her usual afternoon nap. Pickles, in his infinite wisdom, decided to wander in and plop himself down right in front of the fireplace.

For a solid fifteen minutes, the tension was palpable. Blizzard refused to leave her spot, too proud to retreat, and Pickles… well, he just sat there like a boulder, ignoring her entirely. Eventually, Blizzard gave a dramatic huff, stood up with all the grace of a queen leaving an audience, and stalked out of the room, her tail swishing indignantly. Pickles didn’t even blink.

A Truce, Sort Of

It’s not all icy stares and territorial tail swishes. They do have an unspoken truce of sorts. When the tower is under threat, they’re both quick to defend it—just not side by side. Blizzard prefers the shadows, using her magic to create barriers and traps, while Pickles charges in headfirst, his massive size and natural strength making him a living battering ram.

I once saw them coordinate (loosely) during an attack. Blizzard froze the ground beneath an intruder, and Pickles took that as his cue to charge. It was efficient, if not exactly friendly teamwork.

The Verdict

In the end, Blizzard and Pickles are like two very different forces of nature, each with their own domain. They don’t need to like each other, and that’s fine. As long as they respect each other’s space—and don’t destroy the tower in the process—I’m happy to let them keep their peculiar truce.

Besides, it’s a bit entertaining to watch Blizzard give Pickles one of her frosty glares, only for him to yawn in response. Maybe one day they’ll warm up to each other… but I won’t hold my breath.

What I Did for the Winter Holiday

Winter is my favorite time of year. There’s something magical about how the world feels quieter, softer, like it’s taking a deep breath. Of course, living in a tower with no neighbors means it’s always pretty quiet, but during the winter holidays, I like to make things feel a little extra special.

The first thing I always do is decorate. I take out all my favorite winter ornaments—snowflakes carved from crystal, shimmering icicles that catch the light, and delicate frosted garlands I made last year. Blizzard loves to help, or at least she thinks she’s helping. Mostly, she ends up knocking things over with her tail, but her excitement is contagious, so I don’t mind too much.

My favorite decoration, though, is a snowflake chandelier I made a few years ago. It hangs in the main hall, catching the light from the fire and casting sparkling patterns on the walls. It took forever to craft, and there are definitely a few uneven edges, but it’s become a tradition to hang it every year.

Once the tower is transformed into a little winter wonderland, I turn my attention to the kitchen. Winter holidays wouldn’t be the same without the special food. Father says I go overboard (he’s probably right), but I can’t help myself. I make spiced cookies shaped like stars, hot cider that fills the tower with the smell of cinnamon, and a stew so hearty it could warm even the frostiest of days.

But the real star of the show is the snowberry pie. It’s a tricky thing to make—the berries have to be harvested at just the right time, and the crust is annoyingly delicate—but it’s worth it. The look on Father’s face when he takes that first bite is one of my favorite parts of the season.

And then there’s the presents. Every year, I try to make something special for Father. Last year, it was a book I wrote full of my favorite memories with him. The year before that, I tried my hand at wood carving, though the "owl" I made looked more like a squashed potato. This year? Well…

This year, I attempted crochet. I found an old book in the library with instructions and thought, How hard could it be? Turns out, very. The scarf I made for Father is lopsided, riddled with knots, and definitely not long enough to wrap around twice like I’d hoped. But it’s warm, and I think he appreciated the effort. Or maybe he’s just being polite.

Still, there’s something special about making gifts by hand, imperfections and all. It’s my way of showing him how much he means to me, even if my creations never quite turn out as planned.

On the night of the holiday, we sit by the fire with Blizzard curled up between us, sipping hot cider and enjoying the quiet. The tower feels cozy, filled with warmth and light, and for a little while, it’s easy to forget about everything outside these walls.

That’s what I love most about the winter holiday—it’s not about perfection or extravagance. It’s about creating moments of joy, however small, and sharing them with the ones you love.

So, what do you do for the winter holiday? Any tips for a beginner crocheter? Asking for… well, me.

— Sarra

Does Anyone Know How to Sew?

Okay, I’ll admit it—I have no idea how to sew. Like, at all. And honestly, it’s becoming a bit of a problem.

You see, Blizzard has this adorable (read: infuriating) habit of tearing up my pillows. I don’t know why she does it. Maybe she’s bored, or maybe it’s just her way of reminding me who’s boss around here. Either way, the result is always the same: feathers everywhere.

And when I say “everywhere,” I mean everywhere. In my hair, under the bed, somehow even stuck to the walls. It’s like she’s creating her own personal snowstorm of pillow fluff.

At first, I thought it was cute. But after the fourth or fifth time, I started getting a little tired of having to ask Father for new pillows. He’s patient, of course—he always is—but even I can tell he’s starting to give me that look. You know, the one that says, “Really, Sarra? Again?”

So, I’ve decided it’s time to take matters into my own hands. Sort of.

The thing is, I don’t know the first thing about sewing. Every time I try to fix something, it ends up looking worse than when I started. I once tried to stitch up a tear in my favorite tunic, and let’s just say it didn’t survive the experience. (I still miss that tunic.)

But maybe it’s not too late to learn? I mean, how hard can it be? It’s just fabric and thread, right?

That’s where you come in. If anyone out there knows how to sew—or better yet, how to deal with a mischievous ice fox with a vendetta against pillows—please send me your advice. Do I need a sewing kit? Are there magical stitches that won’t come undone no matter how determined Blizzard gets? (That would be amazing, by the way.)

In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep sweeping up feathers and hoping for the best. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out how to make my own pillows one day.

But for now? Blizzard wins. Again.

— Sarra

Magical Mishaps: My Top 3 Fails with Magic

 

I’m no stranger to magical disasters. It seems like the more I learn, the more I realize how much there is still to mess up. After all, magic isn’t just about having power—sometimes it’s about knowing when and how to use it. And I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve made my fair share of mistakes along the way.

So, here are my top 3 magical mishaps, just to remind you that even the best of us (or at least the ones with a mage for a father) can be a little too ambitious with magic.

1. The Time I Almost Set the Tower on Fire

It was supposed to be a simple spell. I was trying to create a little spark—nothing big, just a tiny flame to light a candle. But, of course, instead of a neat little flicker, I accidentally summoned a full-blown fireball.

I don’t know if I was trying to impress myself or if I just got too confident with my spellwork, but that fireball was HUGE. I thought I had a good handle on it, until it started bouncing off the walls. I was dodging and weaving around my own magic while trying not to set the entire place ablaze.

In the end, I had to summon Blizzard to help put it out. Thankfully, she’s not just good at keeping me company—she’s an excellent fire extinguisher when needed. But let’s just say, I haven’t played with fire that much since.

2. The "Love Potion" That Was Anything But

This one’s still a little embarrassing. I’ve been experimenting with potions and brews on my own for a while, so when I heard about a potion that could make someone… more affectionate toward you, I thought, “Why not try it out?”

I followed the recipe almost perfectly. It was supposed to be a lighthearted brew that would make people more open and friendly. I just wanted to test the ingredients, nothing more.

But… well, let’s just say the effects weren’t exactly what I intended. Instead of making people a little more friendly, the potion made everyone within a five-foot radius way too affectionate. You can imagine the chaos. There was hugging, there was giggling, there was a lot of uncomfortable touching.

I had to lock myself in my room for a few hours until it wore off. I’ve been much more careful with my brews since that day, though I’d still prefer to keep my potions a little more, uh, low-key.

3. That Time I Tried to Control the Vines... and Ended Up Trapping Myself

Okay, I swear, this was an accident. I was practicing controlling the vines that grow in and around the tower. They’re useful for a lot of things—climbing, blocking doors, you name it—but they have a mind of their own sometimes.

I thought I had it under control, so I decided to try something a little more complex: wrapping the vines around myself like a protective shield. I was feeling confident, but the vines clearly had other ideas.

Instead of creating a barrier, they tangled me up so tightly that I couldn’t move. At first, I thought it was just a little hiccup. But no, I ended up completely stuck, with only my face free to glare at the vines.

It took me almost an hour to get free, and I couldn’t even use magic to help me—those vines were too strong. So there I was, laughing (because what else could I do?) and calling for help from anyone who would listen.

Needless to say, I’ve learned to approach vine magic with a bit more caution. Now, I just use them for things like decorations, rather than wrapping them around myself.

I hope you enjoyed my top 3 magical mishaps. I guess it’s true what they say—magic doesn’t always listen to you the way you expect. But hey, at least I’m getting better at cleaning up the messes... most of the time.

Until next time,

Sarra

 

The Struggles of Being a Mage’s Daughter

 

Sometimes, I think the hardest part about being the daughter of Alembert Gravefury isn’t the constant magic flowing through the air or the strange creatures lurking in every corner of the tower—it’s trying to live up to the expectations.

My father has always been a formidable figure in our world—calm, collected, and capable of things that most people can only dream of. I’ve grown up watching him work his magic, bending the elements and reading ancient texts with ease. But, while his mastery over the arcane is impressive, it’s also... overwhelming. There’s an unspoken pressure that comes with being his child, especially when you’re expected to carry the weight of his knowledge and skill someday. Not to mention, he’s also a little... protective.

Like, really protective.

When I was younger, I thought my father’s overprotectiveness was just because he wanted to keep me safe from harm. But now, as I get older and gain more of my own abilities, I realize it’s a little more than that. My father has a reputation. A big reputation. And with that comes the constant reminder that I’m never quite as free as I’d like to be. I mean, how do you have a simple conversation with your friends when your father can read every thought in the room, especially when I might be the one he’s concerned about?

I’ve had a few visitors lately—some more unexpected than others (I won’t name names, but let’s just say they didn’t exactly make a quiet entrance). My father? Oh, he knows about them. I’m sure he’s already had a look at their intentions before they even set foot in the tower. And even when he’s not around, it feels like there’s always some magical barrier or hidden trap watching over me—he’s never far away, even when he’s not physically present.

Take last night, for example. Two “thieves” showed up at my door, one a jokester with a big grin and the other all quiet and serious, clearly ready for trouble. The first one, Folcmar, was practically a walking mess of energy, while the second one, Gavri'el, was... well, let’s just say he could use a lesson in how to relax a little. We had pancakes. Yes, pancakes! I don’t think my father would ever allow such a thing to happen in his presence. Can you imagine? Thieves, pancakes, and magic all at once? He’d have a fit.

And that’s the thing—no matter what happens in this tower, no matter how normal things might seem on the surface, there’s always an underlying layer of something else lurking beneath. It’s not just the magic, either. It’s the way my father watches everything with that steady gaze of his. I’ve gotten used to it, but I can’t help but feel like I’m constantly being watched—not just by him, but by the very magic that keeps the tower standing.

And that’s why I have to keep secrets. Sometimes it’s easier that way. With all the chaos swirling around, I can’t help but feel like I’m the one holding it all together. I mean, what’s the point of telling him about the strange firebird I saw last night, or the weird glass orb I found in the library? He’d just overthink it and then whisk me away to some remote location where no one could find me—again.

So, yeah. Being the daughter of a powerful mage is a little more complicated than it seems. Sure, it’s full of magic and mystery, but there’s also a lot of pressure and secrets to keep track of. Maybe one day, when I’m finally ready to handle it all, I’ll tell him everything. But for now? I think I’ll just stick with trying to keep the magic (and the pancakes) under wraps.

— Sarra

Monster Romances: A Strange New Fascination

 

I never expected to find myself reading monster romances—and honestly, I’m still not sure how I feel about it. But here we are. So, I guess I should start at the beginning.

The first book was actually given to me by Anna. Yes, Anna—the one who’s always got a mischievous glint in her eye and a knack for finding the most random things to get obsessed with. She popped by the tower one morning with this gleam in her eyes, holding out a book as if it was a treasure she’d just discovered. "You have to read this," she said, barely containing her excitement. "It’s the best thing ever!"

It was The Beast of Ravenshade, a book about a cursed prince who’s transformed into a terrifying wolf-like creature, and who falls in love with a village girl. As she handed me the book, she practically shoved it into my hands, urging me to give it a try. I think she’d been reading them for weeks—though, I still can’t figure out where she found the time, considering how much she loves to “experiment” with new spells and remedies.

I admit, I gave her a skeptical look. I mean, monster romances? I’d heard the term tossed around in passing but never thought I’d be interested. But Anna, with her persistent enthusiasm, convinced me to read it—and I guess, after a long day of feeling like I’d been stuck in the tower forever, I figured, why not?

At first, I thought it would be just another silly story. The prince-turned-beast seemed like something out of a folktale, and I was sure it would be predictable. But then I found myself getting sucked into the world. The idea of the beast being trapped between his monstrous form and his yearning for connection... well, it’s not quite as far-fetched as it seemed. The girl—who, of course, sees the kindness hidden beneath the creature’s terrifying exterior—wasn't just some girl either. She was strong, compassionate, and didn't let the appearance of the beast define her.

As I read on, I found myself thinking about Gavri'el and Folcmar. Strange, I know, but hear me out: there’s something about both of them. Gavri'el—so serious, so controlled—definitely has a side of him that seems like he’s trying to hide something. Maybe not a beast in the literal sense, but there's a part of him that he doesn’t let others see. Folcmar, on the other hand, is more open, almost too open sometimes. His carefree attitude reminds me a little of the village girl in the story—finding something in the beast that others might miss.

Okay, fine, maybe I’m getting carried away with this. But seriously—monster romances? Who knew they’d be so... thought-provoking?

I won't lie, I did find some parts of the book a little cheesy (a lot of the descriptions about the beast’s “glistening fur” made me giggle). But underneath all the fluff, I realized there was a deeper message. The monster doesn't just fall for the girl because she’s kind to him, but because she’s willing to look beyond his physical form and see the truth within him. And maybe, just maybe, we all need a little more of that in our lives.

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about monsters lately. Not just the literal kind, but also the figurative ones. I’ve seen plenty of creatures who may seem frightening or dangerous at first glance (and we won’t even get started on the number of spiders I’ve had to deal with in this tower). But the more I read, the more I realize that everyone—and every creature—has layers. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of looking past what we think we know to uncover something more meaningful.

So, I may not be rushing to read every monster romance out there (I’m not sure I’m ready to dive into Lover of the Lycans just yet), but I’ll admit—Anna might be onto something. There’s a strange kind of comfort in these fantastical worlds. Maybe the monsters in these books aren't so different from the people (or creatures) we meet in our own lives. They might just need a little understanding... and a touch of patience.

For now, I’m going to keep reading. Who knows? I might just start to enjoy these more than I expected.

And Anna? She definitely owes me for this one.

Sarra

The Art of Painting: My Father’s Discovery and Robert Moss

 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been more of a hands-on learner. Give me a book of spells to read, and I can study for hours—but art? Well, that’s been a bit more challenging for me. I’ve always admired beautiful landscapes, colorful scenes, and intricate patterns, but painting? That’s a whole different skill set. Or at least, I thought it was.

A few days ago, my father surprised me with something I didn’t expect. No, it wasn’t another magical artifact or ancient tome (though that wouldn’t have been too surprising either). Instead, he presented me with a set of scrolls. Old and worn, they looked like something you’d find hidden in the deepest corners of the tower. But the most surprising part? They were filled with vibrant paintings from a man named Robert Moss.

Now, I’m no stranger to art in this world. I’ve seen sculptures, sketches, and the occasional painting scattered through our archives, but these? These were something else entirely. The scrolls were filled with landscapes—beautiful rolling hills, calm rivers, and serene mountains, all bursting with color. The best part? The captions that accompanied each scroll. They were filled with this odd but comforting philosophy about "happy little trees" and how "mistakes are just happy accidents." It was almost as if the painter was there beside me, encouraging me to dive in and create without fear.

My father said he had found them while traveling through an old market in a nearby town. Apparently, Robert Moss was some kind of famous artist known for his calming approach to landscape painting. The paintings were supposed to be therapeutic in a way—something about the brushstrokes working their own magic. To be honest, the whole thing sounded a bit like mumbo jumbo at first, but I decided to give it a try.

I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but I found myself unrolling one of the scrolls the next day. It had a simple landscape: a small stream winding through a meadow, with trees surrounding it. It looked peaceful—too peaceful. I stared at the page for a while, wondering how on earth I could even begin to recreate something like that. My fingers hovered over my brush as I nervously dipped it into the paint. The moment I touched the canvas—nothing happened the way I imagined it. The strokes were too heavy, the colors too bright, and it didn’t look anything like the scroll I was copying.

I wanted to throw the whole thing aside and go back to something I was better at (like reading a book or making an illusion), but I paused. I remembered what the scroll said: “There are no mistakes, just happy accidents.” So, I kept going. I added more strokes, more colors, and before I knew it, I started seeing something that resembled a landscape. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but there was something about it that felt... good. Almost calming, like I had created a piece of peace.

I’m nowhere near ready to call myself a painter, but it’s an interesting feeling, trying something new and finding comfort in it. My father would probably tell me to focus on my studies, but he’s always encouraged me to explore my interests, even when they’re messy or imperfect. And this painting thing? It’s turning out to be a bit of an unexpected way to unwind.

As for Robert Moss, I’m starting to see what the fuss is all about. His approach to art isn’t about perfection; it’s about expression. It’s about enjoying the process, not just the end result. If only I could convince my father to take a break from his books and try it out too—maybe we could even paint something together. Imagine that! Father with a paintbrush, encouraging me to “add a little happy tree” in my painting.

I’ll keep trying. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll get good at it. For now, I’m just going to keep painting—and remembering that every little mistake could be a happy little accident.

— Sarra

The Crochet Conundrum: My Father's Gift and the Mystery of the New Language

 

A few days ago, my father handed me a small, worn book wrapped in a plain leather cover. The corners were slightly bent, the pages yellowed with age, and it felt like something passed down through generations. Intrigued, I opened it and found... crochet instructions? Yes, crochet.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I love that my father thought of me. It’s just... well, this isn’t the kind of book I was expecting from the man who usually reads ancient magical texts and heavy medical tomes. He did mention once, years ago, that crochet was a hobby of his during his travels. But a book on crochet? To say I was confused would be an understatement.

I can’t deny that the idea of making something with my own hands appeals to me. I’ve dabbled in a few crafts here and there—baking, reading, and of course, magic, which I consider its own art. But crochet? That’s a whole new world to me. I’ve flipped through the book countless times, and every time I do, I end up more lost than before.

The language of crochet seems foreign—no, impossible—to understand. The book is full of words like “slip stitch,” “single crochet,” and “yarn over,” and while I think I understand the general concept of using a string (or yarn, as it’s called) and a hook, I don’t really get how these techniques are supposed to come together to make something.

I’ve tried to follow along with the instructions. I even grabbed some of my old string and an old hook I found lying around. The problem? I don’t even know what half of the stitches are supposed to look like! I’ll start with a simple “chain,” but before I know it, I have a knot that’s practically a small creature in itself. There’s no way this is how it’s supposed to work. (And don’t even get me started on how the yarn keeps slipping off the hook. What is that even about?)

It’s frustrating, honestly. It should be simple. My father clearly knows what he’s doing (he even made a scarf once—I think), but every time I try, I feel more like I’m just playing with string than actually creating anything useful. Maybe there’s some trick to it that I’m missing?

But I’m not giving up just yet! Even if I don’t get the hang of it right away, I’m determined to understand what my father saw in this craft. Maybe I’ll even try again later—once I finish that next book I’ve been meaning to read. (Okay, so maybe I have a lot of distractions, but still!)

Does anyone out there know about crochet? Do you have tips for a frustrated beginner? Or maybe a suggestion for a less... confusing hobby? Let me know in the comments—I could use all the advice I can get!

— Sarra

What I Read When I Need a Break from Everything

 

Life has been, let’s say, eventful lately. Between unexpected visitors, mysterious firebirds (don’t ask), and a father who seems to think I’m incapable of anything other than chaos—let’s just say I’ve had my hands full. So, when the world gets too loud and I need to shut it all out, I retreat to my favorite thing: books.

You see, there’s nothing like getting lost in a good story to help me reset and clear my mind. Magic, adventures, and ancient spells can be great distractions, but there’s something comforting about a book. The pages, the words, the escape they provide—it’s all I need to forget about the madness for a little while.

Here are a few of my go-to reads when I need a mental break:

1. The Traveler’s Journal
   This one might sound a bit boring, but hear me out! It’s a collection of tales from travelers who’ve braved the wildest corners of the world. Whether they’re navigating enchanted forests, avoiding magical storms, or bargaining with mysterious creatures, I can’t get enough of their stories. It’s the perfect mix of adventure and escape, and sometimes, reading about other people’s near-death experiences makes mine seem a bit less dramatic.

2. Familiar Tales of Old Magic
   I know, I know—I live in a tower full of magic. But there’s something about the old myths and legends that just feels different. These stories are from a time when magic wasn’t so… well, personal to me. It’s almost like reading about a time before the chaos that’s become my everyday life. Plus, there’s always a part of me that loves learning about the ancient mages and their enchanted creations—call me nostalgic.

3. The Art of Potion Making (By Farlon the Unconventional)
   Okay, this one is a bit of a guilty pleasure. Farlon’s books are supposed to be very serious, but the way he describes potion-making sometimes makes me laugh out loud. I may not be the best at brewing potions (I’m still working on that) but reading about the misadventures of a “self-taught” potion maker is oddly comforting. Also, Farlon has a knack for making things sound more complicated than they actually are—like, who needs six ingredients for a simple sleeping draught? If he can manage to mess that up, then I’m not so bad after all.

4. Wanderers of the Wind
   If you’ve never heard of this one, you’re seriously missing out. It’s a beautifully written collection of stories about people who’ve decided to leave everything behind in search of freedom. I don’t know if I could ever be as brave as them, but reading about their journeys always gives me a sense of possibility. There’s something about their courage to follow the unknown that reminds me of why I shouldn’t get bogged down by all the confusion around me.

5. The Moon’s Reflection
   This one is a bit of a mystery. No one knows who wrote it—there’s no author listed, and the book seems to appear only when you need it most. It’s filled with cryptic poems, strange illustrations, and hints of something far beyond the ordinary world. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s a “real” book or just my imagination running wild, but there’s something about it that calls to me. Sometimes, it feels like it understands the chaos of the world, and I can’t help but get lost in its pages. If you ever come across it—don’t ask too many questions. Just read.

    

   So, that’s a peek into my bookshelf. I know it’s not exactly the most conventional list, but when the world’s too much, these books offer a bit of peace. I may not always find the answers I’m looking for in them (unless it’s a recipe for a good distraction), but at least I can forget about the craziness for a while and remember what it’s like to simply be.

   Do any of you have favorite reads when life gets a bit too overwhelming? Share your recommendations—I could always use a few more good books to add to my collection.

   — Sarra
   

    

Story Time: The One That Didn't Want to Leave

 

Alright, story time. You guys are going to love this one. It’s about the time I had an intruder who was way more stubborn than any of the others. And I mean really stubborn.

So, I’m in the kitchen one afternoon, making my usual batch of pancakes—because yes, pancakes are the key to my heart—and I hear the usual noises outside the tower. Scratching, scraping, maybe a thud here and there. I figure it’s just the wind or another wayward critter... but nope. This time, it’s a person.

I walk over to the window, peek outside, and there he is—this burly guy clinging to the side of the tower like it’s a normal Tuesday. I roll my eyes. Really? Who tries to break into a tower like this? You’d think they’d have learned by now that it’s not that easy.

Anyway, I open the door, and I find this guy standing there on the balcony, clearly thinking he’s won. His chest is puffed out like he’s just climbed a mountain or something. I don't even ask him how he got up there; I’ve seen it all at this point.

“Hi,” I say, really not in the mood for whatever he’s about to say. “What do you want?”

He gives me this smug grin, like he’s some big deal. “I need your help.”

“Great,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “Help with what?”

“I’m looking for something,” he says, straightening up like he’s giving me some important mission. “A special potion. You probably wouldn’t know about it, but I’ve been told it exists. My friends swear by it.”

At this point, I’m not impressed. I’ve dealt with so many people sneaking in here, looking for all sorts of magical nonsense, that I barely react anymore.

But then, he goes on, “It’s a magic turning potion. It’s supposed to show you which way you’re supposed to go in life.”

Okay, now I’m interested. “A what?”

“A turning potion,” he repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “It shows you your path, helps you figure out where to go next. I need it for my carriage.”

I blink, staring at him. “You’re telling me you want some potion that magically tells you which way to go... for your carriage?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! My friends told me about it. They said it works wonders, especially for people like me who get lost all the time.”

I have to pause here, because, what? “Listen,” I say, shaking my head, “I don’t know what your friends are on, but that potion doesn’t exist. I’m pretty sure of that. If it did, don’t you think someone would have written about it by now? Or maybe I’d have heard of it?”

“No,” he insists, his expression turning stubborn. “I’m telling you, it exists. They even said it can make your carriage turn on its own. It just, you know, helps you find your way.”

At this point, I’m fighting the urge to laugh. This guy really thought a potion like that existed? But instead of just brushing him off like I normally would, I decide to see how far he’ll go with this ridiculous claim.

“Look, I’ve been around magic my whole life. I’ve never heard of a potion like that,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm. “And if it was real, don’t you think I’d know about it?”

He just shakes his head, completely ignoring me. “No, you don’t understand,” he insists. “It’s not just magic. It’s special. It shows you the way. My friends told me it’s real, and it’s supposed to be here.”

At this point, I’m done. I roll my eyes and step forward. “So, let me get this straight. You break into my tower, expecting me to have this magical ‘turning potion’ for your carriage?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking completely serious. “Seems reasonable, right?”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Listen, I’m telling you right now: no such potion exists. I don’t have it, and no one does. So, if you’re done wasting my time—”

That’s when I decide to just go for it. I cast my usual memory spell to get him out of my hair. Normally, a little tap on the forehead, and they forget what they were doing here. But not this guy.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“What was that? Did you try to put me under or something?” he asks, completely unfazed.

I blink. “What? You—what? Why didn’t it work?”

I stare at him, baffled. My memory spells always work. Always. Except for this guy. It’s like he’s immune to magic. I don’t even know how that’s possible.

“Okay, fine,” I say, throwing my hands up. “I guess we’re doing this the hard way then. You want to chase after some potion that doesn’t exist? Fine. But I’m not going to help you.”

He wasn’t having it. Nope, this guy insisted on staying. In fact, he started pacing around, all the while muttering about how he wasn’t leaving until he got what he came for.

At this point, I was already getting annoyed. I mean, really? You break in, and now you think I’m going to just stand there and let you raid my tower?

I tried to be calm and rational. “Listen,” I said, “I really don’t know what you’re looking for, but you’re in the wrong place. You’ve got to go.”

And then, like the complete genius he was, he pulled out a knife. As if that was going to intimidate me. I didn’t even flinch. Instead, I just flicked my wrist, and the vines from the garden outside came crawling up the walls, curling around his ankles.

“I said go,” I repeated, a little more firmly this time.

He looked at the vines, his eyes going wide. And I kid you not, he actually tried to pull the knife on them. As if that was going to help.

I might’ve laughed a little. “You’re really going to fight plants?”

But he kept trying, pulling at the vines, which—of course—just tightened around his legs. Now, the guy wasn’t completely bad. I mean, I get it. People get desperate. But really, if you think you can fight a tower full of magic, you’ve got another thing coming.

And that’s when I decide, enough is enough. I show him the door and make it clear that his little quest is over. I’m done with his ridiculous claims and the stubbornness that’s just too much to handle.

But you know what? This guy wasn’t like the others. Most of the time, people either panic or get the hint when I tell them to leave. Not this one. He was so sure of that stupid potion, I almost respected the tenacity.

 I take a deep breath, knowing I can’t keep playing nice. This guy needs to leave, and he needs to understand that no magic turning potion is going to fix his “carriage problem.” So, I snap my fingers, and the vines help him quickly back outside and to the ground. He hits the ground with a soft thud, looking absolutely confused as he scrambles to his feet, trying to catch his breath.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. 

He looks up, and I see that stubborn glint in his eyes again. Without a word, he starts to climb back up, his hands reaching for the edge of the balcony like a determined fool. I don’t even give him the chance to get halfway up. I call the vines again, and with a swift jerk, he’s pulled right back down, landing hard on his back in the dirt.

His jaw clenches, and I can see the frustration building. I wonder, just for a second, if he’s starting to doubt himself. But nope—he’s up on his feet again, brushing the dirt off, and—of course—he tries to climb the tower once more.

I watch with mild amusement as he reaches up, his fingers nearly brushing the ledge, when wham, he’s yanked back down again. The vines stretch taut, pulling him to the ground once more with a soft grunt.

I shake my head, starting to get bored of this little game. But the guy’s not done. He gets back up, determination written all over his face. He starts climbing again, his boots scraping against the stone.

I don’t even hesitate. The vines shoot out, wrapping around his waist and yanking him off the tower again. Down he goes, his arms flailing as he lands on his back with a sharp exhale.

This time, I let him stay on the ground for a second, just watching him. He’s winded, clearly frustrated, but there's no sign that he's giving up. The determination in his eyes is both ridiculous and, for some reason, admirable.

He tries again.

And again.

And again.

Every single time, I pull him back down. He gets a little slower each time, but he never backs down. His clothes are torn, and his hands are scraped, but he still looks at the tower with this ridiculous, unwavering belief that somehow—somehow—he’s going to make it to the top and find this nonexistent potion.

Finally, after the fifth or sixth time, he falls to the ground once more. His body is slumped, and for a moment, he just lies there, staring up at the tower as though it might suddenly offer him the answer he’s looking for.

I’m done. “Listen,” I say, crossing my arms. “You’re not getting anywhere with this.”

He grunts and pushes himself to his feet one last time. “I’ll get it. You’ll see. I’ll find the magic turning potion. My friends told me about it—”

I can’t help it. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

As I watch him stomp off, still muttering about this magic turning potion for his carriage, I couldn’t help but wonder—what would it take for people to realize that some things just don’t exist? It was like he thought I was the one who was wrong.

But nope, some people just won’t listen. Ever.

— Sarra

 

How to Handle Unexpected Guests (Especially the Uninvited)

 

Living in a tower as magical and secluded as mine means one thing: unexpected guests. And let me tell you, they come in all shapes, sizes, and motives—though most of the time, they have something to do with trying to get their hands on something they shouldn’t.

Now, how does one handle such uninvited visitors? It’s not always as straightforward as slamming the door in their faces. Sure, I could do that—I've had my share of weird and uncomfortable moments—but I tend to take a more... creative approach. After all, when the stakes are high and people have *ahem* questionable intentions, a little finesse is often required.

 

Step 1: Memory Wipes (Because Who Needs to Remember Anything?) When guests arrive who think they're clever enough to sneak into the tower without being detected, the first thing I usually do is... well, erase their memories. Yep, you read that right. A little spell here, a flick of the wrist there, and suddenly, their reason for sneaking around is completely wiped from their minds. They’re left with nothing but a vague feeling of confusion. Works like a charm—pun intended. It’s a neat way to keep things calm, with minimal mess.

But I have to admit, it’s not always a perfect solution. Sometimes, the intruders get a little too confused. I mean, how do you explain to someone who’s just forgotten why they came to the tower that they should just go on their merry way? It can be awkward. But hey, at least I don’t have to deal with the fallout.

Step 2: Talking It Out (When All Else Fails) If memory wipes aren’t an option, or if I just feel like doing things the old-fashioned way, I usually try to talk things through. Some people break into the tower because they’re desperate, others because they’re curious. And occasionally, some just need to get something off their chest.

I like to think I’m a pretty good listener. And sometimes, offering a little therapy can go a long way. Instead of resorting to harsh punishments, I sit down with them, get them talking, and calmly discuss what led them here. The goal? To help them realize that whatever they’re after—whether it’s the Heartstone or something else—it’s not worth getting themselves caught. The trick is to get them to talk long enough that they start questioning their own motives. It’s actually pretty effective. A little understanding goes a long way when you’re dealing with someone who’s made a mistake but doesn’t want to admit it yet.

Step 3: Father’s Approach (Not So Much a Talker) Now, my father, Alembert, is a different story. He doesn't do "talking." He doesn’t bother with memory wipes or gentle persuasion. No, when someone breaks into our tower, he skips straight to the consequences. His method is swift, direct, and—frankly—deadly. When he feels the need to take action, well, let’s just say it’s not about asking questions.

I’ve learned to be... tactful in these situations. Sometimes I can talk him down, point out that we don't need to kill anyone, but when his temper flares, there’s not much anyone can do. He believes in securing our safety at all costs, and if that means making sure no one leaves with the information we don’t want them to have, then so be it. In those moments, his decisiveness can be terrifying.

Step 4: The Long-Term Solution (Keep Everyone in the Dark) And sometimes, the best way to handle a breach isn’t to confront it head-on at all. No one really wants to hear the truth all the time—especially when the truth is that they’ve wandered into a heavily guarded tower filled with magic and secrets. So, we sometimes let them go. After all, they won’t remember a thing, right? We can go about our business, and no one’s the wiser.

I guess it comes down to this: I’d prefer to avoid confrontation and keep the peace. But I’ve learned that not everyone operates the same way. Whether I’m wiping minds, talking them down, or, on rare occasions, letting my father handle things his way, I’ve learned to adapt. After all, you never know who’s going to show up unannounced at the tower door next. And it’s always better to be prepared.

 

— Sarra

The Tower’s Secrets: Part 2

 

Welcome back! As promised, here’s the second part of the strange, wonderful, and sometimes slightly eerie secrets of the tower. After my last post, I couldn’t help but think of a few more peculiar things that deserve mentioning. So, let’s dive right back into it, shall we?

7. The Piping That Never Works
There’s an old, ancient piping system that runs through the tower. Most of it doesn’t even work anymore, but there’s one part of it that’s always dripping. It’s near the old study, where Father keeps all his rare books and scrolls. It drips constantly, but when I tried to fix it once, it started making a strange humming sound, almost like it was singing. I stopped trying to fix it after that. The noise is unsettling, but I can’t bring myself to block it off either. It’s like the tower has its own rhythm, and when I tried to interfere, I upset it.

8. The Music from the Upper Floors
I don’t know if this one’s real or if it’s just me, but sometimes—mostly late at night—I hear music coming from the upper floors. It’s soft at first, like the faintest echo of a violin or harp. I’ve asked Father about it, and he just brushes it off as “the wind playing tricks” or “the old wooden beams creaking.” But I know better. This isn’t just the wind. Sometimes, if I stand really still, I can almost make out the notes. They sound familiar, like a lullaby I once heard as a child, but I’ve never been able to trace its origin. The melody’s elusive, like it’s hiding from me.

9. The Tower’s Secret Garden
There’s a small door in the back of the tower that opens to a garden, but you’d never know it was there unless you knew where to look. It’s hidden behind an ivy-covered stone wall, tucked away in the corner of the courtyard. I’ve only been in there a few times—when I was younger and sneaked out to explore—but every time I’ve gone, the air feels different. It’s like stepping into another world. Flowers bloom year-round, and the grass is always green, no matter the season. There’s a fountain in the center that seems to shimmer in the sunlight, and the whole place smells like honeysuckle and jasmine. I’m not sure who tends to it, but it’s always perfect. It feels like a place out of time, almost like the garden is guarding its own secret.

10. The Invisible Portrait
Now, this one is a bit strange. There’s a room on the second floor where an old portrait hangs. The frame is ornate and heavy, and it’s covered in dust. If you look at it directly, you can’t see anything—nothing but a faded canvas. But if you look at it from the corner of your eye, you’ll swear there’s a figure there, staring back at you. I don’t know who it is—I've never been able to make out any details—but sometimes, late at night, I catch it watching me. Maybe I’m just imagining things, or maybe it’s one of the tower’s quirks, but I’ve never dared to touch it. There’s something about it that feels… wrong.

11. The Hidden Trapdoor in the Dining Room
This one’s a bit of a recent discovery. I was in the dining room last week, trying to clean up a bit of the mess that always accumulates when I noticed something strange in the floor. At first, I thought it was just an old stain, but then I saw it—a tiny, almost invisible seam running along the boards. It’s a trapdoor, though I’m not sure what it leads to. I haven’t dared to open it, but my curiosity is eating me alive. I can feel it calling to me, especially on quiet nights when I’m alone. The door looks like it hasn’t been touched in years, and I’ve never seen Father mention it, but I’m starting to think it’s part of the tower’s history that’s been left forgotten.

12. The Unfinished Portrait of My Mother
This secret is a little closer to my heart. In Father’s study, there’s a portrait of my mother—well, half of her, anyway. The painting is unfinished, and it’s clear that it was meant to capture her beauty. The artist’s brushstrokes are delicate, and you can tell it’s a beautiful piece, but the face... the face is only half-done. I’ve never asked Father about it because I know it would be a painful topic, but sometimes, when I stand before it, I can almost feel my mother’s presence in the room. It’s strange, but there’s a warmth in the unfinished part of the painting, like a piece of her that never left. I’ve always wondered why Father didn’t complete it. Maybe he was waiting for something, or maybe he never could let go of her.

13. The Tower’s Soundproof Room
A while ago, I stumbled upon a room hidden beneath the library (yes, another secret room) that I’m not even sure is part of the original tower. It’s sealed tight, with no windows, and the walls are covered in thick, soundproofing panels. I’ve only been in there once, but the air inside felt thick, like I was walking through a vacuum. I couldn’t hear anything—no echoes, no whispers, not even the sound of my footsteps. It was unnerving. The only thing I remember clearly from that time was the heavy door creaking shut behind me as I tried to leave. Since then, I’ve only dared to peek inside. I have no idea what it’s used for, but there’s something about it that feels... wrong.

So, that’s it for this part of the tower’s secrets. Every nook and cranny seems to hold something new, and I’m starting to think the tower might have more to offer than even I realize. Maybe there’s even more magic hidden beneath the stone. And with all the things happening lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these secrets get uncovered sooner than later.

Until next time,
Sarra

 

 

The Tower’s Secrets

 

I’ve lived in this tower for as long as I can remember. It’s old, it’s full of memories, and—like any place that has existed for centuries—its walls hold more secrets than I can count. You see, while the tower may look like any other imposing stone structure from the outside, if you know where to look (or where to listen), it reveals itself to be full of hidden nooks, passageways, and oddities. I thought I’d share some of my favorites with you today. Who knows? Maybe you’ll start looking at your own surroundings a little differently.

1. The Hidden Pantry Door
This one’s a classic. My father never lets anyone into the pantry when he’s not around, and for good reason—I’m sure he’s hiding something in there. But that’s not the secret I’m talking about. Tucked beneath a shelf of dried herbs and spices is a lever. I don’t know who installed it, but when you pull it, the entire stone wall slides open to reveal a hidden passage. It leads to a small library, where I’ve spent hours flipping through dusty old books. There’s a pedestal in the center of the room with a black box on it. What’s inside? I’m not sure yet, but I plan to figure it out eventually.

2. The Stairs That Go Nowhere
Now, this one’s a bit odd. There’s a staircase near the back of the tower that seems to go up for ages. I’ve climbed it before, but the steps seem endless, leading to a wall that’s just… well, there. No door, no hidden passage, nothing. I swear, it’s like the staircase exists just to mock you. I’ve asked Father about it, but he just gives me that cryptic smile of his and says it’s for "when the tower needs to stretch its legs." I don’t know what that means, but I’ll get to the bottom of it someday.

3. The Mirror That Reflects More Than It Should
It’s a little unsettling, but there’s a mirror in the hallway just past the dining room that always feels like it’s watching me. I know, I know, mirrors are supposed to reflect what’s in front of them, but this one seems to do more than that. Sometimes, when I pass by, I could swear the reflection lingers just a little longer than it should. The first time I noticed it, I thought I was just imagining things—until the reflection winked at me. I swear. I’m not crazy, okay? I’ve avoided that mirror for a while now.

4. The Basement Room
Ah, the basement. If you’ve ever explored the lower levels of the tower, you’ll know that it’s as creepy as it sounds. The first time I ventured down there, the air felt thick and ancient, and the walls… they seemed to whisper. I never got very far, but there’s one door in the farthest corner that’s always locked. I’ve tried to get in, but my father always says it’s "not for your eyes just yet." Of course, that only makes me more curious. What’s behind that door? Maybe someday I’ll find the key.

5. The Secret Message from the Past
Last week, I was exploring the library (again, I know) when I stumbled upon a small, cracked piece of parchment wedged between two books. It’s old—like, really old. The paper is brittle, but the writing is still legible. At first, I couldn’t make much sense of it, but there was one part that stood out: “The Heartstone lies beneath the tower’s heart.” I’ve heard of this Heartstone before, but the phrase keeps popping up. Could it be related to the mysterious visitors I met? Maybe it’s connected to something much bigger than I realize. The message is just one more piece of the puzzle I need to solve.

6. The Tower’s Guardian
You might think I’m imagining things, but there’s something strange about the way the tower "feels." It’s like it has a presence of its own, as though it’s alive. I’ve walked through the halls at night, and sometimes, the air grows heavier, almost as if the tower is watching over me—or perhaps, guarding something. I’ve never seen it, but I’m sure that something or someone watches over us all.

So, there you have it: a few of the tower’s secrets. Some are just oddities, others might be the key to unraveling much bigger mysteries. I’ll keep you posted if I find anything else, but for now, the tower’s keeping its lips sealed.

Until next time,
Sarra

 

Illusion Magic: A Beautiful Trick or Dangerous?

 

I’ve always had a fascination with illusions. The idea of bending reality, even for just a moment, has always seemed like the ultimate form of power. I mean, who wouldn’t want to create the perfect image in the air—something so real, so tangible, that no one could tell the difference between illusion and truth? It’s like playing with the fabric of reality itself, creating a world of your own design. Sounds amazing, right?

But, as with all magic, things aren’t always as easy as they seem.

Illusion magic is… complicated. At first, it sounds almost harmless. Create an image, a sound, a feeling that isn’t really there, and just like that, you’ve changed the world around you. Maybe it’s something small, like making your reflection in a puddle look like someone else, or making a shadow look like it’s dancing. But here’s the kicker: it’s easy to get lost in it.

You see, illusion magic works by convincing the mind that what it’s seeing, hearing, or even feeling, is real. It’s not about changing the world around you—it’s about changing how others perceive it. It messes with the mind’s perception, and that’s where it gets tricky.

I’ve tried it a few times, usually when I’m feeling particularly curious or when I’ve had a bit too much time on my hands. The first time I tried to create a simple illusion, I was aiming for a little flicker of light, like a floating candle or something small. But, as simple as it sounds, I ended up creating a full-blown glowing ball of light that hung in midair—right in front of me. I could barely believe it, and as I stared at it, I realized something that hadn’t occurred to me before: it wasn’t just an image. The air around it felt warmer. I could almost smell the wax of a candle. The illusion was so real that it took me a second to shake off the weird sense of familiarity, like I was actually holding a candle.

That’s when I realized just how powerful illusion magic can be. When you create something so convincing, it’s easy to get caught up in it. For a moment, I forgot it wasn’t real. And it was that moment that made me realize just how dangerous illusion magic can be.

The next time I tried it, I decided to push it further—maybe to create a sound or a feeling. But, of course, I made the mistake of creating a sound I wasn’t ready for. I made a bird’s call echo through the room. It was beautiful, but when the sound started getting louder and more frantic, it became overwhelming. My senses were flooded with the noise, and the more I focused on the call, the harder it was to tell if I was hearing it in my mind or if it was really there. I panicked for a moment, before I realized that it was only an illusion.

You see, when you play with illusion magic, you’re not just deceiving others. You’re deceiving yourself. Your mind starts to question what’s real, and that’s where it becomes dangerous. It can mess with your perception in ways you can’t control, and that’s terrifying. You start losing track of what’s real and what’s just an image, a sound, a feeling you created.

The problem is, illusion magic isn’t just for fun. Sure, creating a floating apple or a ghostly figure might seem harmless, but what about using it to manipulate people? What if I create an illusion to make someone think they’re surrounded by enemies, or worse, make them think they’re alone when they’re not? What if I make them see something that isn’t there at all—something terrifying, or something that’ll make them trust me when they shouldn’t?

Illusion magic can be used for so much more than just lighthearted tricks. And that’s the danger of it. The more you get comfortable with it, the easier it becomes to manipulate your surroundings, to make people see things that aren’t there, and to control what they believe.

I won’t lie—I still play with illusions from time to time, mostly for fun, like when I want to pull off a quick prank or try something new with my magic. But I always keep in mind just how easily it can get out of hand. Illusions are powerful, and power like that is never as harmless as it seems.

So, while I’ll never completely give up on illusion magic, I respect it in a way that I never used to. It’s beautiful and fascinating, yes, but it’s also dangerous. It’s too easy to get lost in what’s not real. And, for now at least, I think I’ll stick to magic I can feel and see, something I know is there without a second guess.

After all, in a world full of uncertainty, the last thing I need is to lose my grip on what’s real.

— Sarra

Air and Lightning Magic: Beautiful... But Dangerous

 

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of controlling the air and lightning. The thought of commanding something so powerful, so alive—it’s the stuff of legends. I mean, air is everywhere, right? It’s light, it’s free, it’s everywhere. And lightning? The raw, untamed force of nature that can split the sky—how amazing would it be to harness that kind of energy?

Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? But let me tell you—it's not.

Sure, air magic might seem all serene and calm when you’re imagining it. Airbending, as people like to call it, right? Floating leaves, summoning gusts of wind, sending little puffs of air to make the trees sway. Simple, elegant. But there’s a reason air is considered one of the more dangerous elements to work with. It’s unstable.

I’ve tried air magic a few times—nothing big, just small things like moving a light breeze or pushing air in a certain direction. At first, it was amazing. The way the air could shift with just a thought, the gentle push I could create to move a leaf. But soon enough, I learned that air doesn’t like being controlled. It has a mind of its own.

For example, one time I tried to create a small whirlwind. Just a tiny one, like a little dust devil to practice my control. At first, it was cute—just a little twisting funnel of wind, whirling harmlessly in the corner of the yard. But the longer I focused on it, the harder it became to keep it in place. The wind started picking up speed, pulling leaves from the trees, and before I knew it, I was chasing after it, trying to stop it before it caused a mess.

By the time I finally got the wind to die down, my hair was tangled, my dress was covered in dirt, and I was slightly out of breath. Not my best moment.

The problem with air magic is that it’s so easy for it to spiral out of control. The tiniest shift in concentration and suddenly, you’ve got a full-fledged storm on your hands, tearing through whatever’s in its path. And don’t even get me started on the dangerous side of air magic—the lightning.

Lightning. The sheer force of it is terrifying, and I’ve always known that lightning magic requires more caution than almost anything else. It’s not like fire magic, where at least you can control the flame to a degree. Lightning is just instantaneous—a split-second strike of pure power, and when it strikes, it can leave nothing but destruction in its wake.

The first time I tried lightning magic, I thought it would be similar to controlling fire. I was wrong.

I tried to create a small bolt, just a little spark to see what I could do. I gathered the magic, focused my energy, and I felt that crackle of power course through my fingertips. It felt like the sky itself was pressing against my skin. And then... nothing.

For a moment, I thought maybe I’d failed. But just as I started to lower my hand, BOOM. A loud crack, and a flash of blinding light shot from my hand, slamming into the ground with such force that I could feel the tremor in my bones. The impact left a scorched mark on the grass, and I could barely breathe for a few seconds, the air thick with ozone.

I had no idea what happened. It felt like the lightning came from inside me—like I’d pulled the power of the storm out and let it loose without any control. That was my first and last time trying lightning magic, at least for now.

The thing is, lightning isn’t just dangerous because of the destruction it causes. It’s the unpredictability of it. Air and lightning magic are tied to forces far beyond any one person’s control. They’re the kind of magic that makes you feel small in the face of something that can’t be tamed. And when you’re dealing with something that powerful, it only takes one mistake to bring down something you never intended to destroy.

So, yeah. While air and lightning are beautiful in their own right, they’re far too dangerous for me right now. The risk far outweighs the reward, and I’ve learned that the hard way.

Maybe one day I’ll revisit them, when I’m a little more experienced, but for now, I’ll leave the storms to the gods. For me, it’s safer to stick with the more grounded magic. There’s enough chaos in the world without me accidentally bringing down lightning on my own head.

Thanks for reading,

— Sarra

Why Water Magic is My Nemesis

 

Water magic. It sounds so peaceful, doesn’t it? The idea of controlling something as fluid and graceful as water should be effortless, right? I mean, how hard could it be to summon a gentle stream or a comforting rainstorm? It’s just water, after all. But let me tell you—water magic is the worst.

I’ve always been good with plants, fire, and even illusions, but for some reason, water just refuses to listen to me. Every time I try to work with it, I feel like I’m trying to grab hold of something that’s slipping through my fingers. It’s like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands—beautiful, but completely impossible.

The first time I tried to control water was when Father took me to the creek near the tower. He showed me how water could be drawn from the earth and shaped into whatever you wanted, from a simple stream to the delicate trickle of a waterfall. It was so easy for him. I thought, "How hard could it be?" I was wrong.

I tried to form a stream, just a little one, to practice my control. I could feel the magic flow through me, but the water—oh, the water—kept splattering everywhere. I was trying to gather it gently, but instead, it burst out in wild arcs, splashing all over the place like an angry sea. Father had to help me dry the wet patch on the ground afterward. It was embarrassing. My concentration wavered every time the water splashed in unexpected directions, and it took a long while before I could even get it to stay still for more than a few seconds.

But that’s the thing about water. It doesn’t want to be controlled. It moves when it wants, it shifts and bends, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it obey. Plants have a certain... stillness about them. Fire, for all its volatility, follows basic rules. Water? It’s like an untamed creature. One minute, it’s calm and clear, and the next, it’s a roaring force that no amount of concentration can calm.

I tried again a few weeks ago, hoping for better results. This time, I wanted to make a simple barrier of water. You know, just a little shield to defend myself. How hard could it be to make a water barrier, right? Well, that little puddle of water turned into a wave the size of my arm, splashing over everything in a matter of seconds. The wave didn’t even hit anything—it just drenched me completely. And what did I get out of it? Wet shoes. Very, very wet shoes.

And don’t get me started on freezing water. I’ve been trying to do that for a while now—control water, then make it freeze, just to see if I can combine my love for both elements. But every time, I end up either turning it to ice too quickly, creating something brittle and useless, or not fast enough, and the water just splashes out of control. I can almost hear the water laughing at me as it refuses to stay still long enough to freeze.

Somehow, water always wins.

At times, I wonder why I keep trying, but then I remember: it’s because I want to get it right. I know that if I keep at it, I can learn how to handle water, just as I’ve learned to control other elements. But the struggle is real. The more I try, the more frustrated I get, especially when I know it’s one of the fundamental elements. Everyone says water is so calming, so gentle—but I can’t seem to make it listen to me. I think it’s got a mind of its own.

Still, I’m not giving up. One of these days, I’m going to master it. The next time I try, I’ll make sure the water stays where I want it—maybe even freeze it for real. But for now, I’ll be happy if I can just manage a simple stream without it splashing me in the face.

Until then, I’ll just keep trying. After all, what’s the point of magic if you can’t learn something new? Even if that new thing is just getting water to behave for five seconds.

Thanks for reading,
— Sarra

The Art of Magic (and How to Control It)

 

Magic has always been a part of my life, whether I like it or not. Growing up in a tower filled with books, potions, and endless discussions about the arcane, it was almost impossible to avoid. But as much as I’ve immersed myself in learning spells and enchantments, I’ll be the first to admit that some things are just… harder than others.

Take controlling fire, for instance. Sure, I can conjure a fireball when I’m angry (which is a surprisingly useful skill when there’s a spider in the room). But when it comes to precision—say, controlling the size of the flame or directing it exactly where I want it—it becomes a whole other challenge. Fire is temperamental. One minute it’s a perfect orb of heat, and the next, it’s flaring out of control, like it has a mind of its own. It’s a constant struggle to keep it contained, and even though I’ve practiced it thousands of times, the fire still gets the better of me more often than I’d like to admit.

Then there’s the matter of my plant magic. You’d think, after all these years, I’d have it down by now. But no, plants seem to have their own opinions on what they want to do. Vines, for instance, are temperamental little things. They’re wonderful for things like creating barriers or climbing, but getting them to move on command is like trying to teach a stubborn mule how to dance. One moment, I’ll have the perfect lattice of vines, and the next, they’ll start tangling themselves up in knots. What part of "grow towards the window" do you not understand, plants?

And don’t even get me started on illusions. I’ve tried and tried to make a simple illusion just right—to make it look real enough to fool someone, but not so much that it gets out of control. The problem is that when you’re crafting something with your magic, it’s like you’re stretching the fabric of reality itself. And sometimes, the illusion doesn’t just look real. It feels real. A few times, I’ve made a forest appear in my bedroom to practice, and then found myself tangled in thorns when I wasn’t careful enough. Needless to say, that didn’t go over well with Father. He’s very much against me getting too carried away with my illusions.

The thing is, magic isn’t about perfection—it’s about control. And for me, that’s what makes it so difficult. It’s one thing to have the power to create something with a flick of your wrist; it’s another thing entirely to keep it in check when your emotions, your mind, and your surroundings are constantly changing.

Of course, there are times when the spells come easily—when everything clicks into place, and it feels as though the magic is flowing through me rather than from me. I get these moments when I feel like I can do anything, and then… well, there are the other times. Times when the magic refuses to cooperate, when I wonder if I’ll ever be able to truly master it.

But that’s the fun of it, isn’t it? Magic is a journey. Sometimes, I get frustrated, and sometimes I want to throw my hands up in the air and give up, but I can’t. I won’t. There’s too much left to discover, too much to learn.

And when I finally get a spell just right—when the fire stays controlled or the vines obey my command—that’s when I know it’s all worth it. Maybe I’m not perfect at magic yet, but I’m getting closer. Little by little, spell by spell, I’m learning to control it.

Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll even be able to make those illusions perfect without any thorns poking through the walls.

Until then, I’ll keep practicing. After all, I have plenty of time, and there’s always something new to try.

Thanks for reading,
— Sarra

Sarra’s Spellbook: My Top Favorite Spells

 

Hey everyone!

So, I thought it might be fun to take a break and talk about something a little more… magical. I know I don’t often share much about my spells, but hey, what’s a little magic between friends?

First off, let me just say, I love plant spells. I know, it might sound a little strange at first, but there’s something so soothing about working with nature. Whether it’s making flowers bloom right in front of my eyes or commanding vines to wrap around something (or someone!), there’s an incredible satisfaction in knowing that I can nurture the world around me.

One of my favorites is controlling vines. I can make them grow on command, twisting and curling around things like a second set of hands. They’re perfect for, you know, when someone’s not quite getting the message, or when I just want to impress people by making them dance a little. It’s like my own personal green army. Don’t worry—I use them responsibly... mostly.

Then, of course, there’s the classic fireball spell. Oh, fireball. I love it. It’s probably the one spell that never fails to bring a little joy to my day. There’s something about the explosive burst of magic and flame that’s just so... satisfying. Especially when there’s a spider involved. I know, it sounds a bit extreme, but trust me, those little creatures have it coming. One flick of my wrist, and poof!—problem solved. I know it’s a bit dramatic, but when you’ve got creepy crawlers around, a little fire never hurt anyone. (Except for the spiders. Obviously.)

Anyway, those are just a couple of my favorite spells—my go-to tricks when I need a bit of magic in my day. Do you guys have a favorite spell or magic trick? Let me know in the comments! I’m always curious about how other people use their magic, especially if it’s something I’ve never tried before.

Until next time, stay magical!

— Sarra

 

My Favorite Magical Creatures: A Peek Into the World of Enchanted Beasts

 

There’s something special about the creatures that roam my world—some are familiar, others are more mysterious, but each one has its own distinct charm. As someone who's grown up surrounded by magic, I’ve come to appreciate the unique qualities of the creatures I’ve met, and I thought I’d share a few of my favorites. Some I've seen in person, while others I've only heard my father describe. All of them are fascinating in their own way.

1. Blizzard – The Ice Elemental Fox
Let’s start with my companion, Blizzard. She’s a stunning creature, delicate yet powerful. Blizzard is a fox, but not your ordinary one—she’s an ice elemental, which means she can conjure and control ice magic. Her fur is a soft blue, shimmering almost like moonlight reflecting off fresh snow, and when she gets defensive, she grows in size to become an imposing figure. Her frosty aura is incredibly soothing, and she’s been my protector since I was little. Though she’s sweet and playful with me, she can be fiercely protective when she senses danger, creating ice barriers to keep us safe. I can't imagine life without her.

2. Maréa – The Duskwalker Elk
This majestic creature is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and it holds a special place in my father’s heart. Maréa is a Duskwalker Elk, a powerful creature that seems to belong to the very mountains of Ravenholt. With her massive, intricate antlers that change with the seasons, Maréa is a creature of wisdom and calm. Her deep earth-brown fur helps her blend into the rocky landscape, making her an excellent guide when the terrain becomes treacherous. Despite her imposing size, she moves with the grace of a mountain goat, leaping between ledges with ease. When Alembert summons her, she appears from a portal of twisting roots and stone, almost as if she’s been part of the landscape all along. There’s something about her grounded presence that makes everything seem more manageable, no matter how chaotic the world around us becomes.

3. Pickles – The Basilisk
Now, Pickles is a bit different. While not exactly a creature one would call "cute" (though I’ve grown fond of him), Pickles is my father’s basilisk. He’s a large, semi-aquatic creature with scales that blend seamlessly into the swampy surroundings. Pickles’ most striking feature, besides his impressive size, is his frilly, vibrant neck that can extend dramatically when he feels threatened. The colors are stunning—turquoise, crimson, and gold—but they’re also a warning to anyone who might challenge him. While Pickles prefers to avoid confrontation, his venomous bite can paralyze rather than kill, making him an excellent deterrent. He’s surprisingly gentle and loyal, especially to my father, and he’s been trained to pull carts through the swamp. I’ve always found it awe-inspiring to see how his long body moves with such grace and efficiency, even in the thickest of mud.

4. Scorcheater – The Desert Nomad
Although I’ve never met one myself, my father has told me about the Scorcheater, a creature that roams the rocky, sun-baked desert of Ravenholt. The Scorcheater is a cross between a scaled horse and a desert drake, with a tough, rock-like hide and a long tail that looks like it’s been kissed by fire. My father says it’s perfectly suited to the harsh desert, moving across the craggy terrain with ease. Its fiery tail is a protective charm against the intense heat, and it can even resist the punishing rays of the sun. When summoned, the Scorcheater brings with it a cooling aura that makes the desert more bearable, providing relief from the dry winds and sweltering heat. If I ever get the chance, I’d love to see one in action.

5. Moonstone Shapeshifters – Guardians of the Night
The Moonstone Shapeshifters are perhaps one of the most intriguing creatures I’ve heard about. These beings can shift between human and animal forms, depending on the phase of the moon. In their animal form, they could be anything from wolves to birds, but they always retain some animal features when they shift back to human form—sharp eyes, ears, or heightened senses. My father has described them as protectors, though some say they are spies. Their transformations aren’t voluntary, meaning they can’t always control when they shift, but their abilities are tied to the moon’s phases, making them powerful allies when needed. They are elusive, and I’ve never met one myself, but I find their mystery fascinating.

 

These creatures, each with their own unique magic and purpose, remind me just how vast and wondrous the world around me truly is. From the fierce loyalty of Blizzard to the grace of Maréa, I’m constantly amazed by the talents these beings possess and the ways they enrich our lives. Each one is a reminder that magic is not just about spells and incantations—it’s also about the creatures that walk alongside us, shaping the world in their own quiet ways.

Do you have a favorite magical creature?

— Sarra