The air around the well seemed to hold its breath, as if the entire village was waiting for something grand to happen.
A mixture of awe, skepticism, and silent curiosity hung thick in the air. The villagers stood in tight clusters, eyes trained on Cyrus. Some whispered among themselves, others barely breathed.
Cyrus, standing just a few paces away from the well, extended his hands over the water, his posture calm and composed.
His fingers hovered above the surface, just a hair's breadth from the clear liquid, and the faintest shimmer of light began to glimmer at the edges of his palms.
It wasn't much at first—just a soft flicker, like a distant star trying to peek through the fog. But that small flicker grew, expanding slowly, gradually.
It was so subtle that most of the villagers didn't even notice at first. It was as if the magic were a quiet pulse, something too soft and ethereal to be noticed unless you were paying close attention.
