The windmill didn't explode this time.
That, by itself, felt like a monumental win.
"It's... spinning," Leo whispered like he was witnessing divine intervention.
"And the runes are glowing!" Mira added, bouncing on her heels.
I didn't respond immediately. I was too busy holding my breath. My latest prototype—a cross between a child's toy and a magical fever dream—was finally working. The clay-and-wood windmill, etched with refined mana vector runes, was not only rotating smoothly, but the crystal socket at its base now pulsed with a soft, steady light.
We were generating mana.
Sort of.
It wasn't enough to power anything more significant than a glowing rock right now, but the principle worked. Kinetic energy, especially from continuous natural movement like wind or water, could be captured, funneled, and converted into mana with the right rune configurations.
"It's like... magic electricity," I breathed.
Leo looked confused. Mira just hugged me.
It all started with Elara's Zap Jar.
A tiny mana battery, crude but revolutionary in this backwater corner of the world. Its success had been a beacon—a literal spark in the mud—and it had given me hope. But hope wasn't power. Not yet.
So I kept pushing.
Progress was still slow.
We tried water wheels next, salvaging wooden paddles from a broken barrel and rigging them into a crude turbine over the small creek near our home. That model, too, lit up the crystal—this time slightly stronger.
"Maybe water has more push," I theorized, scribbling in my rune journal while trying not to trip over my too-long dress.
"Maybe your dress is cursed," Leo muttered, catching me again for the third time that hour.
Mira, of course, defended the dress. And added flowers to my hair for good measure.
Somehow, in between these adorable humiliations, I managed to refine the vector angles. I learned that sharper, narrower triangle patterns directed mana more efficiently than broad ones. Curves helped modulate the flow. Spiral runes extended storage time. By day's end, I had enough power to light up not just the mana crystal but also to heat a flat stone.
"You made a stove," Mira said proudly.
"A mana-powered stove," I corrected.
Leo was still skeptical. "Can it make pancakes?"
"If you bring eggs, we'll find out."
He did.
And it did.
My mother was the first real test.
She had long since accepted that I was a strange, brainy child, but even she looked uncertain when I dragged her to the shed with a covered tray.
"I made you something," I announced.
"Did it explode?"
"Not this time."
I pulled the cloth away to reveal a small, round cooking plate made of slate and copper, with the mana crystal base humming faintly beneath. I tapped it once. The center glowed.
"It's a hotplate," I explained. "It uses kinetic-runed mana storage. Completely off-grid."
Mom blinked. "You made me... a magic stove?"
"Technically, it's not magic. It's just—"
She hugged me before I could finish. Tight. Warm.
I froze for a second. Then hugged her back.
"You're incredible, Elara."
And for a moment, I forgot all about the bows, the dresses, the frilly skirts, and the daily crisis of waking up with a girl's body when I still sometimes dreamed in the deep baritone of a man.
For just a second, I was just... me.
A proud daughter.
Of course, word got around.
It started with Mira bragging. Then Leo trying (and failing) to explain how it worked. By the end of the week, the local tinker showed up asking questions.
"Little miss, is it true you've made a fireless cooking plate?"
"Yes. And no. It's mana-based."
He squinted at the glowing plate. "Where's the source stone?"
"That's the point. There isn't one. I store kinetic energy in runes. Like a battery."
He snorted. "Cute trick. But it won't hold for long."
I flipped the switch. The plate glowed. Again.
"It's been holding for thirty minutes. Want a pancake?"
His eyes widened.
"You're going to change the village," he muttered.
"Hopefully not with just pancakes."
Mira's mother didn't help my identity crisis.
"She's such a darling little inventor! And look at that hair! You really must let us braid it sometime, Malia."
My mother laughed. "You'll have to catch her first."
They did.
I spent that afternoon with my scalp being tortured by giggling women and my dignity crushed under layers of ribbons, glitter, and unsolicited compliments.
"She's going to be a heartbreaker," Mira's mom cooed.
"She already is," Leo muttered.
I pretended not to hear that. Mira did not.
She punched his arm and whispered something about "boundaries."
In my spare time—when not defending my tomboy dignity—I started designing a larger waterwheel.
Leo and I scouted a more powerful section of the stream, while Mira "supervised" by gathering wildflowers and giving out motivational speeches.
The new wheel was twice the size of the first. It had dual-runed blades, reinforced clay channels, and a three-layer capacitor crystal setup.
This time, we powered not just a stove, but a tiny water pump.
Mira's mouth dropped open. Leo dropped his slingshot.
"It's... pulling water. From the ground."
"Yup. Infinite well. Rain fills the reservoir, and the pump keeps it pressurized. No magic needed, just physics and rune geometry."
I almost cried again.
This wasn't just progress.
It was independence.
A six-year-old girl just made running water.
Then came the town gathering.
Someone had told the elders. Of course they had. The village square was suddenly filled with skeptical faces, elders murmuring about 'mana dangers,' and at least one old man claiming I had summoned the wind spirit.
I demonstrated the Zap Jar again. Then the hotplate. Then the pump.
And when I flipped the switch and conjured heat, then pulled water from the reservoir with nothing more than wind and patience, the murmuring stopped.
"It's not magic," I told them. "It's design. Engineering. It's just... science. With runes."
Silence.
Then clapping.
Real clapping.
And I thought: I might be wearing the world's fluffiest apron right now, but damn it, I just gave this village electricity.
Well, mana-equivalent electricity.
Same thing.
That night, Mira made me a crown of daisies. Leo added a tiny flag to our windmill that read "Powered by Elara." I cried. They pretended not to notice.
But even as I curled into my soft bed, fingers aching from a day of etching, dress slightly rumpled, hair still annoyingly perfect—
I felt good.
Not comfortable. Not resolved. But good.
I had made something. Changed something.
And I wasn't done yet.
Because if mana was electricity... then we needed cables. Switches. More storage. More control.
And I, Elara the accidental inventor, was going to build it.
One windmill at a time.
To be continued...