Chapter 1 #2
Her hands freeze over the buckles. When she turns, her sunken expression is an answer in itself. “Lyria, not now.”
Pain lances my chest, and I look away so she doesn’t see my chin wobble. This is the answer I’m used to—the same one I’d get as a little girl, when I’d beg and sob for her to not leave me alone again. I got so used to her refusal that I stopped asking.
But I’m not a little girl anymore.
And I’m no longer scared.
I’m angry.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I say carefully, tempering my rising frustration. “I figured out a delayed irrigation system so the garden is taken care of while we’re gone. And I’m getting loads better at handling my Talent. I could help with the plague—”
She cuts me off. “We’re not having this conversation.”
NO! I bite down a scream. “Why not?”
“Because.”
In her eyes, this answer has always been enough. But it’s never been enough for me.
“I-I’ve already packed a bag.” My voice finally breaks, and now my carefully worded speech comes barreling out too quickly. “I won’t make any trouble. I’ll do everything exactly as you say. I can even use a concealment charm to hide my ears. See?”
I pull off my kerchief to show her, but Mother looks far from impressed. Confused, I flinch a hand up to feel the tips and realize they’re still pointed. No, no, no! I practiced this!
Mother just shakes her head. “Not today, Lyria.”
“Then when?”
“When it’s safe,” she says.
“It’s never going to be safe!”
I can’t count how many times we’ve cycled through this. She claims to be worried about safety, but I know what she’s really afraid of.
As if proving her point, heat starts to simmer under my skin. I look away and force a long, deep breath, clamping down on my inner cheek until the pain centers me.
Calm down, Lyria.
I stare out toward the distant tree line and quivering aspens. This forest raised and sheltered me. But it has imprisoned me, too. “I can’t stay locked up forever,” I finally mumble, and I hate how childish it sounds.
A rare flash of sympathy softens her eyes.
It’s almost worse than her anger. Mother draws toward me, offering a stiff hand on my shoulder, and I breathe in her familiar scent: cinnamon and soil and fresh bread.
“I know that it’s hard, and I know that it’s not fair,” she says gently.
“But it’s my job to put your safety first. Even before your happiness. Do you understand?”
I’ve run out of arguments, so I nod my defeat. “I understand.”
“When you’re older and have full control of your magic, we can talk about going out together,” she says. “But while your power is unpredictable—”
“I said I get it.”
If they catch you, they will kill you. That’s the foremost rule of my existence.
They call it a Talent, with a capital T.
While our Elven heritage makes living in Verdinae dangerous, my Talent is the reason we’re on the run.
It’s the thing they’d kill me for regardless of whether we followed their laws.
They say Verdin feared nothing more than bloodborne Talents, the magical gifts that some Elves are born with.
Anyone can cast spells with runes like Mother does.
A Talent is different. It’s magic woven into my very soul.
I’m speaking of us like I’ve met another Talent. I haven’t. I’m just hoping I’m not the last one.
I never knew my father, but I can only assume he was a powerful wielder, since it’s his power that flows through my veins.
Talents used to be as common as freckles among Elves.
We can trace their inception back to our first Gods, the Three Sisters, who gifted a portion of their power to the founders of Evermore.
In the old days, Mother tells me, Faeries used to attend Elven name day ceremonies, to bestow gifts upon Elven newborns and predict their Talents in honor of the Gods.
Mother knew Elves with Talents to control the elements, predict futures, or even read minds.
But when the Verdish Empire took over after the Long War, the Faeries vanished so completely that some claim they never existed, and Elves with bloodborne Talents were systematically hunted and slaughtered until entire magical bloodlines were snuffed out.
To protect me from that fate, Mother took me into hiding after my abilities manifested.
Our sanctuary is the Ironwoods, the same mountain range where she grew up back when this land knew peace.
The Ironwoods are famously inhospitable and plagued by monsters, but that inhospitality has sheltered us for nearly two decades.
She planned to raise me in seclusion just until I gained control of my power, something that typically comes as easy as breathing for Elves.
But my Talent is different. It’s never fully yielded to my will.
Our books say it’s supposed to feel pleasantly warm and tingly when stress causes magic to flare, but in my case, I get more searing agony than pleasant tingle.
There’s something wrong with it…or maybe just something wrong with me.
Mother leans in to kiss my forehead. “I’ll be gone for three weeks. Practice your spells and keep the hearth fire burning. And don’t cross the wardlines.”
I don’t ask again.
Routine is one of the few methods of making isolation bearable. In the wake of Mother’s departure, I cling to it like a drowning person.
First, I tidy the cottage. One by one, I check the objects populating our home. I say good morning to the teakettle, good morning to my favorite chipped cup, good morning to my sewing kit, good morning to my books and chalk and painting set.
Once everything’s in order, I venture outside.
Our cottage sits near a glassy lake in a secluded valley.
We’ve stayed here longer than anywhere else I can remember—six months, give or take.
Typically, we “travel with the bloom,” pursuing the rare medicinal flowers she uses in potions.
The meadowblood in this particular valley only has weeks before it’ll disappear again for years.
In our garden, we grow a host of other plants commonly used in our potions.
I can greet each blossom like old friends: nettlewood, grizzlefoot, nocturn, dillfeather… .
I love the Ironwoods almost as much as I long to escape them.
There’s usually plenty to do, like exploring the cliffs or swimming in the lake, but I’m only allowed out under Mother’s supervision.
Her absence constrains me within the wardlines encircling our property: the yard, the paddock, the outhouse, and the shed.
I can talk to the chickens or weave daisy chains, but that’s about it.
If it’s not too cold, I’ll throw knives at a target board to blow off steam.
I got good at it a few summers back. My most prized possession is a dagger with runes carved into the handle.
It rarely leaves the sheath strapped to my belt, and I sleep with it under my pillow.
The blade belonged to my father, who died not long after I was born.
Odds are, he was murdered for possessing the same power they’d kill me for.
Mother won’t talk about him. She’s never even told me his name.
I instinctively reach toward my belt to trace the grooves on the handle, which are worn smooth.
My father’s always been my favorite daydream.
I used to imagine he’d show up at our doorstep and we’d start living as a happy family.
Now I just dream that he’ll come to take me away.
By late morning, the sun has melted any trace of snow.
It’s a beautiful spring day, and the mountains are humming with their familiar music.
I love the babble of the stream and singing cicadas and know every songbird’s call by heart.
As I wander toward the fence, I tip my face to the sun and inhale, savoring the complex perfume.
My Elven senses can mark every earthly and living thing in this valley: the watercress, pines, peonies, forget-me-nots, salt and honey, a nearby beehive, a distant skunk, and something else, something warmer…
Every muscle in my body goes still.
Something human.
My head snaps toward the forest, and my eyes lock onto the figure barely a stone’s throw away, partially concealed by the trees.
A boy.
A human boy.
For an instant, I’m petrified with all-consuming panic. Then I remember he can’t see me. Ward spells conceal our cottage, so if Mother’s spellwork is sound (and it’s always sound), I’m invisible.
Still, I’m frozen. Transfixed.
I’ve seen glimpses of humans before—the rare traveler or occasional unlucky corpse—but I’ve never seen a boy like this.
Close enough to count his chestnut-colored curls.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a fine green tunic with a sword sheathed at his hip.
When he turns, I’m given a complete view of his entire face, all sharp lines and soaring cheekbones.
Every feature is balanced and symmetrical, from his full, slightly parted lips to the faint shadows under his eyes.
The set of his brow is boyish but not naive.
Earnest but not haughty. He’s absurdly handsome—a potential lead in one of the dog-eared romance sagas Mother hides under her pillow.
He could have been carved by Aurelis herself: a testament to the Goddess of Beauty. A hero from my daydreams.
It occurs to me he might be the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen.
His eyes flicker, and our gazes seem to lock. For a moment, I wonder against possibility if he can see me somehow….
Then, without warning, he turns and vanishes back into the trees.
“Wait!” I cry out before I can stop myself.
Not that it matters. The wardlines are sound. I’m inaudible.
I’m left with a racing heart and an unbearable lightheadedness, staring at the spot where he stood. The trees look just as they did, rustling in the gentle breeze.
I’m alone.
I will always be alone.
It’s a long time before I can force myself to trudge back inside.
Clicking the door shut behind me might as well be slamming the bars of my cell. I can’t remember feeling more trapped or hopeless. Rising underneath those emotions is an existential rage so potent it wrenches my guts.
I think I hate Mother. I know I hate myself. I hate the Verdish Empire for its tyranny. I hate King Amos and Queen Soleste for yielding Evermore all those years ago. I hate the Gods for allowing it. Most of all, I hate the Talent swelling under my skin.
By twilight, I’ve retreated deep inside myself. There’s a dark place that I sink to in my lowest moments—a place where I’m nothing, and no one at all. I’m alone like this, near-catatonic and pondering my existence, when I hear it.
It’s a boy’s voice, rising from the distant forest.
“HELP!”
I stand, then immediately sit. There’s no doubt he’s far past the wardlines, but to my Elven ears, he might as well be standing beside me.
He cries again, louder this time—“HELP!”—before the word contorts into a shriek. I’m seized by the memory of the stranger I saw earlier, imagining his handsome face twisted in terror.
I can’t say exactly why I do what I do next.
Maybe it’s brave. Heroic, even. Maybe I’m being noble. But maybe it’s something else, more impulsive and selfish. Maybe it’s eighteen years of resentment that launches me onto my feet. Maybe I’ve simply had enough of doors and locks and waiting.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I run. Out the door, past the wardlines, through the garden gate…
And into the beckoning world beyond.