It felt like the coldest morning in Spring, and I wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep. My bedside window had been left open, just a sliver, and the cool, thick breeze kissed my face awake, despite my protests.

Dearest Mary had been gently rapping at my door with her soft - yet determined - paws for who knows how long. Through the slivers of my eyes, the light was still dull, and the two suns had barely started their dancing journey across the sky, only now just peeking over the forest horizon. 

I reluctantly sat up on the edge of my bed, pulling the thickly padded quilt around my shoulders and wiping the sleep out of my eyes in a daze. With a sobering stretch, I brushed the heavy dark velvet curtains away from what they had still covered of the lightly frosted window and saw the silver rays of light, streaming through thick waves of morning fog, make their steady and slow climb through the garden. Tiny sparkles of crystal light danced among the newly branching vegetable stalks and tiny newborn flower buds nestled in the thickly manicured hedges. It was at this time of day that the dark emerald of the forest barrier and gardened grounds was at its most vibrant. It was enough to make me catch my breath before the chill of the damp morning air swept across my face with its familiar silver slap. 

In front of the window was a small white candle, held in a silver ornate holder, with four jeweled legs. Beside it lay a delicate box, equally as detailed and engraved, holding a tin of soft white powder. The table was bare, cleared of my room’s ordinary mess of books and half-scrawled parchment, save for these two items - two very important items - and I let out a defeated sigh despite my best efforts. 

For the past six days since my seventeenth nameday, I was to place a tincture of the fine silvery-white powder in the palm of my right hand and carefully blow it on the waxed white wick of the candle. And today, same as the last six times, nothing happened as the white powder swirled past the candle and out of my window into the thick morning air. Despite my best efforts, another defeated sigh parted my lips as I wiped the rest of the dusty particles off my desk. 

This was the Ritual of Solia - a rite of passage of every young man and woman in this realm. Ideally, the fine powder would ignite the flame with vivid color - each designating one of the specific high houses in the realm.

If it was to glow with a vivid purple, I would be matched with the Tumet, a guardian of space and time. His school existed in the clouds, with silver and mechanical wings flying high through the mountains, dancing in the shining suns as twinkling clockwork. Patrons walked the chilly cobbled streets in the sky-island in sharply tailored capes among the carved cathedrals of high academia. I had never seen the flying school myself, but my father had told me stories when I was young of witnessing the air-beast crossing through the night sky when he was at one of his posts. They learned Time Magic there - a delicate craft, only learned by the most intelligent and curious of the realm.

Next of the main four pillars was Myrot, champion of the sea. His flame was a deep blue, twinkling playfully on the candle. The Myrot School was hidden deep under the black sea of Noor. I had heard stories of webbed winged creatures wisping its disciples under the unsuspecting cool water, only to be met with a decedent pearl city of splendor hidden in the dark, lit with dazzling lights strung between the high coral towers. The effervescent city taught water and other elemental magic - but they also boasted as masters of trade and fortune within the realm. 

Then was the dazzling red flame of Selphena - guardian of fire and forge. Only the fiercest of warriors, in both spirit and body were chosen by Selphena. Hidden in the cold dark mountains of Sine was the onyx-black school. Pillars of oppressive obsidian formed the tall, brutally carved gate. Winding tunnels warmed by magma-light carved deep into the tallest mountain, where underground coliseums held matches between red velvet warriors with golden-filigree masks. This was my father’s school, where he learned to wield a magic blade of silver to protect himself against whatever creatures loomed at the outer Barrens.   

It had been years since I had seen him last - the only sign of him being quick-jotted charcoal notes brought by a slim and sickly-looking messenger crane every other month. I still had the last one pinned above my bedside table.

 

Dearest Ones,

 

Another cold night - Missing you all. I’m safe. 

Mira - Can’t wait to see what house chooses you. 

Hope it’s Selphie too - (Ha - Ha!)

Send crane when you know.

Have to go now.

 

 

• Father

 

 

I sometimes find it difficult to remember his face. His cheekbones were high, and nose was sharp, with a purple scar though the bridge. My raven, often-matted locks matched his own unruly hair. Growing up, he told me stories of training in the fiery castle of the Selphena school and dazzled me with tales of exploration and wonder. He had seen the entire realm in his studies, while I was left to dream in the confines of our manor - no matter how grand it was. 

Last was the emerald green flame of Herculea, who dwelled in a lush, overgrown marble castle. There were two sorts of disciples who trained under Herculea, those who learned to heal through their magic - using the earth’s lifeblood to coax any sort of magical ailment, and those who trained to become the fiercest of beast riders. Followers could also naturally speak freely with animals in their own tongue. 

My mother was one of Herculea’s chosen, and she was so proud when my oldest and only sister Limenta, only a toddler at the time, had taken to having long conversations with little Mary in the garden. Limenta would sit there, with Mary’s small kitten paw in her own small hand on the wooden bench behind the estate. I remembered watching them, so full of envy from behind the thick hedges, my little face hot and blotchy from my toddler tears. For a while, I remember pretending to speak with Dearest Mary, her patient mews humoring the one-sided conversation - only to have my sister see, pointing and laughing before running off to tell mother.

Along with her natural gifts, my sister was lucky enough to also inherit my mother’s silken auburn curls, and today I would see her in person for the first time in many months. The celebration for Limenta and the other disciples in the Herculea Conservatory School was an honored tradition, as much as I did not want to attend. It was today that they would show off what they had learned in the past year before leaving for home, or abroad studies for the short springtime break soon to come. It was a rare occasion as the school was seldom open to outsiders.

I sat there for a bit, pulling the quilt to my chin, staring at the wax candlewick with my nostrils flared before slamming the window shut. 

No flame for me. No school for me.

The past couple of days, my mother had tried coaxing me, explaining “Some people just take longer than others to get chosen.” But, never had I seen that in all of my reading - not once.

I stretched with a yawn, letting the blanket fall to the floor with a soft thump. The mirror in the corner of my small room seemed to taunt me as it caught a glance of my mess of hair and tired eyes over bony shoulders. I was a mess. I surrendered and braided my long black hair in a thick knot behind my head, too sleepy to brush out the knots. 

It was then that Mary’s persistent tapping paw was joined by a much louder and more frantic knock. 

“Mira! Poor Mary has been calling on you all morning. Are you awake yet?”

Before I could answer, my mother, already dressed in a silk black cloak with her rich auburn red hair perched perfectly upon her head, holding the spoiled-fat old “poor” Mary in her coddling arms swung open the door. She must have been up for hours.  

“Oh dear - You aren’t even dressed yet. And look at that hair!” 

I watched from the mirror as my mother undid my hasty braid and began to brush through it with her slender fingers. I watched silently as her eyes caught sight of my bedside table - candle still the same as it was on the day she excitedly gave it to me. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

Somehow this all felt like my fault. Had I done something wrong to upset the guardians? Or was I just too ordinary - too plain for any of them to take any interest in me. I wasn’t sure what possibility hurt the most. 

She seemed to sense my discomfort though, and her expression softened as my reflection met hers. 

“Mira, they would all be lucky to have you. They’re probably fighting amongst each other in the clouds as we speak - just at the chance to have you. In the meantime, though, I’m lucky to have you here with me for as long as I can,” she said.

A soft mew came from Mary, the ash-black bundle of fur now resting peacefully on my still-warm pillow.

“See? Dear Mary agrees. Who else will warm her bed in the morning if you’re gone,” laughed my mother.With great effort, I was finally ready for the public eye. Mother had tamed my hair into a delicate braided bun, held tight with a silver bangle. She had even fetched me a heavy black cloak to match her own. I couldn’t help but feel like an impostor in these ornate clothes - but I knew this was important to her.

This was her chance to show me off. Maybe if I made a good enough impression, I would be picked for entry right on the spot. I couldn’t help but smile at the notion.

 

The schools themselves had no say in the disciples they received - that was up to the four guardians themselves. No amount of fancy clothes and pretty hair would make a difference on this visit. It’s said that guardians already know where a child fits before they can even speak. 

I couldn’t help but worry though as I picked at the delicate gold embroidery on my sleeves. Mother noticed and playfully swatted at my arm as we made our way on the crooked stone path to the road in front of our gate. 

 

It had warmed a little since I had awoken, and the little chirping insects were as loud as ever in the still-moist grass lining the pathway. The old ebony wood carriage waited for us on the overgrown cobblestone road outside. The huge black horses tapped their fur-shoed feet impatiently as mother closed the heavy gate behind us.  

“Be back soon, Mary!” she called through the metal bars.

Mr. Krain, our ancient, but dependable driver, was waiting beside the carriage, the wooden door already held open by one of his lanky arms. The deep and oppressive lines in his worn face betrayed his kind demeanor. I have always remembered him having this same stone-carved face, even when I was a child.

“Off to see the old stompin` grounds, Miss?” he said, whistling through missing teeth. He held out a bony hand to assist with the high step up through the door. 

I eagerly took his held-out hand since Mother was still distracted with the gate and I made a clumsy jump inside the warm cabin - anything to avoid the impending small talk. 

It took until they started reminiscing about their old Herculea professors for me to tune out. They could talk for hours and hours - always about the same things. It was impressive, really. 

I pushed my nose against the cold-fogged glass, hoping the pig-face I was making would be enough to snap her out of it. But no. Apparently, we weren’t in as much of a rush as she made it seem this morning. 

It was Mr. Krain who seemed to notice me in the corner of his eye as he cut the conversation short. Embarrassed, I swiftly wiped the condensation away with my sleeve - hiding the evidence. 

“As much as I could spend all morning out here with ye, Miss. Best we get going,” he said, and I caught a wink as he turned to climb the front of the cart.

 

It was a short ride to the esteemed Herculea Conservatory School, although a bit bumpy. The winding cobblestone road turned into a tight muddy path through an endless tall evergreen forest. Rows of tall trunks and heavy canopy darkened my view, hiding what lay just beyond and even the bright morning rays struggled to get through to the forest floor. The branches scraped against the roof of the carriage as I looked out the window, wiping off the condensation every few moments to see. 

 

When it became almost too thick to pass, we were suddenly out of the forest and in a lush, overgrown meadow - bright early morning light causing me to squint to see. My breath caught in my throat. It was more beautiful than I remembered.

 

 

White and gray dappled horned horses grazed among the green and yellow, overgrown wild grass. Leather winged imps sat upon them, lounging in the hazy spring suns. I could see a little one braiding a mare’s hair, standing on its tiny, clawed toes to add a decoration of yellow wildflower. It wasn’t often that you’d see such rare creatures in such a state of relaxation.

As we rounded the small path, I spotted the grand, ivy-covered marble pillars of the front entrance. Overgrown trees crushed through the thick stone of the ancient and opulent ruins. The school surrendered to the forces of nature around it, working with the ancient earth - not against. 

The polished carriages of visiting families speckled throughout the meadow seemed so garish and out of place. I watched out the window as a black-robed student directed our cart through the mud to a free space; a huge raven on his shoulder flapped its wings in annoyance every time he gestured his arms.

As I finally stepped down the creaking narrow stairs of the carriage, my senses were hit by a wave of sweet wildflower pollen, and I couldn’t help but sneeze. The morning fog may have dulled it, but still not enough to quell my allergies.

All this untouched, untarnished beauty made me feel like even more of an outsider. I felt like I was seeing something I wasn’t allowed - a secret place for the gifted - the chosen. Mother seemed to sense my hesitation though and grabbed me by the arm to pull me to the entrance.

“Come on now, your sister said she’ll meet us in the front parlor,” she smiled.

The main entrance was flanked by two tall white dogs with particularly long noses. As we stepped forward, one nudged the tall glass door open for us to enter. I made a slight bow in thanks, before Mother grabbed my hand, pulling me forward in an almost sprint through the uneven broken marble white floor. 

I had a chance to look up, seeing the light from outside come through the open atrium in thick beams, dancing along the ivy-rich high ceiling. In front of us was a grand and ancient marble statue of Herculea herself - stoic but smiling, face hidden under her veil, and hands outstretched in greeting.

“Strand! Strand! Is that you, my love?” Mother called out, still pulling me as we weaved through the reuniting families. 

I scanned the crowd, looking for who she might be calling to, when I spotted him.

There, on the small stairs, in front of the crumbling feet of Herculea, was a massive black bear. I felt my knees lock - an ultimately unconscious reaction, but Mother continued to pull me forward with a jolt.

“Come on now, Mira. I want you to meet my dear Strand,” she urged.

The bear leaned back, then forward, rocking himself upward upon seeing Mother. She then dropped my hand, and walked to the massive animal, kneeling at his feet. She put her hands on top of his giant paws, then said something I couldn’t hear. The bear then responded by making a blood-chilling, drooling and guttural roar that ricocheted off the tall ceilings, causing a wave of shocked silence around the room. In response, Mother giggled to herself and patted his furry leg playfully. 

Mother beckoned me closer, almost annoyed with my seemingly impolite distance, and I made a few brave steps forward.

“Strand, this is Mira - my youngest daughter. Mira, this is Strand, my dear friend when I was doing my studies here,” Mother smiled warmly between us, “He was my professor in one of my first classes here - teaching Diplomatic Animal Studies.” She put another agitated palm on my back, pushing me forward even further. I could feel the beast’s hot breath on my face now.

 “Uhm,” I hesitated despite my best efforts, “Hello, Sir Strand. Pleasure to meet you.” I bowed my head slightly. 

This caused Mother to giggle, and I couldn’t help but send her dagger eyes. Was I supposed to know bear etiquette?

“So polite, isn’t she?” Mother beamed. She then gave the bear a hearty pat on his shoulder. “We should catch up soon, dear. But alas, we have an appointment to make, and someone is waiting for us. Please tell the wife I miss her dearly.”

And with that, we were off. 

 

 

Of course, Limenta was also even more beautiful than I remembered. Her long, silky, auburn hair framed her perfectly pale and freckled face, dark emerald eyes - no need for any powder or makeup. She was the best parts of Mother and Father, all rolled into one delicate, tall, ethereal being. She was sitting in the “Parlor” - an overgrown conservatory with high curved windows forming a softly lit ceiling. Naturally, she was casually having a conversation with a cooing mourning dove when we spotted her. She was wearing the long, flowing and plunging pale green graduation dress that Mother had specially made for her, tied in delicate weaves around her waist, and as expected, it fit her perfectly.

Upon spotting us, she made a slight, almost coy smile, and slowly got up from the wicker stool from which she sat. She bowed her head slightly to dismiss herself, and the dove flew back to the ivy rafters. 

 

Everything she did seemed so graceful, so purposeful. It was hard not to find it annoying, oppressive even. I accepted early on that she was Mother’s favorite. But alas, today was her day - so I held my tongue.

“Mother!” Limenta beamed, arms stretched out. She pecked Mother on both cheeks in greeting. 

They then held hands, eagerly chittering away at each other for what felt like a lifetime, and I tried to distract myself by looking around the room. I wandered the parlor, looking out the tall windows, watching people walking the grounds outside in the meadow. I watched as a family walked with their son, father smiling proud and tall as they walked side by side, his hand slapping his shoulder every few steps.

There was another family at the tree line, crouching down to watch two young and winged imps play-fighting each other in the air. I wanted to get a better look, so I went to the farthest window in the parlor, but it was still too high off the ground. I stood on my tip toes to no avail. 

There was a large root jutting out of the stone wall at my feet, so I stepped on it to climb just a bit higher. But, as soon as I placed my other foot on the wood, my full weight was too much to bear. 

There was a large Crack! and the dried root cracked from the wall, falling to the ground. I stumbled only a little as I touched the stone floor again in relief, but something was very wrong. The chattering families around me suddenly went silent - all eyes now staring at me. 

I hesitated, then bowed my head slightly, “My apologies -” I started, only to be interrupted by my sister. 

Limenta pulled my face up from my bow, my head in both her hands. Her eyes were wild with fury in a face I had seen many times before. The real Limenta. I held my breath.

There was a sharp SMACK as Limenta slapped my face. She then put my face back into both of her slender  hands, pulling me closer and leaning into me. 

“How dare you be so completely disrespectful,” she seethed in a whisper in my ear, “You have made a fool out of yourself and a fool out of me by association.”

I waited for more, but Limenta pulled her face back, nostrils still flared. Her hands dropped to her side, and she turned away, hastily walking past Mother - who, as expected,  rushed after Limenta to console her on her very special day.

 Maybe she was being easy on me since we had an audience. I touched my hand to my now-hot face and swallowed the gathering tears in my throat. I refused to cry. 

I watched as a white dove flittered to the windowsill beside me, possibly the same that Limenta was conversing with when we first arrived. It paced back and forth, cooing. Was it comforting me? Admonishing me further? I shook my head and apologized once more - feeling more out of place than ever. 

 

The grounds had been cleared and filled with neat lines of wicker chairs while the eager students lined up beside one another in the grand pavilion. A fantastically large tree, more than three carriages wide, spiraled behind a modest broken pillared stage - leaving us all in its grand shade. The stage itself was empty - aside from a tall white crane wearing a golden capped veil resting on a small podium at the center. I had returned to picking at the now frayed embroidery on my sleeve, but Mother was far too anxious picking at her own to notice.

Limenta and the other students beside her were waiting, rather impatiently, to see if they would be chosen by the guardian herself, Herculea, for servitude during the summer season. Each wore the delicate cloth gowns, loose shirts, cotton or linen, in the style of Herculea. Each naturally elegant, sometimes decorated with an accessory of dried flowers or even a bodice made of woven tree bark.  

Only a select few, five or six at most, of the most promising of the class would be chosen to assist with the war efforts as either healers or beast riders in the outer fray of the ghastly Barrens.

The seats began to fill in around us as the families trickled in. I was grateful that the seat to my left remained empty. I sighed and stretched my legs out, still looking down at my feet. I absently put my hand to the side of my face that Limenta slapped. It was still a little warm. Maybe it would be best if she was sent off - maybe then I would see her less. Maybe she wouldn’t come back.

I watched the happy family I had spotted from the window take a seat in front of us. The proud father was boasting to anyone who listened that his son was able to ride a bearded silver wyvern at only eight years old. He then pulled down the corner of his collar to reveal a healed burn scar across his chest.

The lad made the damned beast light me up when I tried to get him to come back inside from playin’ all day! 

The parents around him politely nodded, nervously exchanging glances. I couldn’t help but smile. 

 

That was the first time that I saw him.

 

To my left, sitting alone in the tall grass, chin resting on his bent knee, sat a man. He wore plain, all black clothes, down to pointy-toed leather boots to match his long legs. However, in contrast, he wore an intricate golden mask, with metal golden flowers and leaves delicately covering his eyes and most of his face. Loose chains fell around it and into his dark, wavy hair as it fell to his shoulders. His jaw was pale, sharp, but soft pink dancing at his high but slightly gaunt cheeks.

It was then that he moved, ever so slightly, and I inadvertently jumped with surprise. I was staring. But I couldn’t help it. He was unlike anyone I had ever seen, and I hadn’t even seen his face. 

I leaned forward, placing my head in my hands, resting my chin upon my palms. I was embarrassed. Had he noticed me looking? I took a deep breath and straightened up in my chair, deliberately staring forward with perhaps too much intensity and silently begged for the ceremony to start soon. 

I saw slight movement in my periphery - but dared not look, swallowing hard. My heart started to beat so loud, I was almost afraid that the people around me might hear.

“Is this seat taken?” spoke a low voice to my left.

I turned my head and looked down to see the man, still on the ground, with his elbows on the empty chair beside me. His sharp chin rested in his palms, and there was a sly smile on his rose-red lips. 

My mouth was open, but no words were coming out, resulting in a bizarre choking coughing noise. If there was a dagger beside me at this moment, I would have very well stabbed it through my chest. But alas, the best I could do was shut my eyes tight and give a curt nod. I turned my face away from him, feeling my face grow hot. I was possibly the color of salmonberry at this moment - if not almost purple with embarrassment. 

“I’ll assume that’s a no,” he spoke in the same velvet voice before jumping up to sit beside me. 

He looked awkward, sitting on the small wicker stool. His long legs bent but still almost touched the row of seats in front of us. His arm brushed up next to mine and I felt a static rush cascade into my stomach. 

Should I move away? Should I play coy and ignore it? Should I throw up?

He seemed to notice my discomfort though and crossed his arms in response. I relaxed in relief, untensing my stiff shoulders. Why was I being such a fool? What was wrong with me?

It was then that I felt a cool finger on my cheek, and slowly turned, trying in vain to hide my horror. 

“Who did this?” he spoke, gently tracing the mark my sister had left on my cheek.

But I was not brave enough to answer. I looked up, studying the intricate golden mask, but his eyes were hidden deep somewhere behind the filigree. Was he a student of Selphena? The golden mask was similar to the illustrated ones in Father’s books, but this one was far more intricate than any I had seen any warrior wear before.

And how could he see? Was it enchanted? I could only guess, but part of me was grateful his face was mostly hidden. I would surely dissolve if he was this close to me without barrier. 

Before I could answer, I was snapped out of it by the voices growing around me. The proud father in the row in front of us was now standing - whistling and clapping with enthusiasm. Mother was also stirred from her meditative fidgeting and was shaking my arm.

“The crane is waking up! It’s starting Mira! It’s starting!” she cried.