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  Ervine moves closer to his son and pulls both him and Zuri into a tight hug, allowing Aya to pull her hands free. His eyes meet hers, full of gratitude and something else. Something that scares her.

  The villagers huddle closer; sounds of awe and echoes of Zuri’s words of thanks fill the air. The children rush forward, investigating Petri’s leg.

  Aya knows if she meets every pair of eyes of those around her, she’ll see the same look in Ervine’s eyes.

  A look of utter and total devotion.

  Chapter 3

  Standing, Aya smiles down at the small family. “No more climbing trees for a while, Petri. I may not always be around to help.”

  Petri’s head nods against his mother and father, wiping away his tears.

  A young girl in the group of children turns to Aya. “But you’ll never leave us, will you?”

  Aya feels the weight of every eye on her. Everyone waits for her answer, but a sudden wave of lightheadedness surges through her. Mircien is there to steady her before the rest notice.

  “Enough, everyone. We’ve bothered Aya with unpleasantness enough for one day. Return to your mornings.” Mircien pulls Aya away before those closest can bother her.

  They walk back past the homes towards the center of the village where there is more space from the crowd and to breathe. Mircien leads her to a large well, helps her sit on the edge, and brings her a cup of water. The wave of lightheadedness passes and the dizzy, dancing spots of light fade from her vision.

  “Thank you,” she says, implying both the cup of water and the escape from villagers.

  “I should be thanking you.” Mircien sits next to her. “I know the looks in their eyes can be...overwhelming. But your magic is a great gift. You have a natural talent for it.”

  “As natural as going in blind can be,” Aya scolds between gulps.

  “You were not completely blind. Iria saw to that.” Mircien pats her, sensing the discomfort. “Your parents would be proud.”

  “I like to believe they would.” She stares at the cool liquid. Her thoughts darken as she thinks about her parents. She remembers the illness that took them from her when she was seven, three years before her own magic manifested. They were the village healers; no one had been able to heal them as their magic ate them from inside.

  Mircien places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know they would. And they would never want you to blame yourself for what happened. The illness that took them was borne of their magic. Even if you’d had your gift, you could have done nothing.”

  “We’ll never know that for sure.”

  “They knew it.” Smiling weakly, the elder takes a deep breath. “Though I’m not sure they’d understand why you choose to live so far from the village.”

  “I appreciate everything everyone has done for me since my parents passed, but they already treated us differently because mother and father were Healers. Once my own magic became evident, it felt as though I became a stranger to them.” She turns, staring into Mircien’s eyes. “I’ll never forget how you and Iria took me in and treated me like your own daughter. But living outside the village...I feel less like a rarity for everyone to ogle at.”

  “You are as much a part of this village as anyone else,” Mircien says. “They treat you differently because they respect you as a Healer. Before your parents settled down here, there hadn’t been a magic user in this village for many generations. We felt blessed they chose our small village as home. They believe you carry on their good luck.”

  “The looks in their eyes say otherwise,” Aya says, turning away and finishing her water. She spies a figure sitting against the well, almost hidden by a bush. “Iria?”

  The figure jumps at his name and slowly stands. “Aya...Mircien.”

  The two elders meet each other’s gaze and a silent understanding passes between them. Aya remembers the look from her years living with the two.

  “I must be going,” Mircien says, locking eyes with Iria. “Tell her. I know it weighs on you.” She leaves, hugging Aya before heading towards her home.

  Aya places the cup on the edge of the well. “Should I ask what she meant?”

  Iria avoids her eyes, an expression of shame clear on his face. He lowers onto the wall beside her. “I’m sorry, Aya. I forced Mircien to send for you.”

  “I nearly passed out from the strain.” Anger tints her voice.

  “I know, but—”

  “The coldness of death came back.”

  “I understand—”

  “If I’d needed even a speck more magic to heal him...”

  Iria places a finger to her lips. “I’m sorry. When I saw the extent of his injury, I knew the only thing I could do was force it back into place. There was too high a risk of doing more damage and laming his leg permanently.” Iria removes his finger and clasps his hands in his lap. “I couldn’t do that to a child.”

  Aya hesitates, trying to find the strength to stay angry at him. But she feels his anguish and stays silent.

  “You healed him?” he asks. “Fully?”

  “Yes.”

  Iria’s shoulders relax and a shaky, relieved breath escapes his lips. “Amazing. Your magic is growing.”

  Lowering her eyes to the ground, Aya kicks a rock between her feet. “I dreamed about Petri’s fall.”

  “When?”

  “Last night...or maybe this morning? I fell out of the same tree and broke the same leg as Petri. I felt the pain and while I was healing him...it was the same pain.” She turns to Iria, her eyes wide with fear and a little excitement. “I knew I could heal him. I knew because of my dream I’d be able to heal him.”

  He searches Aya’s face for something, but she can’t tell what. Perhaps wondering if she’s gone mad. “The same as Ollie?”

  She nods. Several years past, Aya dreamed of her finger breaking during a home repair. The next day she went with Iria to visit Ollie who’d broken his finger in a similar accident as in her dream. She managed to heal his finger even though before the incident the only things she could heal were cuts. When she told Iria about the dream, he wondered if her magic had been telling her she was ready to try mending bone.

  “Mircien would be furious with me if she knew I was about to tell you this,” Iria says, moving closer to Aya on the well. “She doesn’t want to believe it, but I understand the resignation you have about the villagers. She doesn’t truly see the way they look at you. But I do.”

  Standing, Aya shakes her head. “Don’t say it.”

  “They idolize you. To the point of near blasphemy to the gods.” Aya tries to walk away, but Iria moves quickly, grasping her wrists. “And the illness that took your parents...you still fear it will come for you if you continue to heal others.”

  “Iria, please.”

  “You shouldn’t be a captive in your home or in your heart, Aya. Remember this, the fear inside is what creates the illness.” Iria pulls her close to him. “And the nightmares feed the fear.”

  Aya stares at the sweet, sentimental old man, feeling the fear rise. “Why are you saying this?”

  Realization crosses Iria’s face and he releases her. “Mircien refuses to speak of these things. I just—I needed to get them out. Please, forgive me.”

  “I have to go.” She walks away, then stops and turns back to Iria. “I haven’t had the nightmares in several weeks...but I have seen the looks in their eyes. Maybe...it would better if I left the village altogether.”

  Before Iria can respond, Aya leaves, moving quickly. She heads east, avoiding most of the villagers, and spies two small shacks used to store food for winter and mark the edge of the village. Beyond them, a single path leads into the forest. She follows it a short distance before checking if anyone is following. Confirming she’s alone, she turns sharply into the forest, the village behind her slowly disappearing amongst the trees.

  The forest grows dense as she moves away from Oula Village, escaping the feeling of being trapped. Her path grows steadily steep
er as she approaches the base of the surrounding mountains. She climbs uphill with an ease that comes from years of practice, though her clothes still occasionally catch on low branches and thick bushes.

  There hasn’t been much human interaction in this area. No clear paths are visible, but Aya knows her way. A sharper incline forces her to use her hands to maintain balance, and she grabs large rocks embedded in the earth to pull herself forward.

  She reaches a rock wall, a minor cliff she uses to guide her way. Aya follows the wall around until she finds boulders larger than herself and uses these massive stones to climb higher. Reaching the top of the cliff, she rests a moment to catch her breath and glances around the open area.

  Thick bushes grow where the forest continues higher up the mountain, but on one side of the clearing a waterfall flows, creating a small pond surrounded by ash trees.

  Aya walks to the edge of the cliff. Foula Valley is bright green from the rains, and clusters of wildflowers add delicate splashes of color. Farther out in the valley, the Garen River cuts through the mountains. Other villages dot the distance.

  She’s spent her whole life in the valley, never going beyond the mountains towering high above. Her parents weren’t from Foula Valley and rarely spoke about their homeland. Aya didn’t know the name of their village or town. She didn’t even know if they came from a village or town. When they did speak of their past, it was always with an air of caution and little to no details. They spoke of the dangers of bandits or, worse, slave traders, citing these warnings as the reason they left to find a more peaceful home.

  The farthest Aya’s ever been from Oula Village is a larger village, Goro, almost a day’s walk away. She remembers staying at an inn and the innkeeper, a warm man who spoke with Mircien like an old friend. He asked Aya many questions, eager to learn about the Elder of Oula Village’s little protégé. She remembers asking him what that meant, but the innkeeper only laughed.

  She went with Mircien a short time after her parents died. The elder thought it would help take Aya’s mind off her sorrow. It worked, but only because there had been travelers in the village from beyond the valley.

  She remembers wondering if they’d come from her parents’ homeland, but she didn’t know enough to ask. Instead, she asked about those with gifts like hers, other magic users. They told her of the variety of magic beyond the valley and how there were many rumors of those with power enough to destroy the stars. And rumors of those who used their magic for evil things.

  Mircien dragged her away, claiming the travelers were exaggerating, trying to frighten her.

  It never frightened her. It made her yearn for other magic users to talk with.

  She tries to visualize the lands beyond the mountains, based on what she’s heard from the travelers, wondering if she’ll ever see great mountains disappear into the sky, vast seas continuing into the horizon for eternity, or fantastic creatures only imagined in dreams. Her argument with Iria wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned leaving the village. But it is the first time she’d left an argument without smoothing things over.

  The smell of wildflowers surrounds her as a warm breeze rises from the valley. She smiles and sits next to the rippling water of the pond. She traces the cool water with her hand. The sound of the waterfall soothes her, and Aya notices small, white fish swimming close to the center. She picks a red berry from a nearby bush and throws it to the fish. They quickly devour it, leaving behind a spot of red in the water.

  The red in the water sends a chill up her spine. It reminds her of the recurring nightmares she’s been having since she was a child. Especially the nightmare from two nights ago.

  Chapter 4

  I know the light can’t chase them away. They are here, always here, always watching. Standing still as statues and always watching...me.

  Shadows. So many shadows looking at me as I move among them.

  No features distinguish them, at least, none I can see. They’re only shadows. What defines them is where and how they stand. Most cluster together, stretching far into the distance, making an ocean of shadows. Some tall, some short, some oddly shaped, and others—appear almost human.

  Walking through the endless rows, I hear whispers, indistinguishable. Occasionally a solitary word rings clear, but I can never recall it. Where there are no whispers, breathing or laughter follow me, sending chills through my body.

  But two always stand above the others, oblivious to me. Oblivious to everything around. They’re the closest in shape to men and, unlike the indefinable shadows surrounding me, they have eyes.

  One’s eyes burn with a white flame. The other’s are so black they stand out even against the dark of its body.

  I know this place, these shadows. I’ve been here many times.

  But this time there’s something new. Symbols appear above each figure, each familiar, yet unfamiliar, composed of different entities.

  One close to me is made of ice, vapor rising around it. Another burns, the flames dancing. Curiosity outweighs any discomfort and I move closer to these figures, feeling nothing from the symbols. No heat, no cold.

  Exploring these additions to the familiar shadows, I discover one made of metal, another of leaves. One made of light, another of darkness. And so on, and so on, and so on. Thousands upon thousands, stretching far beyond my sight.

  The world shakes, drawing my attention to the two above. The two who remain oblivious to all. They don’t have symbols. But before them, standing in the distance, four figures appear. All have symbols floating above their heads.

  One figure before White Eyes has a symbol made of a strange light. It pulses oddly, moving forward and in reverse. The symbol grows and shrinks as though breathing with the sound of wind.

  The second figure has a symbol made of the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire mixing together as though living things. But the fire is the strongest, swallowing the other elements when they move too close.

  I’m drawn to the beauty of the mixing elements, sensing the sadness and pain within the figure feeding the symbol.

  The feeling disperses quickly when I see the symbols of those on the other side.

  Chains slither up and around the figures standing before Black Eyes. The chains connect the figures not only to Black Eyes, but also the symbols above them. One figure has a symbol made of black shadows and smoke.

  But it’s the second figure’s symbol, made of a dark liquid, that sends a chill through me. Spikes on the chain tear into the figure, drawing blood that rises to the symbol, mixing with the liquid.

  Red droplets fall to the ground around me. I notice the others moving away from the blood. I feel something, too. Fear. Growing dread. This shadow with chains and blood is unnatural. This entity shouldn’t exist.

  The dark spots grow at my feet, the tiny droplets expanding to create a small stream. The stream grows, becoming a red river, blood rising. It separates me from the other shadows, trapping me with the six figures above.

  I feel eyes on me and stare up at the figure with chains, the figure with shadows, and Black Eyes watching me. The chained figures raise their hands, reaching for me. The chains fly through the air towards me, blood dripping from the metal.

  Then I wake up.

  * * *

  The water from the waterfall stops; silence fills the clearing on the cliff and Aya snaps out of her reverie. She looks at the waterfall, the boulders still wet from the water. Confused, her eyes are drawn to the red spot on the water from the berry, steadily growing larger.

  The water of the pond turns red and murky, making it impossible to see beyond the surface. Even the fish are hidden from view. She pulls her hands from the pond, her eyes locked on the fluid now rolling down her arms. The red liquid is thick, and a metallic smell fills her nostrils.

  Her breathing quickens. She tries wiping the familiar liquid onto the grass around her. Aya knows this smell. She knows it from the many injuries she’s witnessed with Iria.

  Blood.
r />   A faint sound echoes across the clearing, coming from the pond itself. She searches the surface of the water, trying to see beneath the dark liquid. The center of the pond bubbles as through someone were releasing air beneath the thick red liquid. Something moves beneath the surface, creating small ripples in the blood.

  The sound of chains rattling fills the air and her heart pounds loudly in her chest. Terror roots her to the spot, the movement in the blood slowly inching towards the edge of the pond, towards Aya.

  She wants to back away, but her body refuses to move. She doesn’t want to know what’s beneath the surface. She wants to escape. She needs to run.

  Then the surface stills, whatever is beneath seeming to disappear deeper in the pond as the rattling of chains stops.

  The muttering sound of the breeze rises, but she doesn’t feel any wind. As it intensifies, she realizes the sound is actually whispers. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of whispers so low they blend together. But she almost hears a clear pattern of words, repeating over and over.

  She leans forward, angling her head so her ear is close to the surface.

  I’ve found you.

  A hand explodes from the blood, sending a wave of red splashing onto the grass, spattering the bushes. Aya screams, throwing herself back as the hand grabs the empty air where she’d been. The shock fills her with energy, and she scrambles to her feet.

  The sound of rattling chains precedes the feeling of something cold and sharp grabbing her legs. Aya falls to the ground and rolls onto her back. Blood-soaked chains wrap around her ankles, steadily climbing higher up her legs. Spikes dig into her skin, adding her own blood to the living metal.

  She cries out in pain and reaches down to the chains, trying to free herself. The pain fills her body, her senses screaming at her to escape.

  The chains tighten and pull her towards the pond where a form crawls from the bloody surface. A trail of red follows the figure as it moves closer to her. When near enough, the creature grabs her legs and roughly pulls her closer.