Chimes ring in a cascading melody, but only a black expanse lies before me. I follow the sound, hoping to find their source. Silver mist rolls toward me in the distance, and I know it must conceal something important, though what that thing is, I can’t begin to guess. Something within me – maybe my heart, maybe my soul – urges me toward it, and I listen.

The chimes grow louder, yet their tinkling song remains gentle, like the voice of a breeze. I look around for the instrument creating the music, knowing it must lie somewhere in the sea of mist. I don’t know why, but an intense need to find it pulls at my core. As I enter the cloud of silver, though, heat assaults my skin, and I jump back with a cry.

Where did that heat come from? I don’t see any flames. There’s not even any sunlight. Thinking maybe I imagined it, I reach one hand out cautiously. As soon as my fingers brush the mist, a sudden, invisible blaze scorches them. I clench my teeth, breathing hard from the pain, but keep my hand steady. It hurts, but appears otherwise unharmed.

Then, I realize: This is a dream.

No – more than a dream. Those chimes are too familiar … They must be from a memory.

The great desire to know something, anything, about my past overtakes any hesitation I might have, and I press forward.

The mist surrounds me, and with it, the invisible fire. I feel as if someone has taken a sheet of metal that’s been sitting under the summer sun and pressed it against my body. But hot as it is, I can tolerate it. I must.

The sounds of the chimes grow closer, and through the haze, I catch a glimpse of green. Knowing it must be the source I seek, I dash toward it eagerly.

The object comes into view, and I stop in my tracks. An old, gnarled tree stands before me. It’s not very tall for a tree, and yet its broad, deep brown trunk and myriad of twisting branches give it an air of majesty. Emerald green leaves dance on its boughs, rippling under a slight wind. But I barely notice them, for between them is a sight that makes no sense: clocks.

Where a tree should grow flowers, this one grows clocks. Little silver, gold, and copper timepieces sit nestled in the leaves. A gale sweeps through the tree, disturbing the branches, and the clocks clang into each other. These, I realize, are the chimes I heard. The wind dies down, and I detect the faint tick-tocks created by hundreds of tiny gears.

The heat of the mist continues pressing into me, but I barely feel it as I stare at the bizarre thing before me, dismayed. I thought the chimes would lead me to something that could tell me who I am. Instead, all I see is an image I can’t interpret.

Maybe there’s something more to the tree. I approach it, hoping to get a closer look, but then a wave of mist crashes toward it, blocking it from my view.

“No!” I cry, sprinting forward. I need that tree. A powerful force inside me is yelling that I must find out what it means, saying that if I don’t, something horrible will happen.

Invisible flames bite my flesh, and I do my best to ignore them, but I can’t see the tree anywhere. Even the sound of the chimes has vanished. My heart races with anxiety, and I refuse to believe that I’ve lost it. I must find that tree – and find it soon, before … before what?

The feeling of foreboding tears at my soul, and my anxiety is so great that I can barely breathe. Only mist fills my vision; I sweep my arms, trying to clear it away, but no matter what I do, it keeps pressing against me. A faint ticking sound creeps into my ears, and the great yet inexplicable sense of urgency and fear returns. The noise grows louder and faster, and my heart seems enslaved to its rhythm –

 

I awaken with a start, my heart still thumping. Sweat clings to my skin, and I push back the cloak I wrapped myself in. I’m almost glad for the chilly air, since it brings me relief in my fevered state. Wondering how a dream could have such a profound effect on me, I close my eyes and try to bring back the images I saw.

A tree that grows clocks.

What does that mean? Or was it just a dream? Now that I’m awake, the vision seems even more bizarre, and I feel like a fool for believing it could be anything more than nonsense. How can a tree grow clocks?

I huff, frustrated at myself. I need to remember something real, not the fanciful imaginings of the dreamscape.

A shudder wracks my body, and I wrap the cloak around myself again. The thick fabric brings immediate relief to my frigid shoulders. Looking around, I search for the ball of light the magician gave me for warmth. It sits in the far corner – I must have shoved it in my sleep. I stand, aiming to get it, but find my attention instead drawn to the small window. The rosy dawn brightens the world outside, and its beauty takes my breath away. The snowy vastness glows under the flush of the sky, and golden clouds swirl above in delicate patterns that remind me of lace.

Energy rushes through me, and I feel a smile spread across my face. The Divinity is in the sunrise. Whoever told me that was right, and in this one, blissful moment, it doesn’t bother me that I can’t remember where those words came from. All that matters is that the Ayr of Sunrise, the most joyous of the Divinity’s celestial servants, has once again bestowed her wondrous gift upon the world.

A flash of blue, startling in its brightness, appears in the corner of my eye. I glance toward it and see that it’s a small butterfly, flitting toward me. It lands on the edge of the tiny window and gently spreads its wings. Though they’re translucent, the richness of their color almost makes them glow, and a delicate pattern of black spots line their edges. The presence of this tiny creature is strangely comforting, and I smile.

“Hello,” I whisper. I sense a strong affinity to it, like it’s an old friend, and wonder if wherever I came from was home to blue butterflies like this one.

It takes off toward the sky, its azure wings twinkling under the dawn light as it floats and darts along, and I watch it, envious of its freedom. The sense of familiarity grows uncanny.

I … I feel as if I’ve flown beside it.

I recall the cool breeze against my face and the rush of joy from being above the world. It’s not the memory of a moment, but of a sensation, unattached to images or sounds. The only reasonable explanation is that I’m imagining what it’s like to soar like a butterfly … and yet the strange impression is so potent that there must be more. My nerves hum, and my discomfort grows. What does all this mean? Could I possibly have flown once? But that’s not possible, since I don’t have wings …

Even though the image in my head clearly depicts an ordinary girl, I can’t resist reaching behind me and feeling my back, just in case there’s something to this sensation. But my fingers brush only the bareness of my skin; there are certainly no wings there. Nor the scars that would surely remain if they’d once existed, and I’d lost them.

A rumble in my stomach brings me back to reality, and I suddenly notice how dry my throat is. I turn away from the window, my frustration arising anew. More nonsense! Only fairies, sprites, and ayri have wings. I’m too big to be either of those first two, and to contemplate being an ayr feels like sacrilege. The ayri are holy creatures, demigods and goddesses who maintain the Terrestrial Realm for the Divinity. Even the most powerful practitioners of magic, combining their forces as one, couldn’t capture a celestial being. So how could I even think I once flew?

This rubbish is the last thing I should be contemplating, especially when I have more immediate needs, such as hunger and thirst. Why is it that my head can fill itself with ridiculous notions – like clock trees and wings – but refuses to let me recover a single true fact? Instead of imagining that I flew like that butterfly, I should observe the outside world more carefully, in case there’s anything new in the landscape, or something important I missed in my panic yesterday evening. I start to turn my attention back to the window, but just then, the distant sound of voices floats toward me from behind.

Someone’s approaching the dungeon and, wondering who it is, I scurry across the cell and peer curiously through the bars.

“Remember what it means to be one of us,” a stern, familiar voice thunders from the staircase. It’s the magician – I’m certain of it. He must be standing at the top, because I see only the tip of his shadow on the steps. “Our loyalty to each other is absolute and unbreakable. You swore that oath when we took you in.”

“Yes, Master.” The second voice, bright with youthful energy, belongs to the apprentice. I press against the bars of the window and angle my head, trying to catch a glimpse of either speaker, but they’re too far away. Chilled by the coldness of the metal, I draw back.

My first instinct is to call out to them, but then, remembering how our last encounter went, I banish the thought. For now, it would be better to listen and hope one of them says something that can help me find answers.

Meanwhile, the master continues. “And remember why you came to us. Our kind led the world in peace and prosperity for generations during the Age of Magic, and though the present Age has seen us banished to this frozen wasteland, we will rise to power again someday. With all the dark prophecies in the air, that time is drawing close. A great evil is rising, and once it unleashes its wrath upon the world, we will be the only ones with the power to protect the living. But to gain that power, sacrifices must be made, and reluctance is a luxury we cannot afford.”

“I understand, Master.” Despite this, I sense a tinge of rebelliousness in the apprentice’s tone, as if he’s saying whatever his master wants to hear without believing a word of it.

The magician must sense it too, because he says sternly, “You may think I’m being cruel, or that I’m overreacting to the dangers she presents, but that’s not true.”

He’s talking about me! I lean forward with renewed interest, hoping he’ll reveal some information about why he finds me such a threat.

“I never take action without careful consideration,” he continues. “You have not dealt with her kind before, and you have no way of knowing the risk you take just by speaking to her. You’re not just putting yourself at peril, but opening the gates for danger to attack our entire stronghold. Do not make the mistake of thinking you know better than me.”

“Of course not, Master.” The apprentice’s words are dull, spoken without any real feeling.

Does he not believe the magician? I wonder, hoping that it’s true, that I might still have an ally.

Suddenly a great smacking sound, like a fist impacting flesh, snaps through the air, startling me. “What must I do to make you understand?” the master asks sharply, and I realize, to my horror, that he must have sensed disobedience in the boy’s tone and struck him as punishment. My horror quickly turns to fury, and I wonder again how anyone could be so brutal, and why the apprentice doesn’t fight back.

Meanwhile, silence hangs in the air, and my thoughts teeter between two equally demanding ideas: One, that I should intervene by calling the master out on his cruelty again, and the other that I should remain silent, lest I provoke him further and cause him to take his anger out on the apprentice.

Before my wavering mind can settle on a decision, the master gives a loud sigh and says, “I’m trying to protect you, young one. But as much as I care about you, my responsibility is to the Sorci, and I’ve already indulged you enough. Our laws have stood for thousands of years, and I won’t make any exceptions – not even for you. Now do your job, and nothing more.”

“Yes, Master,” the youth responds, though his voice is too quiet for me to discern whether any of his previous rebellion remains.

Why do you keep saying that? I wonder, shaking my head. Why don’t you defend yourself? I yearn to do something to stop the cruelty I’ve witnessed, but how can I help anyone else when I’m trapped in this cell, and anything I say would only fuel the abuser?

I hear footsteps retreating; the two must be walking away. Why were they heading this way in the first place, if it wasn’t to see me? There doesn’t seem to be anything else down here.

My stomach grumbles again, and my throat is so dry it itches, but though they both shout for attention, my mind is elsewhere, wandering back to what the magician said: “My responsibility is to the Sorci.”

The Sorci. So that’s what they call themselves. Noticing how cold my fingers have grown, I crouch by the ball of light and pick it up to warm them. I stare into the golden luminescence in my hands and ponder the name, feeling like I’ve heard it spoken of before. But I hesitate to try remembering; the memory of the agonizing heat that attacked me yesterday is all too acute.

Then another utterance of the magician’s surfaces in my mind – what he said right after he cast his torturous spell on me: “I will discover your secrets.”

What did he mean by that? He never asked me any questions; is he hoping to … extract information straight out of my mind?

The thought makes me shudder, and I try to banish it by bringing my focus back onto the magician’s recent words, the ones that might reveal something. If I can figure out where I am and why I’m here, maybe I can find a way to get out. Whatever curse keeps my memories bound seems to affect only that which is personal, since I was able to recall plenty about the world. It doesn’t make any sense – why would someone place such a curse on me? What … never mind. I won’t be able to answer any of these questions now, I realize, and I need to keep my thoughts on the ones that I can. So I probe my mind tentatively and contemplate what I’ve just heard the magician say.

He spoke of the Age of Magic, and that, I’ve heard of before. The history of our world is knowledge that shines clearly in my mind. After seventeen thousand years of peaceful existence between all the Divinity’s creations in the Terrestrial Realm, humans grew in ambition, and those who practiced magic used their abilities to seize power.

And they were called the Sorci. The fact hits me like a splash of cold water, and I wonder how I didn’t recall it the moment the magician uttered the word. Centuries have passed since they were overthrown by ordinary humans who, frustrated after six thousand years of being oppressed by the magical, rose up against them with their armies of knights and weapons of steel, which is how our current era, the Age of Thrones, began. People hardly ever speak of the Sorci, and the name largely faded from history, but from what the master magician said, they didn’t die out after they fell. I guess a few of them lingered in this snowy part of the world, hoping to regain power one day.

But what did he mean by “rising evil”? Of that, I have no recollections, though I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve never heard of it before, or because of the curse. And though the idea of the world being consumed by darkness strikes fear into my heart, I can’t help but fixate on something the Sorci master said before that … something about me.

He said that just by speaking with me, the apprentice was putting himself and the entire order of Sorci at risk. How can that be? I’m just a girl, trapped in a cell. I can’t even make a chip in the ice. How could I possibly be dangerous?

What did I do in my past?

I must know. Even if it means learning that I’m a monster, I have to try remembering – no matter what kind of pain the curse causes me. If I do, I might uncover knowledge that will help me escape this frigid prison.

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for the heat, but before I can delve into my head, the sound of footsteps approaches. Eager for the chance to learn something, I open my eyes and spring up to the window, hoping that whoever is walking toward the dungeon will do or say something to reveal why I’m here.

Outside, the apprentice descends the staircase, holding a brown sack, and I watch in anticipation, wondering what he’s coming down here for. His eyes are fixed on the ground, and even though his head is bowed, I find my gaze drawn to his face. What do those knit eyebrows and firm mouth mean? Is he contemplating his master’s words, about me being a threat? Does he regret standing up to him yesterday by trying to help me?

Then I notice that he’s wearing only a dark red shirt and black pants, both of which look as thin as paper – nothing warm. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a pair of taut forearms, and his neck and head are exposed to the cold. His tight jaw and balled-up hands betray the fact that the icy air chills him as much as it does me, though his demeanor is otherwise calm.

Glancing down at the cloak wrapped around me, my stomach sinks in dismay. I should never have accepted it in the first place. Why does my comfort matter more than that of anyone else?

The cloak suddenly seems to burn my shoulders, and I tear it off, hating the fact that it warmed me while its former owner shivered. I must return it – I had no right to take it.

The apprentice reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the stone room outside, approaching me. He raises his eyes, meeting my gaze with his ebony stare. Not knowing whether it’s anger, hatred, or something else clouding his expression, I draw back. Does he blame me for causing trouble between his master and him? Resent me for the punishments he endured? I never meant for any of that to happen, and I sorely wish that I’d never turned my pleas to him.

I reach through the bars with the cloak in my hand, and the black fabric drapes over the window’s frozen edge.

“Here.” Not knowing what else to say, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows crease even further, and then rise as his eyes take on a gentler expression. He shakes his head and continues toward the cell. “Keep it.”

 

Recalling how his master forbade him from speaking a single word to me, I look around frantically. To my relief, I see no one, and I push the cloak further out to let him know that I mean to return it. He shouldn’t go cold because of me.

But he stops before the window, wraps his hand around mine, and gives it a gentle push back. “I’d rather you have it.”

His eyes are fixed on mine, and I realize he means what he says. I don’t understand why he’d act kindly toward me after everything his master said and did to him, but if I insist on returning the cloak, he might think I’m throwing his generosity back in his face. The last thing I want is to offend him, so I pull the cloak back in and give him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He smiles back, and I’m surprised by how much the expression changes his demeanor. When his face was intense with defiance, he seemed like such a fierce young man. Now, with his eyes bright and his lips curved with friendliness, he appears boyish and sweet.

He places the sack on the ledge of the window. “Here. You must be hungry.”

My growling stomach agrees, and I tentatively accept the sack. Before I can do anything else, an angry voice explodes through the dungeon.

“Darien!”

I gasp and turn to the sound. The apprentice, apparently also startled, whirls around.

Seeing who has spoken, my insides tighten. It’s the Sorci master, standing in the middle of the staircase with one arm raised before him, pointing an accusing finger at the apprentice. The boy named Darien takes a step forward and opens his mouth. But before he can speak, the master shouts, “Forth!” and a bolt of red lighting spews from his finger. It strikes the youth square in the chest, and though it vanishes into his body, I know its effects are just beginning, for he doubles over, clasping his arms. He collapses to his knees with his head bowed and his expression contorted with pain, but makes no sound.

“Stop!” I yell. “What are you doing to him?”

The magician pays me no heed and strides toward the other, who remains on the ground in a hunched heap. “I did warn you,” he growls.

A muscle in Darien’s jaw convulses with the effort of his clenching, and a sheen of sweat forms on his brow. He breathes hard, and I know from the agony in his eyes that he must be suffering a curse as torturous as the one the magician cast on me.

“Stop!” I repeat, yet the master continues to ignore me.

Keeping his eyes on the apprentice, he lifts the corner of his mouth in a vague smile. “Good. Very good. You’re doing well, young one. Remember, pain is nothing. Strength is everything. Your endurance is impressive.”

What twisted praise is this? I keep screaming for him to stop, wondering why Darien doesn’t try to fight back. He just kneels there, still but for the subtle spasms in his tense expression. And the master keeps watching with those cold green eyes, his mouth curving into something smug.

Then he flicks his wrist and says, “Cease!”

The boy exhales as if he hasn’t breathed in all this time, and the sudden loosening of his posture tells me he’s been released from the curse. I let out a breath of my own, relieved that he’s no longer suffering. He glances up at the magician, his black eyes hard with a look of defiance.

The older man meets the youth’s glare and says, “Consider that your last warning. Disobey me again, and I will not be so lenient. Now rise, my young one.”

Darien stands without a word, and I try to interpret what his expression – with his eyebrows drawn down and his lips pressed together firmly – means. It’s somehow rebellion and confusion at once, and I wish I could know what he’s thinking.

The master reaches one hand toward him. “Come, my boy,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Punishing you brings me no joy, for it is my goal to watch you triumph, not falter. But it appears the lessons I taught you yesterday weren’t enough to still your foolish thoughts, and I hope that you will take my warnings seriously after this experience. Let us go to the library, where the wisdom of our forefathers will set you straight.”

He claps a hand on the boy’s shoulder and leads him up the stairs. Darien follows without a word, the strange look of confusion still coloring his expression. I watch, guilt gnawing at my heart. This is the third time he’s had to suffer because of me, and I didn’t do anything to help him. Knowing that I couldn’t have because I’m trapped in a cell doesn’t make the knowledge any less painful. But if he resents me for what happened, he doesn’t show it. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he looks back and meets my gaze, giving me a look whose meaning I can’t decipher. His eyes are tilted, as if with sorrow, and yet intense with unspoken purpose, though what that is, I can’t tell. Then he vanishes from sight.

What did that look mean? I wonder. Was he trying to tell me something?

He has a name, a part of me whispers, somewhat accusingly, and I recall what the master had called to him, which I’d almost forgotten in my horror. Darien. Knowing that brings me a hint of gladness. His name might not be a particularly useful piece of information, but it matters to me. Because, little as I know about him, he matters to me.

He’s the only light I have.

A thought whispers: I could use him. He seems sympathetic toward me – if I plead with him, he might be willing to take the risk and help me, even if it means facing his master’s wrath again.

He’s already sacrificed his own warmth for me by giving me his cloak, and then spoke to me even after his master explicitly forbade him to. I didn’t even ask for anything; he must have wanted to bring me the comfort of companionship in his own small way. My guess is that he possesses a deep-seated need to help others, to be the hero. It wouldn’t be difficult to convince a person like him to take his kindness one step further … to help me escape.

The idea makes my blood pump faster as I realize I could make this plan a reality if I wanted to. I could tell Darien that he’s my only hope, that I’d be lost without him. I could even weep, and appear every bit the helpless damsel, in need of a strong young man like him to save me. From the way he stood up for me, I don’t think he’d be able to resist coming to the rescue. And if we’re caught … maybe he’d consider it an honor to endure whatever his master inflicted upon him, as long as he saw himself as the hero.

But if I did that, if I took advantage of him in such a way, what would that make me?

My mind recoils at the thought of intentionally wilting into a tearful fool, of surrendering any dignity I have left to a cold-hearted scheme. It would be all too easy, but every instinct tells me that I can’t use another human being purely for my own gain. If I did, I would truly be the monster his master fears I am. How could I even consider it?

A sharp complaint from my stomach yanks my head back to my immediate needs. I pull open the edges of the brown sack Darien gave me and, seeing a bread roll inside, grab it and immediately take a bite. I didn’t realize how famished I was until now, and I devour the rest with ravenous speed and wash it down with the entire canteen of water.

My hunger satisfied and my thirst relieved, I place the empty brown sack on the floor and pick up the cloak again. Wrapping it around myself, I start to stand, then glimpse a face glaring down at me and yelp in shock. I instantly recognize the Sorci master, standing outside the cell’s window. Terrified that he’ll cast his fire-laden spell on me again, I scramble backward. My heart clenches and hammers at the same time, and I inhale deeply to try to calm it.

He raises his hand, and I cower in the cloak and squeeze my eyes.

Nothing happens. I blink and cautiously turn back to the window. He’s still there, holding his hand by his face. But his snake-like eyes aren’t looking at me – they appear glazed over, as though he’s in a trance. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

Then a warm current of air washes over me. It would have been comforting if I weren’t certain it came from the Sorci master’s spell.

The need for information defeats my terror, however, and I ask, “What are you doing?”

He continues moving his lips, but otherwise remains still. Several moments pass, and I wait. But then my patience grows short. I deserve to at least know why I’ve been imprisoned like this.

I start toward him, intending to tell him so, but barely make it half a step before his attention turns back to me. He flicks his wrist in a circular motion, and I feel myself thrust backward into the wall, the breath knocked from my lungs. I collapse to the floor, my vision swimming and my body aching.

Before I can even look back at him, pain surges through me. Instead of heat, this time, it’s a million tiny claws scratching at my insides, and they’re shredding me, like there are innumerable monsters trapped in my gut trying to tear their way free. I writhe in agony, and my own shrieks pierce my ears.

“Stop!” I cry, barely able to manage the word. I want to say that I’ll do whatever he asks, as long as he lifts this curse, but my ability to speak is lost in my screams of terror and pain.

The invisible claws rip at my flesh, and I’m sure if I were to open my eyes, I’d see my own blood pooled before me. They slash at every inch of my body, inside and out, as if they’re trying to tear the flesh from my bones. The sheer agony blinds and deafens any other perceptions I might have; the pain has devoured my entire being, leaving nothing but my screams.

Then it disappears. Like before, it vanishes so completely that only the tears streaking my cheeks give evidence to its existence. And though I see no physical wounds on my skin, I feel once again as if the life has been drained from me. My limbs are heavy, my vision swims, and my head wants to sink into the ground.

I wipe my eyes and turn to the window, where the Sorci master is still staring at me.

“If you dare try to bewitch my apprentice again,” he growls, “I will bring you such torment, you’ll beg for death.”

His words impale me as powerfully as his spell did, and I shake so much that not even tensing my jaw can keep my teeth from clattering. When I was under that curse, I would have done anything to make it stop. The thought of facing pain like that again – or something worse – makes tears of terror spill from my eyes.

Then anger jolts me as I realize what he’s accusing me of. I never asked Darien for anything – how could the master blame me for the actions of another? How could he punish me for a crime I didn’t commit? My heart cries out at the injustice, and, forgetting my own weakness, I stand and face him.

“I haven’t done anything!” I shout.

He curls his lip with disgust, as if my words are the foulest lies he’s ever heard. “You and your kind are a plague upon humanity! You brought disaster to man in the past, and I won’t let you do it again here.”

“What did I do?” I stride up to the window. My legs quiver, and my head whirls, but I ignore them. “If I’m some kind of monster, then tell me!”

But instead of answering, the Sorci master breaks his gaze and stalks away.

“Stop!” Though I know he’ll ignore my words as he did before, I have to say them. I have to try. “You can’t just lock me up without a reason! Tell me why you’ve trapped me here! Tell me what you want from me!”

The Sorci master continues toward the staircase, and suddenly my anger turns to desperation. I have to know what’s going on here, or I might go mad with the wondering. I grab the bar in the window and pull myself forward until the jagged edge digs into my collarbones.

“Just tell me something! Anything!” My voice feels hoarse from all my screaming, but I might as well be mouthing nothingness for all the reaction the magician gives me. “Tell me who I am! Tell me my name!” My chest heaves with involuntary sobs, and though I inhale deeply to keep them at bay, I can’t stop them from rising. “Just tell me my name!”

“Enough!” His voice explodes through the dungeon, and he abruptly spins to face me, then marches toward the cell with his fist raised.

Terror courses through me, but I remain where I am and clench my jaw in an attempt to suppress my sobs. “Please–”

“Silence!” He cuts me off with his great shout, and a hot gust of air slams against me, throwing me back.

My head bangs against the wall, and the world goes black.