One

Magic should not exist. It is an impossible science full of incomplete equations and contradictions.

Despite these ramifications, select individuals may opt to tamper with the forces of our realm by using, experimenting, and (or) abusing magic.

Those who tamper with these forces, and the likes of such, will be cursed with a never-ending madness and vast faminie. Heed my warning and do not attempt the following spells, or alchemy in this textbook.

The contents in this textbook are strictly for educating the masses on why magic is dangerous. Do not tilt the balance. The balance will always win. Magic can not exist without consequences. You have been warned."

Chapter One

Ayve Linnet

-beginning of the Great War, start of the vast frost.

My earliest memories are not those of a normal child. A woman holds my hand, frost bitten. I cough, phlegm stuck in my tiny lungs. We walk. I stumble, and the woman holds me tighter. We do not stop. The wind rages on, flurries of ice bustling about and melting when touching my skin. We keep walking.

Eventually, when my knees give way from the excursion, the woman drags me. There had been a time when winter was only a season.

I know that now.

Back then, I thought the cold was simply something that happened to the world. I didn't know that something had changed. I didn't know that the green fields and warm fires I remembered in fragments belonged to a world that was already disappearing.

I don't quite remember before this, before this long walk though.— Except little flashes, fragments that disappear when I try to desperately grip them. So we keep walking. I don't remember for how long. Childhood has no sense of time, and fear makes the picture of memory blur together. Iron gates stretch before us, rising from the pure white around us and they scream when the woman pushes them open.

Hushed arguing voices float above my head. Letters are exchanged along with silver shillings. The arguing stops. The woman, in her thick clothing turns from me. And disappears into the winter. I remember almost nothing about the woman. Not her face, nor her voice.

Only the strange silver under her coat, catching what little light the winter gave us, and the way she squeezed my hand before letting go. It was almost gentle.

Almost.

I wanted to call after her, I think I did. My voice was so weak that the wind carried it away before it could reach her. I remember thinking she would turn around.

Adults always came back for things they forgot, and I had assumed

The next thing I remember is soft, kind hands. Finally, I'm addressed. "Let's get you warm, my little sparrow." Then, the kind hands scoop me off the ground and carry me into a candle lit dark brick building.

It smelt like boiled cabbage and stale bread, but I fell deeper into the hold. At least someone was holding my frail, bruised, body kindly. As though I belonged to something. "You're the youngest we've gotten in a long time, baby bird." She said, splashing my face with warmed water. I don't speak. I don't think I know how.

A tattered rag is drug along my face, scrubbing the cold dirt from the crevices of my person. "I know this probably scary, little one. It's alright to be frightened, my name is Liora."

She continues chattering to me, meticoulsy cleaning the skin the she can. After, she scoops me up and briskly walks to a room full of empty, well-cleaned cots. She lays my shell shocked body down, and tucks me in.

“Ayve! Baby bird! Please come help me wrangle the kids!" Liora yells from the kitchen, and I slide in my socks across the tile.

I playfully roar, and chase three snot nosed trouble makers away from her smock. She sighs, and continues mixing the sourdough she's attempting to make. "Thank you, my dear finch."

She replies, turning to me as the three children dangle from my arms.

Begs and whining fill the warm air as they all simultaneously ask me to play tag. I laugh, nod at Liora, then dart away from the kitchen. The pitter-patter of small feet trail me as I tightly turn corners. When they catch me, the tallest among them wraps himself around my shoulders and dangles. "Get her!" He yells and the other two grab my legs, taking me down into a pit of giggles.

Liora, our matron and caretaker, peaks her head from the doorway. She laughs at our little group and warmth blooms through the room. "Leave my big girl alone, you heathens!" She demands, continuing to laugh. Her attempt at sounding stern failed through her laughter.

A hearty aroma floats through the space, everything is as it should be, in my little orphanage. My home. The one place I remember kindly.

Sometimes, when the memories became too much, too loud. I hid beneath the stairs. Away from it all, the freezing memories of the past fragmented— but there regardless. Like a dagger concealed in a sleeve, gleaming in the moonlight.

Liora always knew where to find me.

She never asked what happened, never demanded I come out and finish my chores. She would simply sit on the floor beside the little gap beneathe the linoliem stairs and slide a mug of water toward me.

"You don't have to talk, baby bird."

Then she'd sit there. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes until I fell asleep.

Faces that once seemed so clear have faded around the edges. Voices have become distant echoes. Sometimes I wonder if some details I invented entirely.

I think about the past often, especially now. Especially when I'm grown, and the past is out of reach with blurry faces of those who cared for me. All I do is think, lost in a sea on the rickety sailboat that is my mind. I think about the wooden spoon Liora would use to swat at me when I snuck out.

Now, cold mud seeps into my wool socks as spit flies into my face. The barracks are an unforgiving place. "Are you ready to die for Illarion, solider?!" Is screamed in my face and I respond in agreement.

Twenty-three other recruits are locked in a human-chain, linked at the elbows as we do sit-ups in succession. Commanders and drill Sargent's yell at different people that seem to be struggling.

I was eighteen when the enlistment letter arrived, I read it three times. Not because I didn't understand it, but because I did. Everyone in the orphanage knew what the letter meant.

The war had been taking boys and girls from villages for months. Now it had reached our door. Liora cries. I hated seeing Liora cry. She sobbed for hours. "Not my baby bird," She wailed as she scrubbed the dishes. I remember feeling guilty. Everyone expected fear from me, but what I felt was stranger and much more complicated than just fear.

Our matron always had the terrible habit of starting chores when upset. She was far from a mother but she was still terribly kind, to a fault.

Basic training was the hardest thing I ever faced. Our kingdom needed soldiers and we were gathered by the masses and shipped to different training grounds across our nation of Illarion. "Commander Rellan is such a hard ass." Tomas, another recruit says, as he shovels gruel into his mouth. I push mine around on the steel tray.

"Like—" He chews through his words and I cringe, "He says 'Do blah blah blah' and then I do that, and he's still mad!" The woman he's talking too— Silas, I think her name is, laughs then responds. "That's because you never actually do what he's asking you half-asser."

Tomas looks down at his tray, continuing to eat, now in silence. "That shut him up." She says to nobody. I scoup the cold mush reluctantly into my mouth and swallow thickly without chewing. I'm not even sure what gruel is, but I resolve when I have my own life and things to cook, I'll never eat it again. My stomach turns at the sight of it.

My arms ache, and every other bone or muscle in my body screams at the simple mundane task of eating.

I wish, in this moment, for heart faliure.

Then, when the thought leaves me I chuckle to myself. It isn't so bad here. At least my tent is warm at night. That's more than most have since the war became worse.

Most of my people had little to begin with, now the vast majority have nothing. The war has always desecrated our vitality but it's never been this bad in all my short seasons. From what I've heard of the rumors floating through the weeds of the training barracks, Valaria launched a full force attack on the border. Word had been sent from the king that they needed all eligeable members to immediatly enlist. No room for argument, and no questions asked.

Of course, as all loyal subjects, we listened complintly.

I almost hate it, the compliance. The orders, all of it. But how could I wholely and truly hate the place I grew up in? The place I was born to. The simple answer is, I can't. I think I won't ever fully hate this place, Illarion Is my home.

Things are easier when you have orders to follow, and a commanded direction to go to anyway. "Are you excited for our first excapade?" The girl down the table from me states.

I nod, even though I'm entirely sure she's talking to me.

"Silas! Leave the redhead alone, she's obviously trying to eat." a voice sounds, next to Tomas, Alden remarks— he repeated his training for a second year because of some injury he doesn't like to talk about. Tomas snorts, "The redhead? She has a name, man." I hunch lower, shoving more mystery food in my mouth to avoid entering the conversation that's directed around me.

"Shut up, you don't know her name either!" Alden shoots back, shoving Tomas' head with his open palm. Tomas swats his hand away.

"I could!" He replies and Alden reaches over, continuing to bat at him. "You couldn't!"

"I could ask!" Tomas keeps bickering with the other, pushing back and forth. "You definitely won't, you big coward!" I keep eating, pretending very carefully that none of them are talking about me. Or, at me.

Beyond their bickering, raging war waits for us. A fear we're not ready to face. Yet, we have to be ready to survive. Our kingdom expects us to be prepared, to live to see another day. I can't bring myself on wasting time bantering with others. If I have to be a soldier, then I'll be the best soldier Illarion has ever seen.

Before I can finish my meal, chow time is over as quickly as it started.

Conversations around the hall seem to die all at once, as if never existing in the first place.

I swallow the thick remanents that were stuck to my molars, and chairs squeak as everyone files out of the chow hall. Outside, the weather is mouthy and unforgiving. It isn't like the weather I remember from my childhood, it feels more wild, almost aggresive. But, this is only the forever winter, ordinary and familiar. After weeks of stiff sleeping blankets, even the plain winter feels cruel.

"Cadets." Commander Rellan stands in front of us as we get into our expected formation. "Very soon, you'll attend your first mission." He paces with his hands folded behind him, his expression unreadable. I'm not sure if we'll be reprimanded or given a pep talk. "Or second." Tomas mumbles toward Alden and they shove eachother a couple of times, laughing amongst themselves quietly.

I close my eyes for a minute, and listen to the mud and gravel crunch beneath my commanders feet. He speaks again, "You, my humble recriuts, need transportation. So today, is our equine choosing."

My breath catches in my throat, my very own horse.

My horse. The words sound unreal, that something could be truly mine. And then I correct myself, it won't be mine. The horses are Illarion army property.

Still, it's the closest I've come to properly owning something. I've borrowed things, sure, even stolen. But nothing comes quite so close as this. She— or he, will be in my charge. To care for.

Rellan signals my platoon to follow, and we march in syncronized steps with his lead. "You've spent months learning the ends and outs of battle, training your bodies to endure impossible conditions. Now, you have to train your horses to listen to you. They have to bond with you in order to be battle-ready."

A part of the grounds that was previously prohibeted comes into view and excited murmurs float through our tight crowd. I have to admit, I chatter to Silas softly. Not even I can deny how thrilling this is. A smile slips through the hardened face of our commander.

Then, reacing the splintered barn doors he unlatches it, and pulls the door on the right open. We nearly stumble over eachother to get first pick, only to find we can't actually choose our own horse. They've been assigned based on temperment because, of course they have.

It's the army after all, why let people have the choice? I walk past the stables slowly, reading the namecards and corresponding recruit names. Shiro; Lelino. Kenai; Vixen. More stables, and more notecards that don't contain my name. Irisha; Ethos. Feena; Silas. I sigh, as people excitedly gush over their new steeds. A very pissed off horse catches my attention— he's shoving at the dirt, and huffing loudly as he half-bucks the back of his stall with his right hind leg. I glance at the name-card and have to force myself to swallow my laughter. Hayes; Tomas.

Just his luck. In the very back, I finally find my own card. Branwen; Ayve. It reads, and I look from the card to a chestnut brown mare. Her eyes bore through me, colored of an endless night vacant of stars. "Hi there, friend." I say timmidly, and she eyes me silently. I don't expect instant trust but I was silently hoping for a little less intimidating staring. Then, she rises from the corner of damp hay she was laying on and slowly approaches the stall gate.

I think we're about to have a moment that's picture-perfect, before she pulls her gums back and she nips me. I yelp and pull back from the gate, next to me, Ethos laughs. "I don't think she likes you near her bed, Ayve!" He says casually and I give him a weird look.

I don't know how people do that, speak to others casually like they've known me their whole lives. It's the littlest bit unsettling. It conveys trust that has no foundation. I've never spoken to Ethos before— in fact, I learned his name today. So many things about the public slightly disturb me. I give my horse an even stranger look.

She gave no signals of distress that I could read, and moved suddenly. I hoped this new beast in my care would quickly bond with me but nothing can ever be easy in the kingdom of Illarion. "Do you mind?" I say to Ethos. He laughs again and shakes his head "Not one bit." He gleams at his own sarcasm.

At the orphanage, you learned that above all things, people are never permanent. Some kids were adopted, some were exchanged. You never knew what roster of kids would be rotated through the weeks. "You're supposed to bond with her, not stare at her." He put his two silvers into my business again. "No, really? I thought this was bonding!" I retort. "Nopeee, that's staring! And she doesn't seem to like it." Ethos finishes, turning toward his own steed.

"I want a different horse." I decide aloud. "You can't have a different horse." He says back, I huff. Grabbing a grooming brush, and some treats. I chose carrots as my weapon of choice and I silently pray it's the correct weapon for this particular battle. An angry horse is nothing to take lightly.

So I brace myself and slowly open the stall door, sliding my body in sideways to prevent the wild-thing from attempting to nose her way out of the enclosed space.

"Are you gonna work with me or against me?" I say to no one, eyeing the horse as I offer a carrot-bit. Branwen lifts her gums, and I accept the fact I'm about to get bit again when she gingerly takes the snack from my hand.

Surprise coats my face but I recover and go to brush her.