Page 105 of Facade

The orb began to glow.

Suddenly, Griselda was torn from my grasp. Her arms wrenched free as if an invisible force pulled her away. I turned—but a dark, ancient power had a hold on me. On my magic.

I fought and pulled, trying to escape its grasp, but that orb only blazed brighter, as my magic scraped across every nerve, fighting to stay inside, clinging to me—

It was ripped free.

“NO!” I cried as more of my magic was stolen from me.

Griselda, with a war cry, pushed me away from the orb, both of us landing hard in the sand. I scrambled up to see what had happened, but the orb was gone. And the majority of my magic had gone with it.

29

Evanee

Memories didn’t dance through my mind like a beautiful epilogue to a story. They slammed through, one after the other, jumbling together, each one fighting to take center stage.

One memory cut through from my childhood with my mother at our estate.

Then, I was grown, solemnly walking down dark hallways. Back to swinging from a vine into a pond, my mother screaming at me that I’d ruined my pretty dress.

I couldn’t grasp them—each one a transparent thread I couldn’t hold onto. They blurred into one another until nausea clawed up my throat. In some images, it was as if I were an outsider, observing my younger self sneak through the window out to the courtyard on our estate, practicing with the wooden sword our stableman had made for me—each swing a rush of adrenaline, pretending I was one of the warriors for the kingdom.

I watched myself barely survive my teenage years, changing from awkward and gangly to a young female Gargoyle.

Back to my early days, when I changed forms for the first time, the steel-gray color dulled against my hair and eyes.

I relived my first flight—the rush of air beneath my wings, the strain of lift, the wild exhilaration as I climbed higher. I chased the moon until my lungs burned and my heart felt too large for my chest.

Then the images began to slow down and regain order as they sped forward to my adult years, right up to my betrothal.

I didn’t want to be in the court life. I wasn’t civilized enough for it, despite my upbringing. While other females were fawning over the Prince at the palace balls, I’d sneak off into the armory and admire the different weapons they stored there, along with the different battle leathers they had on display from legendary warriors before my time. Once, I even stumbled upon old tomes that told stories of those magnificent warriors and how, hundreds of years ago, some could wield magic in battle.

I’d seen Aiden at the balls, though I never paid him much attention. Marrying the prince wasn’t my ambition. What I wanted hadn’t mattered in the end.

Soon after our betrothal was announced, the Queen said we'd have a one-year engagement to allow time for proper planning. My mother and I were forced to move to the castle under the pretense that it was for “our safety.”

My mother could visit our estate.

I couldn’t.

Court customs dictated that a betrothed future Queen must reside within the palace walls—a symbol of her new role and dedication to the crown.

Tradition, they called it.

It was a gilded cage, one I could scarcely escape, even to walk the grounds.

Loneliness set in quickly. I became a prisoner to a life I would never have chosen.

Aiden hardly paid me any attention. When we did have our weekly arranged courting, it was strained. He wouldn’t attempt conversation; instead, he’d always be working on something he deemed more important. Like sharpening his sword, reading reports, or whatever else he could dredge up.

I tried to speak to him the first few times—to make the best of the hand I’d been dealt. But his cold eyes would look at me with thinly veiled contempt. So I stopped.

One day, I finally worked up the courage to ask him if I could train. If he would train me. I'd thought it might give us a way to bond or at least build a friendship.

I’d been naive.

He laughed, the first sign of emotion—but it was cruel.