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My tone must not be very convincing since she says, “You are cross—I can tell. I’m really so sorry, and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
I suppose I should say something, but I can’t find the words. I stare at her in disbelief.
She wraps her arms around me in an apologetic hug, but I feel numb. The arena’s stone walls loom over us, casting their shadows in every direction.
I manage to place an arm across her back, but that’s all. As much as I don’t want to hurt her feelings, she forgot my birthday.
She releases me from the hug, and I step back, unable to look at her. “I’ll see you later,” I say, drawing aether around myself like a blanket.
Eliya wrings her hands together, guilt visibly gnawing on her. At least she knows she has done wrong.
I close my eyes, picturing my home in as much detail as I can: the enormous gates, the luxurious gardens, the glistening stone walls of the manor itself. When the image is fully formed, I release the aether and let it spiral from my grasp.
“Laxus!” I say, and the teleportation spell washes over me.
I drift away, leaving behind aether dust to scatter across the empty arena.
Two
ThoughIhavecastthespellthousandsoftimesbefore,apartofmeisyettobecomeaccustomedtothewayteleportationfeels.Inonemomentyou’restandingonsolidground,andinthenextyou’redriftingthroughthefoldsoftimeandspace.It’sasifyou’refloatingthroughsomethingmoreliquidthanairbutlighterthanwater.Thatsubstanceis,ofcourse,aether.
When teleporting a few paces away, the spell is over in the blink of an eye and the peculiar sensation is much less noticeable. But when traveling from one side of Nolderan to the other, the teleportation takes far longer, and I am shrouded in darkness for perhaps ten seconds. It isn’t the same darkness as night, not even a moonless one. I suppose it’s closer to being locked inside a deep cavern. Prior to learning this spell, I never knew absolute darkness.
When my teleportation spell is complete, the first thing I feel is the solidness of the ground beneath my feet and the stability it provides. The second thing I feel is the late summer breeze brushing over my cheeks. Even after fully materializing, I remain in darkness for several heartbeats.
Finally, violet light pierces the void. It sketches the enormous gates guarding our manor, complete with our family crest: a shield featuring two winged lions roaring at each other, their manes fanning out like wildfire. Our family is known for its special affinity to fire spells, earning us the surname Ashbourne. And I won’t lie: Fire spells are definitely my favorite sort of magic. Our preference goes back a thousand years, when Nolderan was in its infancy. It’s well recorded that an ancestor of mine, Alvord Ashbourne, inventedignir’alas, the spell of fiery wings which Kaely hurled at me during our duel. I hate that she has mastered the spell so perfectly, while mine is far from flawless. At least the inferno itself isn’t lacking in ferocity.
The light drafts out the gardens beyond the gates and the tall chimneys of our manor. It also outlines the buildings behind me and the street I’m standing on.
When the aether finishes sketching the most intricate details of my surroundings, the darkness dissolves into a world of rich color.
I stride over to the gilded gates, and my attention falls onto the magnificent lion crest. Aether hums across the metallic bars, and the golden highlights shimmer like threads of sunlight. I place my hands on my hips and raise my head. The movement hurts a little less than before. It seems Archmage Gidston’s healing elixir is finally starting to kick in.
“Reyna Ashbourne,” I announce to the gates, my voice loud and clear.
The aether barrier flashes, and the gates swing wide open, recognizing my voice and permitting my entry.I step through, and once I’m on the other side, the gates clang shut behind me.
Rainbows of bright flowers decorate the gardens. My mother has tried many times to teach me the names of all the species she grows in our gardens, but I never remember any of them. Except for roses, tulips, and pansies—and maybe a few others I can’t think of right now.
My mother plants the flowers herself, entirely by hand, and even uses a shovel rather than an earth spell. When I was younger, I sat on the grass and watched her labor and then asked why she didn’t use magic since it would complete the task in a fraction of the time. She replied, “If we use magic for everything, then life itself will lose its magic.” I didn’t understand her words then, and I still don’t. Especially since she doesn’t even water our gardens by hand.
Enchanted buckets sweep up and down the flower beds, sprinkling droplets of water across the vibrant petals. Unlike the gates, which have their enchantment powered by Nolderan’s Aether Tower, these buckets will eventually run out of magic and fall to the grass. The water inside them isn’t conjured, either. That comes from the fountain at the center of our gardens.
Once my mother has painstakingly planted the flowers with her own hands, they are maintained by our reptilian servants. In case you’re wondering, that isn’t a metaphor. Our servants are quite literally reptilian. Though they might be closer to what one calls pets than servants, or perhaps something in between.
These creatures are known as faerie dragons and called the island of Nolderan their home long before my ancestors did. But they aren’t like actual dragons. Rather than fire, they spew tiny balls of aether when agitated. They’re also the size of a cat, with azure scales and amaranthine butterfly wings. Faerie dragons are easily domesticated since they will do absolutely anything for aether crystals, and conjuring aether crystals is effortless for magi, even for useless adepts like me.
As I walk through the gardens, one of the faerie dragons darts past me and almost knocks me over with the empty bucket it clutches in its tiny talons. I pause and watch as the faerie dragon continues to the fountain to refill its bucket.
The fountain is made from marble and is twice my height, with three tiers from which the water cascades. An ornate pattern is chiseled into the edges and reminds me of frills.
Once the bucket is refilled, the faerie dragon flies back to its colorful flowerbed. I hold out my palm, and though the gesture is small, the faerie dragon immediately takes notice. It lowers the bucket onto the path, and water sloshes out and spills over the sides, but the faerie dragon doesn’t care. Its butterfly wings flutter as it swooshes over to me.
The faerie dragon hovers above my palm and lets out an impatient yelp. Greed glints in its jewel-like eyes, and its velvety maw nudges my fingers. Delicate antennae tickle my wrist.
Despite the abysmal day I’ve had so far, I can’t help myself from laughing. “Are you really that hungry, Zephyr? Has my mother not fed you at all today?”
Though faerie dragons are unable to vocalize any syllables, they understand every word of our language. Zephyr bobs his head in the most unconvincing nod I’ve ever seen. Faerie dragons are notoriously difficult to tell apart since there’s little variation in their size and shades, but I’ve never had any trouble distinguishing Zephyr from the rest of our reptilian helpers. His temperament always gives him away.
