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Today, I was going to burn to death.
That one thought echoed through my mind as I raced through the meandering streets of Varich in the predawn gloom, a paper-wrapped parcel stuffed under my arm and my market bag bouncing against my hip. My dress, stained from where I’d spilled hot wax on it far past midnight, rustled and flapped like a circus tent in a strong wind. I’d given up trying to move silently and lunged into an all-out sprint—which was tricky when juggling a package containing my heavy wedding gown.
Or rather, the gown I’d wear to my wedding. I doubted I’d survive the fire mage marriage ceremony, considering I wasn’t a fire mage.
This thought had kept me awake most of the night, sweating in my bed, considering and reconsidering all the awful ways this day would unfold. As I skittered around the corner beside the Guild’s private club, my eyes traveled up to the single lit window shining out over the empty street. If anyone inside saw my pale face darting by, they’d likely make one of two wrong assumptions: that I’d stolen the item I carried or that I was hustling home after an illicit night out. Either way, if someone was watching, they’d come for me.
And I couldn’t afford to be questioned on why I was carrying a dress the color of ash—the color every woman wore to wed a fire mage.
A faint groaning drifted down the quiet street, and I glanced into the deep shadows under the grand arched entrance to the Guild’s headquarters. A woman was on her knees, offering supplications to the magical elite. The woman, dressed in black, blended in with the shadows.
Heart racing as fast as a trapped mouse, I shoved my hand into my market bag, fumbled for the two apples rolling around, then scurried forward and set them carefully on the ground beside the beggar. She glanced back at me, eyes red from tears, then fell forward again in her rhythmic petitions. My heart sank. The mages who ran the Guild paraded around town like saviors in their color-coded robes and their fancy rings, doing the king’s bidding and ensuring that the rest of us knew our place in life.
“They won’t help you,” I hissed at the woman, as I tried to cram the wedding dress back into my bag. Two months ago, the Guild had thrown her husband in the Labyrinth, a magical prison built by the king, for allegedly stabbing one of the king’s guards; they weren’t about to support his wife, even if she was most likely a widow by now.
I couldn’t afford to loiter in front of the Guild, so I took off down the street once more. Guild members lived above the law in many cases and considered it their fate-gifted duty to assist the lawmen in meting out punishments of their own devising to petty criminals. I wasn’t in the mood to parade around town in a pair of shackles or find a black X tattooed on my hand in the blink of an eye. I hadn’t stolen anything, despite the fact that I was running like a thief in the darkened streets. Mother had paid for this dress with our own money—a testament to how much she wanted me to marry this stranger. But if a Guild member asked, I’d lie and say I just thought the dress was pretty enough to steal, because the alternative to being branded a thief was far worse.
If the Guild discovered I was to be married today, they’d send a representative from one of the magical affinities to observe the wedding. Since the war, all mage weddings were to be witnessed by the Guild, recorded for posterity, and the unions subsequently tracked for any progeny. All mages had to be on record. Birth dates. Death dates. Marriage dates. Affinity Age. Amount of magical blood: full, half, quarter.
And I wasn’t on any records yet.
My affinity hadn’t settled into anything useful yet—the curse of the quarter mage—and if it did, my mother was determined to prove it was fire magic rather than the other magic I might have inherited: mind magic. If I manifested that affinity, I’d be tossed in the Labyrinth before I could say fates forbid.
So, it was burn to death or be thrown in a prison designed to drive me mad. One would at least be quicker.
My legs throttled on toward home while my mind entertained the possibility of running away. But with every hurried step, I couldn’t bring myself to deviate from the well-known roads that would take me to our cottage, where I would don this wedding gown and cart off to the temple to either get married or die. A crackling sliver of hope, as blatant and alluring as a candle in a dark room, the one that told me I’d survive and that I’d finally find my place in this world, pushed me onward…a hope that said, what if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I actually was a fire mage?
A few minutes later, I blasted through our front door, and my mother tossed a disgusted look toward my dirty hem—or perhaps her scrutiny was intended for all of me. My brothers, Archer and Danny, were still asleep in the bed tucked into the far corner, but my loud entrance woke them.
“Out, out!” my mother barked, shooing them toward the door. “Vera must get dressed, and it’s bad luck for a man to be in the building.”
Groggily, my two younger brothers stumbled into the small garden behind our front wall. Archer shot me an I’ll get you later look and shook his head, his long blond hair swishing over his shoulders. Danny squatted down on his ankles and began picking at the weeds between the lettuce and the flowers. Mother shut the door, a little too forcefully, and practically dove for the parcel containing my wedding dress.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No, Mother.”
Her hiss of relief seared my already frazzled nerves.
An hour later, my mother tossed a heavy black cloak over my shoulders, concealing the dull gray lace beneath. She stepped away quickly, but not so fast that I missed the cringe on her tired face.
I pursed my lips. “I will not light you on fire on the way to the temple.” Though if I did, at least it would prove I’m your precious fire mage. The thought weighed heavy in my stomach.
She looked me up and down. “Keep the cloak wrapped tight as we exit the carriage. No one can see you. No one can know a fire mage wedding is taking place.”
“Until it’s over, and I’m still alive, and you can finally celebrate my burdensome existence.”
My mother pinched her thin lips, for once not retaliating. She was, if possible, more nervous than I was today, the day our family would—once and for all—learn which quarter of magical blood truly ran in my veins. Of course, it wasn’t her head that would have a flaming ring of fire placed on it.
But I wouldn’t think about that now. My eyes rolled from one end of our tiny sitting room to the other. Thin curls of candle smoke lifted to the soot-stained ceiling, infusing the room with the faint honey scent of beeswax. The flickering flame danced, impressing me with its loveliness, a cruel reminder that fire could both heal and hurt, light and destroy. A shudder crawled down my spine as I tried to make the flame stand straight. It was the simplest of the fire mage tests…and one I’d failed enough times to know this magic wasn’t in my blood. But I’d also passed twice—forcing a flame to stand erect and still as a sculpture—just enough to call into question my entire definition of myself. Enough to convince my mother that I would be a good wife for a fully trained, fully terrifying fire mage.
This would be the last time I set foot in this house, the house that had raised me. I’d known this day would come, and yet it grated on me, a bit like the scratchy wool of my school dress.
For everyone else, weddings were a cause for celebration, occasions to be marked with friends, flowers, and fine food. My wedding, however, was a secret—unannounced, unadorned, and unaccompanied by food of any kind.
I met my mother’s eyes, but she looked quickly away. Was that a twinge of regret? Or sadness? Surely not. I tried to parcel out what well-guarded emotions might swim in her depths, as this might be my final opportunity to do so. If I could but pull one tear from her eye on this day of our parting, would it satisfy me?
