POWER [ONC 2024]

Prologue

Rory

Aurora was all of eight years old when she first saw a Sparkblood.

He was flying through the air as if he owned it, his long cloak fluttering around him like silken yellow wings.

The Flameseeker.

To her young mind he looked otherworldly. Magical. Able to transcend gravity and the dust of the earth, graceful and elegant in a way no mere Normal could ever hope to be. He was handsome, too, in a sharply chiseled way, and his clothing was beautiful, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and trim waist, the whole back of his royal blue flight jacket embroidered with the gorgeous golden eagle crest of a City Council official. He was bedecked with more gold than Rory had ever seen in one place. Golden threads gleamed in the details of his jacket, gold studs glittered in his ears, and gold rings winked on his fingers.

As Rory watched him, she was oddly aware of her own heaviness, and her skinny farm-child body felt like a sack of potatoes, lumpy and dull and brown.

Then he landed, he and his entourage of pages and assistants and aides and soldiers, all alighting in the middle of the town square like shiny blue and gold geese coming in on a lake.

Rory's father snorted in that way he did when he thought something was ridiculous. 

He hadn't wanted the Flameseeker to come, and had been muttering about the needless expense ever since he received the message from the District Chieftain that King's Fork was to expect a visit. Not that he could have done anything about it. He was only the Ranger.

Now everyone was out there, gathered to meet the Flameseeker for the first time in almost a decade. Well, all but old Biddy Carrel, who was already in bed, but every other man, woman, and child of their small Outer Rind settlement had assembled in family groups at the edges of the square, fidgeting and silent.

Rory thought everyone looked like they were going to church. A little ways away, her best friend Laura was wearing her nicest pinafore and skirt.

Rory hadn't escaped being dressed up, although she didn't appreciate it as much. Rory's Mum had made her wear her good go-to-meeting dress and a pretty ribbon in her braid.

Mum and Rory's thirteen-year-old sister, River, had baked a whole tray of fruit pies that morning, too, which they only did on big occasions. But it wasn't a Sunday potluck, and the food wasn't for them.

For several moments no one moved.

The Flameseeker glanced around at the six dusty, worn-out shopfronts that faced the square, and the single row of old printablock houses beyond it, his expression decidedly unenthused.

Everyone stared at him some more, waiting.

Rory wasn't sure what they were all waiting for, but she was hoping for fireworks. An explosion or two would be awesome.

There were no fireworks.

The Flameseeker heaved a long sigh of annoyance and rolled his eyes upward as if searching for patience among the puffy evening clouds he had just descended from. Then he rolled his eyes back downward, raising both eyebrows. He widened his eyes. Finally, "Well? Who is in charge in this place?"

Superintendent Kilgore suddenly stepped forward as if propelled by some force behind him. "Me. I. I am in charge," he announced, both of his chins wobbling. "Superintendent Kilgore, sir. At your service. We have prepared a feast. For you. Here!" He gestured toward the trestle table behind him, heaped high with the goodies that every family had brought.

The Flameseeker pursed his lips, his perfectly trimmed eyebrows still near his hairline. Then he sighed and rolled his eyes upward again, mumbling something that looked like, "Norms and their obsession with feeding everyone." Aloud, he snapped, "Fine, yes, whatever, let's get this over with," then lifted his hand and twitched his first two fingers.