Shattered Line

Chapter 12: Magic Theory

Morning brought the sweet scent of roasted apples, churning out ethereal streams of cinnamon. The smell wafted through the living quarters' thin floors, upstairs to Isla. The enticing smell provoked a rumble from her stomach. She sighed from the sound, and took another whiff, savoring the aroma.

Her eyelids fluttered open with daylight flooding the room. The bright rays trailed kisses across her face, immersing her eyes into an acute war of wills. Isla conceded, turning away to relieve the burning ache. She rubbed the soft flesh beneath her eyes and relished in her soothing touch.

Adjusting to the golden light, she swept her hand into her hair. Her gaze latched onto the white ceiling, and the cracks forming in the corners.

She was in Arcadia. The thought lingered.

How long did she have before her father's men chased her down? A day? A week? The tension rolled like thunderous waves through her stomach. Nothing would prevent their arrival.

Isla shook away the encroaching beast that frayed her nerves. Time was far too important to spend it in constant debate with oneself, she knew better. Create a new seal and get out. Her plan remained unchanged, even with Rein's return.

Arcadia's magic archive: how big and how vast was it? Their wealth of magic theory should contain grand, complex spells, untested from the sheer absence of aura. Large amounts of aura—she laughed at the proclamation. Yes, her aura far exceeded the Seraphines. The moment she lifted the seal and exposed her soul she witnessed how oppressive her strength was.

Isla raised her hand, spreading her fingers wide. She imagined her raw aura cocooning her soul and how a poke jostled the delicate setting. The white ball unfurled into wisps, the tendrils whimsical. She pictured a strand loosening and extending outwards. With a flick, she twisted the glowing fiber around her arm and towards her fingertips. Her aura complied without hesitation. A single precise thought and the energy spurred to life.

Fire ignited—a small, reddish-orange flame, no larger than a lit candle wick in the middle of her palm.

She felt no heat or pain. Instead, her blood boiled, and a smile teased her face.

Magic was empowering. Dangerous, but trustworthy. This sight incited strength and potential, revitalizing her determination to set her father straight. Who needed a sword when she was her own weapon.

Isla rolled the flame from one fingertip to the next. She concentrated on her aura, communicating her desires. Each action was crisp. Each thought conveyed. Had it always been this easy?

Willing the fire to disperse, she dropped her hand to her side.

This aura came from the Gods. Their conquests were buried in her body and etched into her memory. They killed her while ignorant of her status as one of their kind. Why—because Gods destroyed those weaker than them. And she was one of them. How twisted did reality have to be?

And what about Rein, did he see her differently?

He didn't flinch nor tense from her race. Instead, he defended her honor and bequeathed his trust. If anything, his actions shocked her.

Isla rolled out of bed and stretched her limbs. She brushed a hand across her hair and separated the snarled strands. Her boots squeaked as she reached for the sprawled cloak lying forgotten on the ground. With a single motion, she threw the cloak on and draped the heavy cloth hood over her hair.

She paused at the door, her hand encircling the brass knob.

Still, why was Rein here?

His words about Seraphines sprang to the forefront. Never trust them, Rein had told her, they're no better than the Gods they lambast.