In the fairy realm of Solaria, by the waterfall and the woods, stood a castle. Every fairy with sense sent their children to Alfea, the only educational facility in all the realms that turned out model fairy citizens.
Farah Dowling, headmistress of Alfea, took great pride in that reputation. She’d sacrificed enough to uphold it. She wouldn’t let anything harm it now.
Her pride in Alfea was why she’d decided to host this Orientation Day, perhaps against her better judgment. She considered the page before her and crossed out the words “and changelings” because really, they were enlightened and modern fairies. Changelings didn’t happen in this day and age! Then she put down her draft of the “Welcome to Alfea” pamphlet for Orientation Day and slid out the secret letter beneath so she could give it one last look.
Usually, she let her assistant handle the paperwork. She’d hired a human assistant because she wanted to show people humans and fairies working together in harmony, but it had emerged that Callum wasn’t good for much besides keeping the filing in order. Farah wasn’t sure what to do with her secretary. He had somewhat of a chip on his shoulder.
She knew one thing. Callum wasn’t allowed near this letter. Nobody else could see it. When it came to records on Rosalind, the former headmistress of Alfea, Farah Dowling took matters into her own hands.
She had carefully hidden all traces of Rosalind, but evil had a long, strange harvest. Farah could toil every day for years doing good deeds, wiping out the stain of what had come before. Yet the old darkness lay beneath every surface she tried to clean. Sooner or later, it found its way through the cracks in the facade and spread like oil.
This time evil had come in the form of a scrawled note of Rosalind’s, unaddressed and apparently never sent, tucked away in a book of magic long left unopened. Today, Farah had slid out the paper, yellowed with the passage of sixteen years, and felt her heart jolt on recognizing the writing. She’d received so many commands written in Rosalind’s spidery, forceful hand. She had killed on Rosalind’s orders, back when she was young and a soldier. Even now, Rosalind’s words made Farah want to spring into action.
She had sneaked away early this morning and, by flickering torchlight, pored over the letter alone in the abandoned East Wing. Rosalind’s language was cryptic, but Farah knew how to decipher her meaning. Rosalind hinted at something precious hidden in the First World, that strange land where the humans lived and electricity served instead of magic. Knowing Rosalind, whatever she treasured must be either a magical prize or a terrible weapon.
Perhaps both.
After careful study of the directions in the letter, Farah had retraced Rosalind’s long-ago steps, and narrowed her search down to a place with the bizarre name of California. Then she had asked a friend for help with tracing magic—and gone back to work with the guilty secret like a stone weighing on her chest.
Now Farah stood at her desk, stowed the scrawled paper away, and walked out into the halls of Alfea. The heels of her sensible, laced shoes echoed against the stone, and her hands were shoved deep in the pockets of her trench coat. The students scattered as they heard her coming, their laughter lingering behind them.
Farah had never been the warm and fuzzy type. She’d set up this Orientation Day because she knew that when she showed parents and students around the school, she seemed distant, and she wanted everyone to feel welcome here. If she invited all the potential students to their school at once and gave everyone a chance to mingle, it might be easier.
Sometimes, as she watched students racing around Alfea, Farah was sorry for her natural reserve. Farah had mastered many fairy magics, but she’d been born a Mind Fairy, a rarer kind of magic that could discern feelings and dip into thoughts. People seldom wished to be close to Mind Fairies, and it could hurt Mind Fairies to be close to them. Long ago, Farah had learned to keep her distance to protect herself and others. No matter how lonely that could be sometimes, it was a lesson she’d never been able to forget.
Farah
looked around Alfea with the affection she didn’t know how to show her students. Water Fairies with their magic manifesting in shimmering blue droplets. Air Fairies making their atmosphere vibrate. Earth Fairies filling the world with fruit and flowers. Light Fairies illuminating the sky. And Fire Fairies with the power to warm any hearth. Fairies with other, rarer powers, too. And the Specialists, Silva’s charges, who protected all the rest. She understood why Rosalind had collected protégés. If any one of those bright creatures ever felt the urge to come to her, Farah would teach them all she knew.
Only she didn’t want to be like Rosalind, to lure students in and use them, and she didn’t know Rosalind’s trick of winning followers to her side. So Farah maintained her distance, and smiled to herself as the students ran by.
Once she had been as young as they were now. They had all been young, her friends who loved one another with bonds forged in battle. Two fairies and two Specialists: Farah Dowling and Ben Harvey, and Saúl Silva and Andreas of Eraklyon. But Farah and those dear friends had never had the chance to be truly young. They had been a team of elite soldiers, trained to be ruthless in the elimination of evil. Their leader Rosalind had made certain that they were iron.
At the time, Farah had been proud to serve. She hadn’t questioned Rosalind’s training until it was too late.
Now her nightmares were not about the monsters she had fought, but the monstrous deeds she’d done. Now Farah’s only goal was that the students of Alfea never become what she’d become.
She wondered if she should tell Saúl or Ben where she was going. Perhaps she should ask one of them to come with her. She emerged from the carved oak doors of the school and looked down the tree-lined avenue, to the twin lakes where the Specialist students learned the art of war from the best soldier Farah knew.
Saúl Silva stood, arms crossed and blue eyes narrowed, watching a pair of students spar. One student was clearly winning. Farah recognized Sky’s fair hair, but she would have known who it was by Silva’s face alone. To an outsider, Silva might only look stern, but he’d been her comrade for a long time. Farah could see the pride on his face as he watched the boy he’d brought up.
She could do this alone. She shouldn’t bother Saúl.
She
wasn’t like her old friends. Andreas was dead and past needing anything. Ben had his children to love. Saúl had Sky, Andreas’s child, to protect.
What Farah had was Alfea. She had both no children and many children. She was responsible for every soul in Alfea, from their haughty young princess to the humblest fairy. She would never let anything touch the golden youths of this new generation.
Whatever weapon or treasure Rosalind had hidden in the First World, Farah would find it, and destroy it, and come back in time to conduct the orientation celebrations without a hitch. Farah would do whatever it took to make sure every soul in Alfea stayed safe, and happy, and innocent.
SPECIALIST
Alfea was the worst place in the world, and Riven was miserable. The only thing he was learning at school was how to get his ass kicked, and he’d learned this lesson long ago. He felt he was ready for his PhD in being a total loser. “Wow, Dr. Riven,” future losers would say. “You’ve truly made failure an art form. Inspiring. I can’t wait to read your flop thesis.”
It was nineteen minutes until the end of class.
Riven faced his sparring partner bravely for approximately one second and then dodged the strike of Sky’s staff, hitting the platform hard with his shoulder. Sky laughed heartlessly and beckoned Riven to his feet, not even breathing hard. Riven gritted his teeth. Sky thought he was so much better than Riven, just because … he was so much better than Riven.
The spring air still had a bite to it, ruffling the dark surface of the lakes their sparring platforms were suspended on. Tender new leaves rustled on the oaks and the copper beeches, stretching massive branches above their heads. Riven was freezing in his sleeveless Specialist uniform. He cast a yearning look toward the benches on the bank, where he’d left his nice warm hoodie and his cool leather jacket.
“Keep at it!” barked Specialist Headmaster Silva. “Never admit defeat!”
But all Riven wanted to do was admit defeat! Yeah, Sky, you can kick my ass. Yeah, you can do it over and over. Do I even need to be here for my humiliating defeats any longer? Can’t I just carve my face on a log, you tip the log over, and then we call this done? All the
other Specialist students could point and laugh at Log Riven, and Riven could go for a nature walk.
Sky’s staff connected with Riven’s, hard enough to send a jolt through the bones of both Riven’s arms. No nature walks for Riven.
Riven didn’t understand how the novelty wasn’t wearing off. Like, was Sky not bored? Riven was bored.
It was fifteen minutes until the end of class.
When Riven had come to Alfea at the start of the year, he’d self-consciously hoped his roommate would be cool. Riven wasn’t the Mr. Popular type, but he’d envisioned having a small gang of friends to hang out and judge others with.
Once he actually saw his roommate, Riven realized his wish had been granted and his fairy godmother had actually gone way too hard on this one. His roommate was much too cool. Abort. Abort.
He’d seen Sky around, at military contests and training for Specialist hopefuls. They knew each other well enough to nod to when Sky went past to collect medals. Riven hadn’t felt good about the Sky situation from the first moment, when Riven saw Sky’s heroic jawline and fancy hair. But at Alfea, Riven was stuck with Mr. Hero, and he decided to make the best of it. Sky seemed nice enough, so Riven thought maybe they could make being roommates work. Possibly even be friends. Riven and Sky stood together awkwardly during the welcome party and watched a blonde in a glittery power suit ordering around her fellow students as if they were her minions.
“Heh,” said Riven. “Get a load of her. What a princess.”
Sky gave him a funny look. “She is a princess,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Sky, “she’s the daughter of Queen Luna. The ruler of Solaria?”
“Oh,” mumbled Riven.
Sky coughed. “And, uh. She’s my girlfriend.”
“I’m gonna stand over there now,” announced Riven, and went over to a stone archway where there were some interesting vines. He communed with the vines for a solid hour.
Sky went over to join Princess Unbearable, whose name was apparently Stella. The princess laid her hand upon Sky’s arm and beamed around the courtyard, her pride of possession shining as bright as the magic lights dancing around her glossy blonde head.
So
the party was a bust.
Then during their very first lesson, Specialist Headmaster Silva—a man with terrifyingly direct blue eyes that never blinked—told Sky and Riven to spar and hold nothing back so he could evaluate their skills.
Sky gave Riven two black eyes and sprained Riven’s ankle. Headmaster Silva said that Riven had actually sprained his own ankle in his rush to escape, but the black eyes were definitely Sky’s fault. By the end of the first class on their first day, everyone had Riven’s number, and it was real low.
To do him justice, Sky apologized that night after lights-out, although he’d laughed while he did so—as if he found sprained ankles hilarious.
Riven was still trying to get on with his roommate, so he waved a hand dismissively. “It’s whatever. I’m not that into this whole soldier-boy thing, anyway. Nobody ever asked me if I actually wanted to be a Specialist.”
Sky seemed lost.
“Swords are cool,” Riven elaborated, “but the whole idea of perishing to protect the realms is a lot. Like, what have the realms ever done for me, exist? Wow, guess I’ll die. And what does it matter if you go out like a chump, or like Andreas of Eraklyon? You’re still stone-cold dead.”
Sky stared at him blankly. “Andreas of Eraklyon?”
Riven was pleased that his perfect roommate didn’t know everything, after all. Andreas of Eraklyon was practically a poster boy for Specialists, a hero of the war with the Burned Ones a generation ago.
“C’mon, you must have heard of the dude. Soldier who led forces against the Burned Ones, those creepy monsters we used to have hanging around the place. Andreas is very famous. Also very dead.”
“I have heard of him. He was my father,” said Sky.
“Argh,” murmured Riven. “Well, that’s incredibly awkward.”
Sky nodded, hero jawline tight. Right, he’d probably inherited the jawline.
“What do you say I put my head under this blanket,” Riven suggested slowly, “and I just don’t come out all year?”
“Okay,” said Sky.
Riven pulled the blanket over his own face and stared despairingly at the darkness.
That
put the last nail in the coffin of getting along with his roommate. Riven was counting the days until his first year was over and he could room with someone else. Anybody would do.
Until that happy day of release, Headmaster Silva appeared to have decided Sky and Riven were a matched set, and he paired them up to spar together every day. The sparring sessions seemed endless, but now the end was nigh. It was so nigh Riven could taste it.
One minute until the end of class!
Sky struck and Riven managed to dodge. Another session with no black eye, score.
“You’re really getting—” Sky began.
“Would you look at the time? It’s get-the-hell-out o’clock already!” said Riven, and got the hell out. He went rolling lightly off the platform, down the bank, and away from Sky, the training platforms, the Specialist headmaster, and the Specialists’ Hall.
He hated the whole landscape. The airy mountains, the rushy glen, the high hilltops ringed with white mist. The fairy realms where soldiers had once stalked monsters, swords cold silver in the woods and beneath the pale moonlight. Silva was trying to make them into troops who would all charge into battle together without question, ...
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