Chapter 1

Seraphina.

As we are walking to the festival I catch the eye of something old, powerful, strong. Then the vision fades and I am returned to the present. My hands move mechanically to check that my veil is secure.

“Do you think you’ll win?” says a small voice beside me.

“Probably not,” I reply, turning and smiling behind my veil to my sister, Ivy. But something within me stirs to suggest I may be wrong.

Ivy, only nine years old, has a somber but determined look on her face as she scurries beside me carrying a satchel of paintings. She’s too young to be this serious, but her life has been one hardship after another.

The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and the underlying tang of anticipation. My heart quickens as we approach the fairgrounds. It’s more than just an art competition at stake today — this is a chance for a better life for me and Ivy.

There’s something eerie in the light, some presence that keeps tugging at my attention as Ivy and I set up my paintings for display. Passers-by look at my covered face with curiosity.

I shudder at the memory of our escape from our last village. I never want to put Ivy in that kind of danger again. So my veil stays on tight, concealing this face that drives people to insanity.

“What fine work, girl!” belches a fairgoer behind my shoulder. I turn around with a shudder, knowing what will come next. “—and such pretty eyes too!” He is bald, fat, and already drunk at midday.

“Thank you,” I say coldly, busying myself with the booth. He crowds in closer, peering at my face, glancing up and down at my body underneath its loose garments which cover me from head to toe.

“Girl!” he barks, “show us your face love!”

“I’m sorry, sir—” I begin in the polite yet firm tone reserved for men, but before I can finish a clear voice cuts in:

“Leave her be, man.”

The drunkard looks up with an astonished look. “Of course sir!” he sputters on seeing the stranger. Behind the drunkard is a lithe man, of unclear stock, dressed in an unembellished black cloak of fine quality. Clear gray eyes peer out from a face with ambiguous features.

“Don’t mind him, mademoiselle,” says the stranger. “He’s just curious.”

“They’re all curious,” I say and then catch myself. Turning to the stranger, I dip my head in gratitude. “Thank you for your help sir,” I say calmly.

“Please don’t bow, miss,” says the man. He is looking intently into my eyes. He is… is he recognizing me?

“Do I know you, sir?” I say trying to discern his intentions.

“Who’s this, Seraphina?” chirps Ivy, who has just returned from fetching a meal of two simple rolls.

“I am nobody,” says the stranger, “but I know who your parents were.”

“How… what —” I stutter in fright, but before I can respond a chorus of bugles drown out my words. The royal procession into the festival has begun, and the crowd seethes to greet the King and his son, the Prince. In the shuffle, the gray-eyed, dark-clad stranger has vanished.

It’s the annual summer festival of Celestria, our home for only a few short months. So far the common people don’t hate us, and the noble people haven’t noticed us. Celestria is the capital of the vast empire ruled by King Dione Thornheart. It’s the closest Ivy and I have ever been to this type of prestige.

The procession parts the crowd like an ocean. Dozens of knights on horseback and a battalion of mages are followed by palaquins carrying ladies of the court swathed in silks of every color. Drummers, trumpeters, and a chorus of singers follow. Finally I can see the king astride a white stallion. His eyes are hard as steel, and his robes are the color of iron. And then, behind him, I see the prince.

The crowd is deafening, completely enthralled by the display of pomp. But I can’t hear a thing. I can’t control my gaze as it points directly at the son of the king.

Riding a black stallion, the prince’s mind is clearly far away from the crowd. His blue eyes stare into nothing, and his jet-black hair ripples gently in the wind. His clothes hang deftly over an athletic body. He can clearly handle a horse, and probably the sword that dangles from his hilt.

I watch his face as it moves through the throng, watch his eyes move absently, and then, all of a sudden, I watch them meet mine.

Our eyes lock. One instant, one split second, and that same feeling from earlier, a flash, a shudder—

The crowd roars. I return to earth, to the wall of sound from the thousands upon thousands of subjects of the realm venerating their king.

“Did you see the Prince?” yells Ivy into my ear. “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

“No,” I yell back. But Ivy is a clever kid. She’s seen the look in my eyes, and smirks without believing me. “Shut up!” I yell over the din.

The day progresses and the sun climbs over Celestria. There are games, feats of strength, and music. The royals are ensconced in their dais high above the common crowd. And Ivy and I wait for our chance.

One by one the esteemed artists of the court visit our stall to judge my paintings. Their eyes pass over my work with interest which grows the longer they look. Some of them linger quite a while, looking into the worlds I’ve made. They look at me questioningly and I can nearly read their thoughts — why is she covering herself? What does she have to hide?

Everything, I think. But I don’t allow my eyes to betray a thing, and I stand straight and firm. I am simply trying to survive in a world that hates us.

One of the judges, a short man of fifty with a curious air and sumptuous amber robes, spends nearly twenty minutes looking at one of my paintings. His gaze turns to me and I hear him inhale sharply.

“Miss,” he says in a stuttering voice, “where did you learn to paint like this? And your veil—”

“My mother was an artist sir,” I say quickly before he can ask more questions. The less anybody knows about me the better.

“She certainly taught you well, Miss—?”

But before he can say more a nervous-looking young man carrying a scroll taps the judge on the shoulder. “Sir Greenhaven, it’s time to announce the winner,” he says quickly.

“Thank you, Cedric,” replies the judge, giving me another long look before turning away.

Minutes pass. Then the bugles blast for the umpteenth time today. An amplified voice shouts for silence from the crowd, and then proclaims that the judges of the Celestrian Guild of Arts have made their verdict. My heart is beating in my chest.

One chance, one opportunity for things to work out for once.

“The winner of the Celestrian Guild of Arts Medal for exceptional talent is—”

No more fleeing, no more hiding.

“Seraphina Darkwater!”

That’s my name! I’ve won!