In the great halls of the Forever Palace, stood an elven woman with braided hair that flowed like dark wine, her pale green eyes affixed to an embroidered scroll she held in her hands. It was the one-hundred-and-sixtieth year of the war, and Yara Ellewyn was ready to join the battle. 

Across from her was a lumbering man, her mentor. While she measured at a respectable, if not short, height of six-foot-five, her mentor towered over her at almost seven feet.

She set the scroll down on the soft straw mat that had been prepared for the Rite of Proving. All the knowledge of the old magicks was held in that roll of parchment, and she had read it time and time again. Long nights, since she had been a youngling, had been spent poring over every letter of that manuscript. If she could pass both final tests, she would be allowed to head out into the field and join a long line of sisters who had gone decades before her. 

As the gilded curtains swayed in the breeze, she played out the fight in her mind, considering possible routes. He would surely anticipate her opening attack, bringing up a spell shield to block against her conjured flame. But she would feint, launching the fireball higher than expected, then she would close-in to mount an attack that would break through his raised shield. 

An efficient method, using the least amount of magical energy. 

Her mentor grinned, showing one of his gold teeth. “Ready, Ellewyn girl?”

“It’s Yara,” she said. “You’re taunting me to rile me into making a mistake. But I know your tricks, and they won’t work.”

“Ah, I tried,” he said, holding out a slender blue ribbon. “When this hits the floor, we shall begin.”

He let it go from his scarred hands, and the ribbon slowly floated to the ground. The moment it landed, Yara smirked, an orange flame flickering to life on the tip of her finger. It would expand into a sizable ball upon release, which was…now! 

When she went to toss it, nothing happened, and the expected sphere merely fizzled out instead, leaving a thin trail of smoke. 

She blanched at her failed spell, her mouth slightly agape. By then, her mentor had already prepared his own attack, a wall of flame that traveled across the floor. She leapt out of the way, but then met with a fireball to the face that had been pre-aimed at her subsequent position, and she crashed to the mat in an embarrassing show of defeat. 

Should have predicted the follow-up and had a spell shield ready, she thought. She lay there, sprawled out on the floor, puffing out her cheeks, then released a heavy sigh. Her mentor walked up to her, leaning forward and offering his hand. She didn’t take it, standing up by herself. Dusting off the front of her training outfit, which consisted of a slim-fitting cotton jacket interwoven with flame-resistant magewood fibers over a quilted gambeson and textured coal-colored trousers that were tucked into sacred plant-leather boots. 

Yara nodded at the captain, flexing her arm a bit to ready herself for the upcoming test.

“Right, physical combat trial next,” she said, walking across to the wooden rack to grab her weapon—a slender sword that was built for fast, precise strikes. The thin form of a salamander, painstakingly carved from sturdy magicite, ornamented her pommel.

She grasped the sword in her hands, forgoing the combat analysis this time.

Her mentor dashed at her, bringing his blade down in a swift strike.

Yara sidestepped to the right, swiping away his hand with her offhand, then thrusted her sword. She hit him square in the stomach, his magical barrier rippling in a sheen of prismatic colors, then kicked him away. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she said.

“No matter how good your combat ability is, magic is the most valuable skill. You should be focusing on that instead of wasting your time with physical training.”

“I am…” she muttered. “That’s all I’ve been doing—reading those books and trying to cast a damned spell.” 

"You know what they say...an elf without magic is like—"

"A fish without fins. I know," Yara replied bitterly. 

“I don’t know what the issue is. Your sisters were all very skilled at—”

“It didn’t help them in the end, did it?” 

Her mentor took a sharp breath. “My apologies, my lady. I overstepped.”

Yara walked away, not saying a word. 

~~~

In the dim light of her room, Yara huddled with a blanket, her eyes glancing across the pages of a thick tome. She had gone back to the basics this time, hoping to find some sort of clue on how to work her magic. 

Elven powers stem from the elemental creatures of old, divided into three foci. 

Channeling the salamanders allows us to wield their raging fire, while undines grant us the flow of water, and gnomes the strength of earth.  

Each focus gives us unique skills, though it is best to devote energy into the mastery of one focus before moving on to the others. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yara grumbled to herself. “But I can barely channel any of them, let alone master them. Maybe my link is broken.”

Arcana, the etheric fuel used to power spells of all sorts, was found easily and freely in the Dreaming, within the bodies of its residents and suffused into the air itself. In the human realm, arcana was much less pervasive—only found in living things and sometimes through subtle leaks or tears in the veil that separated the Dreaming and the physical world. Fae, elves and other beings were attuned to the unique properties of the spiritual realm, and magical abilities came naturally to them—as easy as breathing, to the point that some could cast a spell near instantaneously at the “speed of thought.” And yet, she couldn’t even prepare a rudimentary ball of flame within the count of ten. 

Time and time again, it had been drilled into her head that an elf without magic is barely an elf at all. Her mentors, her sisters—before they had left for the war—, housemates and even maidservants had chided her for not being able to grasp the fundamentals of flame magic, what her house was known for. One’s basis as an individual relied heavily on how well they could wield magic, and the most prestigious houses boasted some of the strongest casters in society, while the lower rungs and families were not much more than outcasts with poor affinity to the elements. Sometimes she wondered if she had been born to the wrong house, the wrong family, the wrong place… 

Then the door swung open, bringing in the warm breeze with it—and the dazzling light of the courtyard. Yara squinted as her pupils adjusted to sudden change in brightness, covering her eyes like a gloomy vampire. 

“Put the books down, friend!” said the high-pitched voice of her maid, Priscilla. “You won’t be needing those anymore.”

“Hm? Why not?” 

“The war’s over.”

The fae were known to kidnap babies to replace them with their own deformed children. The elves had been battling them for almost two centuries, hoping to regain control of the Elder Wyrd Tree—the source of magic in the realm, and a site for our most important pilgrimages. The tree’s canopy spread over hundreds of miles, dwarfing even the largest of human settlements. 

Yara reeled at the news that was dropped so casually. After a hundred-and-sixty-years, the war had ended. Mustering the only word she could, she asked, “How?”

“There’s to be an alliance. You’re set to marry the prince of the fae as part of the peace treaty.”

“The prince of the what?” she asked, looking at her with shock clear on her face. 

“Um, the fae. You know…the people we’ve been—” Priscilla said, shying away a bit and avoiding eye contact. 

“Of course I know. That’s why I’m concerned,” Yara said. “I thought I was supposed to marry Petyr? He doesn’t talk much at all, and he minds his own business. Definitely my type—quiet and out of the way.”

“Mm, yeah, that’s been canceled,” she replied, pushing her fingers together awkwardly. 

Yara furrowed her brows. “Why me? Can’t my cousins marry the little pixie prince?”

“Pixie is a derogatory term. We won’t be using that anymore to refer to the fae,” she said. “And, uh, your cousins died in the last major battle. So that just leaves you.”

“I could have been out there with them if I were actually allowed to fight,” Yara said, glaring at her hands, which were balled into fists. “Maybe I could have made a difference. But no, I’m useless without magic.”

“Condolences, m’lady,” Priscilla said. 

“No one even wanted to marry me except Petyr,” she said. “And now I’m to be married off to the fae of all people? They’ll make me dance until I die.”

“It’s likely, in all honesty,” she said, then shook her head really quickly. “I mean, I’m sure it will be fine! They might not be as bad as everyone says.” 

“Yeah…I’m sure,” Yara said, tears welling in her eyes. “Please leave me be.”

The maid nodded, backing away slowly and closing the door behind her. 

Yara held her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. She had worked so hard, and for so long, and yet…she was about to be shipped off into enemy territory like some sort of peace offering.

The fae took my world from me. They took my sisters, my friends…and now they want to take me too.