Lyrael crouched on the outskirts of the clearing before her, about fifty feet away from the Border. Still, she felt nothing. The section of the Border she was near was smack in the middle of a large clearing and originally, she wanted to cross it beneath the cover of trees. In order to do that, she would have to travel a few miles north. 
     Anwel’s trail was fading every minute, being blown in different directions by the wind. 
     She had limited time. 
     Slowly, she began walking toward the invisible barrier. 
     As soon as she stepped across the Border, a wave of pressure gripped her abdomen, like something was wrapped around her waist and it was being pulled from the other end. With each step she took, the pressure intensified, steadily building within her. Ten feet beyond it, a jarring snap reverberated through her mind, causing a sharp slice of pain in her chest. 
     The unbearable pressure surged, overwhelming her senses. 
     Power washed over her and forced her to her knees. 
     Heat ignited in her chest, like dry timber caught on fire. Images began pouring into her mind, each image only lasting a fraction of a second before flicking to a new one. 
     A figure clad in white robes standing on the balcony of a tall tower, their mouth open, as if they were speaking. 
     A gray-haired Elven woman wearing a crown, cradling what seemed to be a still child, her cheeks stained with tears. 
     A human woman with brown hair, clutching a small bundle to her chest as she darted through trees. 
     A man, who looked awfully familiar from behind, digging a grave in the middle of fall. 
     Another figure, this one wearing a black cloak, kneeling on a hill before a beautiful kingdom, a bright white castle standing proudly in the distance. 
     And finally, a human man—no, an Elf—with pointed ears and emerald eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the mist-laden forest that towered behind him. He was the most beautiful creature Lyrael had ever seen. And he was holding a sword aimed toward her, Elven script embedded along its sharp blade. 
     Nothing else followed. 
     Lyrael crumpled to the ground and disappeared into the tall, withering grass. 

⋆˙⟡ ☾ 𖤓 ☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

     “Tay, look!” a small, squeaky voice yelled, waking Lyrael with a gentle start. Her eyes fluttered open and her hand came up to block the afternoon sun from her eyes. She turned her head, and her gaze fell upon a child that squatted over her. 
     A child with pointed ears. 
     A child with sharp, violet eyes that almost seemed to glow. 
     A child with long, golden blonde hair that shimmered pink in the sunlight. 
     Elves. 
     “No, please!” Lyrael begged loudly as she scrambled backward in the grass. “Please don’t hurt me!” 
     The young girl squealed and ran away, hiding behind another child, an older boy with pointed ears and black hair, which had a red shimmer to it. His eyes were so dark, they almost looked black. 
     “What are you doing in our field, miss?” the boy mumbled and tilted his head to the side. Lyrael just stared, waiting for them to attack her. But the pair just stared back. 
     Why aren’t they attacking? Lyrael’s mind whirled with confusion. They should be attacking me. 
     Lyrael didn’t question it. 
     She stood. 
     And she ran. 
     “Miss?” the boy called after her, concern laced in his small voice. “Miss!” 
     Her legs pumped beneath her, her rucksack banging against her back with each stride. Memories came rushing back to her. Crossing the Border, the tug on her abdomen, the sharp snap within her mind, the rush of power, and the images that flashed before her eyes. 
     What were those? Memories? Visions? 
     She ran until she was under the cover of trees, the sound of her footsteps blending with the rustle of leaves. A voice in her head just kept screaming one word, repeatedly. 
     Run. Run. Run. 
     Lyrael’s foot snagged on a root, and she slammed to the ground with a thud. She instinctively threw her arms up to shield her face and grimaced as rocks and twigs bit into the skin of her palms. The wind was knocked from her lungs when her back slammed into a tree; she struggled to inhale, the scent of damp soil filling her nostrils. 
     The weight of her body pressed against the coolness of the ground beneath the towering oak trees, while her bow dug uncomfortably into her shoulder blade, a constant reminder of her misstep. 
     Rays of sunlight danced through the foliage above her, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. For a minute, the temptation to just lie there forever until she returned to ‘Rosia overwhelmed her. That was, until the familiar sound of a bustling village market reached her ears. Shopkeepers shouted about their various wares, trying to draw people to their stalls or shops. 
     She sat up slowly and looked at her palms, at the small stones and splinters embedded into her skin. When she finished plucking and cleaning her palms, she stood and began walking toward the village. 
     It didn’t take her long to find it. She weaved through some trees until she found herself at the cusp of a village, which looked slightly larger than her village across the Border. It was busy, and unfortunately for her, full of Elves. 
     Everywhere she looked, there were Elves. Elves with varying shades of color in their hair. Some with blonde-purple hair, some with black-green hair, and some with brown-orange hair. She reached up and pulled up the hood of her cloak, hoping the villagers wouldn’t notice the difference in their hair. 
     Or their ears. 

⋆˙⟡ ☾ 𖤓 ☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

     Lyrael looked out of place.  
     She could feel it in the stares of the villagers surrounding her. But maybe it was due to the wide berth they’d given her as soon as she entered the crowd of people swarming the market.
     It wasn’t until she realized that she’d forgotten to mask her powers after waking from her unintentional slumber. She quickly threw up the walls around her mind, sealing out any unwanted person, so they couldn’t sense the immense power she wielded, just the way Anwel taught her. 
     However, it didn’t help. Word had spread around the village of her presence. Not only were people running from her in fear, but there were also people appearing on the edges of a crowd to get a good look at her. 
     “Who is she?” 
     “Where did she come from?” 
     “What’s with the hood?” 
     “Did you feel her? She was so powerful. She’s the most powerful person I’ve ever sensed... and I’ve seen the King.” 
     Lyrael paused at a market stall which sold jewelry when she saw her reflection in a mirror sitting on the table. The face looking back at her was not her face and the eyes looking back at her were not her eyes. 
     She had long, pale blue hair.
     Golden eyes that glowed.
     Ivory skin.
     And... pointed ears.
     With a trembling hand, she touched her face and then her ears, jumping slightly when she felt the soft point of the Elven ears that were now attached to her head. Her lip quivered, and tears collected at the edge of her eyes. 
     “Please, no...” 
     How could this be? How am I the very being Papa warned me to stay away from? 
     She couldn’t be an Elf. She shook her head as she squeezed her eyes closed, refusing to accept it. 
     Papa wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t betray me like this. Right? 
     “Are you okay, miss?” A voice came from her right and she opened her eyes, looking over. A girl with chin length blonde-purple hair and pink eyes stared at her curiously, smiling. 
     “C-Can you tell me what I look like?” Lyrael’s voice came out as a whisper, barely loud enough for the girl to hear. Maybe this is an illusion. Someone nearby must be–
     “Well...” the girl paused, taking in Lyrael’s features, tugging her from her paranoid thoughts. “You have the prettiest blue hair, and your eyes are a breathtaking golden color. Why do you ask?” 
     Lyrael shook her head and stepped back from the girl. 
     This is wrong. So, completely, utterly wrong. 
     Before she knew it, she was running again, her feet pounding painfully against the cobblestone road, back the way she came, ignoring the three dozen sets of eyes watching her inquisitively. She soon ran past the oak trees she’d been lying under just a few minutes ago and stopped in the waist-high grass she’d woken up in. 
     Her eyes scanned the field, glad to find that the two Elven children were gone. She pushed all her thoughts out of her mind and began searching for Anwel’s trail again. 
     It took her a while, as the scent was fading, but she found it eventually; a mix of Anwel’s scent and one of an Elf. She slid her rucksack from her back and opened it, pulling out some bits of venison jerky. She put her rucksack back on as she walked, smiling when she realized that Ievis even went as far as seasoning it for her. It was a wonderful reminder of home. 
     She did her best to still her mind, trying to ignore the millions of thoughts and questions that whirred through her. Who am I, truly? How am I an Elf? Crossing the Border couldn’t have turned me into one, surely. 
     With a vigorous shake of her head, Lyrael tried to clear her mind of the chaotic thoughts.
     No, that can’t be. 
     Then how come I look like one now? 
     Have I always been an Elf? Or is this some kind of illusion magic? 
     When Lyrael had been old enough to really think for herself, she had asked Anwel why they had magic. His answer led her to believe that everyone, including humans, had magic, but humans were more private and only used it when alone.
     The pieces never clicked in her mind. She had the same magic as Elves did; she knew that much based on her reading. How did I never see it? Why did I never put the pieces together? 
     From what she knew, or at least what she was told by Anwel, was that all Elves had the ability to glamour themselves. High Elves could glamour their entire body, Low Elves could do minor glamour, like changing their eyes or hair, and Half Elves couldn’t do any. 
     That’s when she remembered.
     Every time she glanced in a mirror, a feeling of unease crept over her, as if something about her appearance was perpetually off. Her blue eyes were wrong, her tangled black hair was wrong, her tan skin was wrong. She just felt it in her bones that this was not how she truly looked. It was never a feeling she could truly explain aloud. In the winter, Anwel’s skin would lighten since they were indoors, sheltering from the cold, and her skin would always stay the same tan color, forever the same, never changing. She never even so much as got a sunburn as Anwel would after a long day in the sun. 
     She never understood why she felt this way. Not until today. 
     She looked down at her hands, cold realization sweeping over her like a wave. No longer was her skin the tan color it usually was. Instead, it was a soft ivory color.