Amara was packing her suitcase. It wasn't really a suitcase but more of a leather bag, decorated with a family crest she had long forgotten its meaning and silver details. The handle was made out of elm, a wood known for its resistance to natural damage and adaptation to all kinds of soils. Amara thought that she shared a lot of similarities with the wood in her hands, as she had to adapt to many new situations, depending on her unfortunate past.
Since she was young, Amara had to flee her residency. Her father died in the fire. Any magical being or creature was prosecuted by mortals in fear of their powers. They were burning them alive, the Church ordered so. Amara's father was captured moments after her birth. She never met him.
Her mother's name was Rosamund. She was a lovely woman, Amara inherited her green eyes from her and dark skin from her father. Rosamund was always there for Amara, her soul was pure, full of serenity and love for her daughter. Her magic was green, she could heal Amara and herself, no matter what'd happened to them.
One day she got out to pick some herbs for lunch. Amara was seven years old. She was playing with the family cat, a peculiar animal that was always sly and quick to its very movements. Suddenly, an earthquake, a very strong one, struck their home. Amara held tight to the cat and closed her eyes, fear taking over her. As soon as she did so though, the earthquake only became stronger and stronger, knocking down potions and kitchenware from the top shelves, as well as paintings of lands far away from there. Amara held tighter to the cat, almost squishing the life out of it when suddenly, it stopped. Amara rushed out of the house and called for her mother but nothing. She looked around, searched everywhere she could think of, she knew where her mother went for picking up herbs, they went together so many times, yet she couldn't find her. Amara returned home, her eyes red and puffy from the fear of what had happened to her mother.
She kept searching for days, asked the High Court, which she found out what it was during her search, if they had found her mother but to no avail. No one had seen her.
Soon after, Rosamund would be declared dead. And Amara never saw her again.
From a very young age, she realised that it was her against the world. She survived alone, luck was her only partner. The deaths of her parents had let her to be an outcast, as that was how social hierarchy in their world worked.
She was banned from her village for being an orphan, people there decided she was bad luck, so she searched for a new home. Her trips were exhausting, each one worse than the other. Summer was by far the worst season to travel, the heat creating a sweat too unbearable to travel, the bag of belongings becoming too heavy and water running out quickly. Amara was exhausted and she hadn't even travelled that far. And then, she saw a little wooden house in the middle of nowhere. It was covered with vines and on the top of the roof stood a chimney with no smoke coming out of it. She walked slowly, rubbing her eyes, trying to understand if this is real or just a passage to heaven.
The moment she entered the house, lights were shone from all angles. Mostly black and yellow, indicating that Amara was sick both mentally and physically.
With time, the house welcomed her and for the first time in her life, everything seemed normal, everything seemed well. Until Thuban knocked on her door.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked her, pulling her out of the neverending stream of thoughts.
"Nothing important. Just...where are we going exactly?" she questioned after only seeing a bag on Thuban's shoulder.
"We won't be needing any belongings where we're going. We can make our own food and clothes."
"That sounds stupid, why would we do that?"
"Because we don't need anything slowing us down. Come on, Amara, just take something that reminds you of home and let's go."
"Yeah...home" she thought what she'd take, she looked around, picked it up, put it in her bag and with half heart and one last look, she left her home.