The first time my magic almost killed me, I was six years old. I had wandered too deep into the Briarwood, chasing dragonflies as they flickered between the trees. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, and the roots curled up from the ground like the fingers of something old and waiting. I didn't notice the flora creeping around me. Vines twisting at my feet, flowers blooming in between my toes.
That was when I knew.
The woods had always hummed with quiet magic, the kind that clung to the trees, that whispered through the wind if you listened closely enough. But what stirred in my blood was something different. Something forbidden.
When my father found me, wrapped in vines and flowers, my eyes glowing a dull pink color he didn't scold me. He only knelt, cut the vines tangling my limbs, and whispered, "Never again, Pandora. You must never let them see."
Because in the kingdom of Verdanthe, my magic was not a gift. It was a death sentence.
Now, twelve years later, I have learned how to keep my power hidden. I layer my clothing, even in the heat of summer. I speak carefully and move like a girl with nothing to hide. I keep my head down when the king's enforcers pass through the village, their cloaks trailing like shadows through the dirt roads.
My magic is a thing of the old world, they say. I am a curse, not a blessing. And those who are anything like me do not live long enough to tell their stories.
I remind myself of this as I walk through the market, my basket balanced against my hip. The scent of the salty breeze from the Nyxmaris Sea makes me homesick. The smell of fresh bread from the baker's stall makes me hungry, and the bard strumming tunes makes me want to sing. But I can't risk it so I keep walking. Beyond the village, past the jagged tree line of the Briarwood, a murder of crows circling is something unseen. The Nyxmaris Sea. A place I used to call home.
I almost feel safe here. Almost.
Then the pain starts.
It rises from my feet first, a winding, stinging pull that spreads like wildfire, quick and uncontrollable. I clench my hands around the wicker basket, forcing my breath steady. The wind shifts. The lanterns above the stalls flicker. I glance up at the wooden beams of the apothecary's sign, then I see wild vines and flowers creeping along the edges.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Not now. Not here.
Then I feel it, someone watching.
The weight of a gaze, steady and unrelenting. My heart pounds against my ribs.
I don't look up. I slip into the nearest alley, pressing my back against the damp stone wall. The feeling in my feet fading, but the fear is not.
A shadow moves at the alley's entrance.
I lift my chin.
A man stands there, half-hidden by the dimming light. His cloak is sage green, the golden crest of the king's enforcers pinned to his chest. But there's something different about him something in the way his golden-green eyes study me like he already knows exactly what I am.
"You're not as careful as you think," he says.
His voice is calm. Too calm. Like a snare set in the underbrush, waiting to snap shut.
Panic swirls in my stomach. I step back, but there's nowhere to run.
Because I know what happens to people like me.
And if this man is who I think he is, if he's truly one of them then my secret is no longer just dangerous.
It's deadly .