Page 21 of Anomalies

“Did you get settled into your cabin?” Delia asks. Her light brown hair is pulled up past her ears and tucked into place with thin gold pins. Her cheeks are dusted with a shimmering pink, navy eyes are stern and assessing. She’s glowing in the early morning light, her diadem and her silver robes catching the sun.

Meanwhile, I’m wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, a pair of jean shorts, and boots that I’ve already managed to get dirty. My hair is in a poor excuse for a bun, tendrils of it falling into my face, which is still puffy from sleep.

“Yes.” My haunted cabin. “Slept like a baby.”

Delia doesn’t respond; instead, she just turns, looking out at⁠—

Holy gods. I turn with her. Never in my life have I seen such a thing. Bright green rolling hills fill the horizon, the dew on the grass sparkling in the rising sun. That slowly waking, burning ball of fire casts a honey glow over the land, making the sky bleed in deep shades of yellow, orange, and pink. We’re up high enough that I can see endless rows of crops out in the distance, and all around us are hundreds… if not thousands of wildflowers.

Daisies, foxgloves, and marigolds…all sprinkling the pasture, growing aimlessly through the patches of grass.

“This is… beautiful,” I mutter in awe.

“It is,” Delia sighs. “It’s not something I will ever get used to.” My brows rise when she casually sits down amongst the flowers, star-lit robes melting into the grass like a silver oil spill. Then she gestures for me to do the same.

The ground is warm and damp as I sit, and the Dame squints out at the rolling hills.

“When my coven and I created this place, those hills were my addition,” she says proudly. “They remind me of home.”

It takes me a second to piece it together. Delia’s home was the City of the Light; the northern part of the continent that went dark a little over twenty years ago. Callan told me that the people here are survivors of the attack on their city. Which means Pirn is a refugee camp of sorts, and now…. I guess it’s their new home.

“Streatham?” I clarify, and she nods. I hesitate with my next question, readjusting my legs in the grass before I blurt, “What happened to it?”

The Dame turns to me. “Something evil.”

“I’m sorry,” I exhale. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Delia shakes her head, pulling her gaze from the rolling hills. “Where there is good, there is also evil, Lucina. That is the way of Vita, of Fate, and of magic, too. What we have is light in its purest form…Solian light…and the only thing that rivals light is⁠—”

“The dark,” I breathe. “You’re talking about dark magic?”

The Dame nods, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “In its purest form.”

“Wait, so—” My brain is churning now, spitting out random thoughts and questions at a rate that I can’t keep up with. “So, you’re saying Streatham was attacked with dark ma⁠—”

“This isn’t history class, Lucina.”

My mouth snaps shut, and silence falls. “I’m sorry,” I spit out, unable to bear the quiet. “For what happened to your home.”

“Don’t ever apologize for something you aren’t responsible for,” the Dame snaps back. “It makes you look weak.”

I don’t reply. I don’t agree.

“Alright,” she begins, turning to face me fully. “Do you know how our magic works, Lucina?”

I exhale, my shoulders falling. “Nope.”

She flicks her pointed chin to the field before us. “Solian magic works in the same way these flowers grow. Our bodies are the soil—ideal vessels for magic to thrive in. The power we inherit is water; it flows right alongside our blood. But it is the sun that we rely on the most. It is the energy source we draw from. It is how we replenish.” The Dame grabs my hand. “When you Split, you inherit ancient power that has been reborn.” She unfolds my fingers, facing my palm up to the sky. “Which means it’s untamed, impulsive, and reckless. Like a child. Do you feel it?”

“I did yesterday.” I thought it was anger.

“Let yourself feel it. Pull it to the surface.” She presses her pointer finger into the center of my palm. “Pull it here.”

I blink back at her for a moment, unsure how to even begin that process, but then that rumble starts up again, deep and guttural. It’s an impending stampede barreling up through my lungs and my chest, scratching its way up my throat. It twists and curls through my blood impatiently, bubbling like the start of a volcanic eruption.

“Good,” Delia says. “Do you feel in control of it?”

“Not at all,” I grit out.