by Ashia Monet
Two knives plunge into its core; Katia rolls across the ground to their right, identical knives clenched in her fists.
The beast swipes a wing at her. Katia leaps aside, black cloak swishes. She tosses another knife with a shout, and the creature stumbles back.
Its feathers are melting; drops of black goo drink onto the forest floor in thick, bulbous globs.
But Katia edges backward, a dangerous serenity in her eyes. Then Blythe realizes: she’s luring it away.
With a powerful bat of its wings, the creature surges forward for her. But it leaves the path to the trees wide open.
“Run for the trees!” Katia screams. “Go through, I’ll meet you there!”
Blythe sprints. The monster seems to grow larger the closer she comes, its hunched form the size of a building, a skyscraper, a mountain.
Blythe has no weapons or magic. If it turns around, she’s fucked.
She pushes her legs to move faster. “Go through the trees, go through the trees,” she chants to herself. “Don’t think about what’s going to happen, just go through the trees.”
She bursts into the darkness. And the entire world goes black and silent.
She is alone. There is no Katia, no Cordelia, no giant monster. A tingling warmth covers her skin. The air smells…clean.
Gravity has not left her, and she pushes forward into nothingness, sneakers hitting a spongy ground that gives easily under her weight.
“God, please don’t let me be dead,” she whispers.
She doesn’t know how the Tempore works—or what happens when you leave it. Was that monster normal? Or should she be scared?
There’s so much she doesn’t know.
Light pierces her vision. Blythe winces, shielding her face as the darkness slips away like water—and in its place is a sky, peachy with sunrise.
She is standing on a hill, staring down into a town of humble brick buildings. The sun peeks around a mountain range on the horizon, spreading an orange haze across the rooftops. She’s definitely not in the Tempore anymore.
Cordelia bursts from the trees, gasping for breath, stumbling over her own feet.
“Oh my god…” she mutters. She covers her face, hair tumbling across her shoulders.
“You okay?” Blythe asks. Cordelia’s annoying, but she looks two seconds away from falling apart. Blythe’s not heartless.
Cordelia peeks between her fingers. Her gaze is cutting. “Don’t patronize me.”
Blythe scoffs. “You’re an asshole, I get it. But you’re laying it on damn thick don’t you—”
“Do you truly believe this is me being an asshole?” Cordelia interrupts. Her face is still flushed red from running and she’s yet to catch her breath. “I could point out every flaw and insecurity I’ve observed over the past few hours. I could explain the fourteen courses of action you could have taken that actually would have helped you, but you were too dumb to realize. I could ruin you. Frankly, ignoring you is the kindest thing I’ve done thus far. If anything, you should be thanking me. You do not know me, Blythe Fulton. I could very easily be an asshole.” Her perfect brows furrow hard. “Don’t give me a reason to.”
Cordelia Deleon is not the first mean girl Blythe has ever encountered. She will not be the last.
Blythe knows exactly how to react in situations like these, and her fist is already balling tight when Katia appears.
Her cloak is a ragged shadow behind her. The creature’s head sticks out from the trees, massive enough to swallow a human whole.
It opens its beak to caw, but Katia lets out a scream of her own—and sinks her knife into its feathery neck.
The creature’s beady eyes bulge. Its feathers go slick and formless, dropping as oily goo onto the grass. The eyeballs sink and roll out of their sockets as the neck loses form.
The creature is melting.
Katia’s knife drops into a pile of lumpy blackness, along with something much lighter.
Katia sighs, fishing her weapon out. “Damn Trident Republic and their fucking Calling creatures…I only have two knives left…”
As the goo settles, it slips farther away from something suspiciously rectangular at its center.
“Wait,” Blythe calls. “Something else came out of that…thing.”
“What?! That’s all you have to say?!” Cordelia screams. “We were just attacked by some…some spawn of hell and all you say is ‘there was something else’?! What is wrong with you?!”
“I was two seconds away from punching you in the face, so I suggest you shut your mouth because I know your posh English ass can’t fight,” Blythe snaps.
“Hey!” Katia snaps. “Both of you shut up. I don’t like either of you and I don’t feel like dealing with drama.”
She plucks the object out of the goo; it looks like paper. Or rather, a photograph.
Katia’s face goes blank as she inspects it. “Oh. This is nothing. I’ll throw it out when we get to town. Anyway—”
But Blythe is missing a photo. The only one she took from her bedroom, the one of her family.
Blythe is moving without thinking, walking toward Katia. “Katia, what is that—”
Katia moves it behind her cloak. “Nothing, kid. We have to get down there and find the next Guardian and we don’t have all day.”
But Blythe can see it poking out behind Katia’s leg. It is Blythe’s photograph.
Except all of her family’s faces have been crossed out with black marker, leaving only Blythe’s smile.
Spots appear in Blythe’s vision. Her hands tremble. This is not a part of the Trident Republic’s war. That monster wasn’t sent to do anything. It was only meant to deliver her this picture.
The Trident Republic is toying with her.
Blythe’s eyes snap to Katia. “Who runs the Trident Republic.”
Katia’s expression is a blank canvas. “That’s irrelevant right now.”
“Irrelevant!?” Blythe yells. “My family’s been kidnapped! If anyone has the right to know, it’s me! Nobody else gets to say whether or not I know who’s making my life hell!”
Katia’s jaw clenches. “If I go shouting names at you, you’ll be making a hit list. Just trust that the Sages are taking care of things. You don’t need to know.”
“I want to know,” says an English voice.
Cordelia’s shoulders are squared, her jaw clenched. “What?” she scoffs. “I know less about what’s going on than either of you. Blythe’s not the only one who’s suffering. I had to leave my home—my entire country—and come to a place that’s being ransacked by a secret magical war.” Her face hardens. “I may as well know why.”
Blythe hates it, but she has a point. Cordelia hasn’t had it as rough as Blythe, but these past few days can’t have been easy for her.
Katia is a statue. Unmoving, expressionless. Then she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this. Some of it’s strictly classified.
“The Trident Republic gets its name from its three tiers of government leaders. Rue Whiteclaw is the third tier—he’s in charge of army and defense, I think they call him a general. I talked to a friend from the Black Veins Imperial Army and he’s pretty sure Whiteclaw is the man who took off with Blythe’s family.”
“Whiteclaw?” Blythe repeats. The name is clunky on her tongue.
Katia nods. “Was he a big, Dorito-shaped guy who looked and sounded like Hugh Jackman as Indiana Jones?”
Blythe would have gone with “Australian McCree”. “That was him,” she agrees.
“We figured,” Katia agrees. “But Whiteclaw is a follower incapable of original thought. The real mastermind is Walden Oliver. He’s the first tier, the president and founder of the Trident Republic. We’re pretty sure he’s the one behind the mind control and the roof incident. He just prefers to send Whiteclaw out to do his dirty work. That’s why the Black Veins Imperial Army is out searching for Walden Oliver as we speak.”
Walden Oliver. Rue Whiteclaw. Being able to put names to
all this feels like a weight lifting from Blythe’s shoulders. Names make people feel less like imposable figures and more like normal humans she could stand a chance against.
“But what could Walden Oliver gain from terrorizing me?” Blythe asks. Then she remembers Cordelia is there. “Well, all of us Guardians,” Blythe amends. Cordelia rolls her eyes.
“That’s what we don’t know,” Katia continues. “We think Walden wanted to use the Guardians to get the Sages to declare war, but then he kidnapped your families and left you behind. So the motive doesn’t completely make sense.”
She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “The Black Veins has been in wars before but they’ve always been with the Medallion. Never with the Trident Republic. And Walden…he’s a troublemaker, and he’s dangerous, but he isn’t stupid. And he’s never done anything like this. He usually just pretends to be some rebel leader, a freedom fighter and a ‘voice for the people’ but not a…not a murderer. He’s gone to jail before but never for anything like this, and a punishment for a crime like this could mean banishment to the islands…so something’s not right. I just don’t know what.”
Blythe doesn’t understand—she doesn’t know what the islands are or Walden Oliver’s history.
But it doesn’t seem like Katia’s words are for their ears.
Cordelia scoffs. “You talk like you actually know him.”
The words snap Katia out of her thoughts. Her face goes hard. “Anyway,” she says. “That’s enough classified information for one day. We gotta move.”
Blythe recoils. Katia hasn’t addressed Cordelia’s statement at all. And yes, ignoring Cordelia is Katia’s main hobby, but something about that felt…different. Blythe doesn’t like the cold chills it sends up her spine.
If Katia knows Walden Oliver, then she knows the Trident Republic. And that makes her far more than just being a protector that’s supposed to lock Blythe away in Frost Glade. That makes her potentially dangerous.
Katia starts down the hill, black cloak echoing behind her. She doesn’t even glance over her shoulder to see if Blythe and Cordelia are following.
But they are. Of course they are.
The town seems to be a quiet, peaceful suburbia. The breeze is crisp and cool, even for summertime. Pine trees grow between red brick buildings crawling with vines and the asphalt roads are only large enough for two lanes. Occasionally, the silence is broken by the hum of a passing car. All of the shops look to be Ma-and-Pop, family owned businesses.
Every person Blythe sees—walking on the sidewalks, or in the cars, or in the shops—is white. Blythe hopes this place isn’t so old fashioned that it’s outfitted with good old-fashioned overt racism because she, Cordelia and Katia are three women of color who are obviously not from here.
“Where are we right now?” Cordelia asks. Exactly what Blythe is thinking.
“Broughton, Montana,” Katia says. “A small magician town hidden by the mountains and home of a little boy named…” She tucks a hand into her cloak and retrieves a paper scribbled with words and numbers—names and addresses.
“Daniel Quinton,” she finishes. “Speaking of the Quintons, they’re a bit…different.”
“You’re saying ‘different’ like a thinly veiled insult,” Blythe says.
The way Katia rolls her eyes must mean she meant it as such. “They used to be scientists—thaumologists and astrophysicists. Then they left Alabama for Broughton, built a house on top of a hill in the middle of a forest, and never left. From what I hear, neither of them work anymore. They communicate with the Black Veins in handwritten letters only, and the roof incident was the first time they called us on the phone in years. So yeah, they’re…different.”
Blythe twists her mouth to the side. She isn’t one to judge—living in a forest away from civilization sounds great. But it could easily turn into accidental solitary confinement.
“We’re meeting them at a diner because I refuse to hike all the way up to their weird ass house,” Katia snorts. “Plus, we’ll be able to get some food.”
They arrive at a quaint hole-in-the-wall at the end of a road. Walking through its door feels like stepping into a time capsule; from its red cushioned booths lining the windows to the checkerboard tile, the atmosphere screams 1950’s wholesomeness.
Katia slides into a booth across from Blythe and Cordelia. The English girl’s nose has been wrinkled since they got here, but Katia pays her disgust little mind. Blythe just isn’t a fan of how the tabletop is only barely clean.
The sound and smell of sizzling bacon has Blythe’s stomach growling. The sun creeps up the sky, echoing golden rays off of the salt dispenser and condiment bottles.
The waitress swings by to pass them sticky, lamented menus before she disappears to give them time to pursue their options.
Blythe’s looking over the bacon selections—they smell really good—when Katia takes a deep breath.
“Let’s get back to that magic lesson,” she says.
Cordelia looks up from her Zadis. “Because you don’t want to talk about the Trident Republic any longer?”
“Because you need to learn.”
Cordelia snorts. “You told me to read a textbook.”
Katia shrugs out of her cloak as she speaks. “I changed my mind. I need to help the younger generation, and as a Millennial, there’s little I can do besides pass on knowledge, so let’s get to leaning!
“Remember what I said about the Elements? In the Black Veins, there’s a Sage for every Element. A Sage of Nature, a Sage of Time, and so on. The Sages are immortal—they’ve ruled the Black Veins since the fall of the Roman Empire. They live in Frost Glade, handle all government affairs, and protect the cores of the seven Elements.
“Now, the cores are seven orbs which, if destroyed, would obliterate the magic of the Element they contain. So, say the orb for the Element of Nature was destroyed. Magicians wouldn’t be able to make tornadoes, or hurricanes or earthquakes—but they also wouldn’t be able to grow fruits and vegetables instantly, or stop avalanches from burying small towns.
“These cores are, as you can imagine, filled with magical energy. The Sages were even bestowed with magic from them back in the ancient times when they first became Sages—which is one of the reasons they’re so powerful. Fifteen years ago, one of the Sages became power hungry. After years of planning in secret, he attacked the other Sages and nearly destroyed Frost Glade in his attempt to absorb the power of the seven cores.
“It was a gruesome battle. Frost Glade…it looked like hell. Fire flooded the hills, buildings collapsed onto families running to evacuate. The beach waves swallowed the boardwalk and took screaming people out to sea. The streets were filled with blood and screams and, above it all, the Sages were battling.”
Goosebumps prickle along Blythe’s arms. A shadow has passed over Katia’s face.
“I was there. I was about your age at the time,” she whispers. “And that night was…indescribable. I thought the stars would fall out of the sky. It felt like we were all going to die.”
She takes a long, deep breath. “But, obviously, some of us survived. But the Sage who went evil wasn’t as lucky—the other six Sages managed to stop him, but it…cost him his life.
“After that, the Sages decided that the cores were too overpowered to be left in their raw state. So, after consulting with thaumologists, the chose seven annoying, crying babies and gifted them with huge amounts of magic from the cores, in the same way that a drop of the cores’ magic had been given to the Sages themselves. They called these whiny brats Guardians, because it is through them that the cores are less powerful, and therefore less appealing to greedy, evil magicians.”
Katia’s dull gaze drifts between Blythe and Cordelia. “And here you are today, the Guardian of the Mind and the Guardian of Ether. Both being annoying and ruining my life.”
Something clicks for Blythe. Cordelia is the Guardian of the Mind. That’s why she broke free of the mind control—it’
s literally her Element.
It had nothing to do with Cordelia being inherently better like she implied. She just had an advantage. Of course she broke free.
Cordelia casually turns away from Blythe, glancing out of the window as if she knows Blythe has caught on. What a dirty little liar.
“But,” Katia continues. “Having large amounts of magical energy means that your Inherited Magic manifests…differently. Unlike the rest of us who have one ability, you seven can completely control every aspect of your given Element. Your only limitation is that you can’t control another Element. Besides that?” Katia smacks the table for emphasis. “You could do anything.
“Remember what I said about the Element of Nature going wild and causing tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, all that?” Katia asks. “The Guardian of Nature could cause that with a snap of his finger.”
Bells tinkle as the diner door eases open. A white family of three shuffles in; their old-fashioned clothes are plain, and their hair and skin are dull, as if they’ve been run through the wash too many times.
There is a tall, wiry man, a small woman with hair that is not quite red or blonde, and then there is a boy who looks no older than fourteen.
He is short and round-faced with blonde curls and a flushed face. His lip trembles and he clutches a small, leather-bound book to his chest.
The third Guardian has arrived.
The woman notices them first. She waves and hastily guides the boy and man toward the booth.
Katia plasters a pleasant smile on her face. “Hi, you must be the Quintons.”
The man’s expression does a balancing act between pensive and annoyed.
“Yes,” he clears his throat. “My name is Silas. This is my wife, Carol, and our son, Daniel.”
The boy, Daniel, stares at Blythe and Cordelia like they each have two heads. He shows no sign of speaking. Blythe smiles, but it doesn’t seem to make anything better.
“I believe we’ve met before, Miss…” Carol’s voice trails off.
“Katia Darkholme,” she answers. “And we have. I’ve been working for the Sages for sixteen years. I used to babysit for the Guardians when they were younger.”
