The Prisons of Magic

1 | The Cliff

Lyra tightened her grip on the ledge. The only coherent thought she could come up with was, don't fall. A drop from this height would break several bones, and she could only hope none of the fractures would be fatal. Blood already dripped down her wrist, wetting the edge of her sleeve. Her reflexes may have saved her, but grabbing the ledge while falling nearly broke her wrist.

Of course, Mother Nature remained oblivious to Lyra's predicament. The sixteen-year-old turned her head warily toward the ominous sound of thunder. If the rain reached while she was still hanging on to this tiny ledge, she wouldn't be able to move till the storm passed; that was, assuming the rain didn't push her off and her fingers didn't turn numb from the cold. By the time the storm did pass, the real pain would have settled in her arm and she wouldn't be able to climb. Her shoulder already hurt from carrying her bag, so she doubted she could last very long.

Lyra allowed herself to breathe slowly and juggled her options. If she climbed down now, she wouldn't be able to climb back up until her arm healed. But if she climbed up, the guards would kill her. In no condition to fight and unwilling to die just yet, she glanced at the ground. The river promised her she wouldn't die of starvation at the base of the cliff, and it wasn't as if she had anything to return home to.

With a sigh, Lyra swung her legs toward the cliff and found a foothold. Closing her eyes, she gave herself a moment to rethink her plan but couldn't come up with any excuse not to go down, so she swung her bag off her arm and let it drop to the ground.

The climb should have been easy. Feel for a ridge, test for strength, and then shift her weight. Years of practice made this a fluid motion: feel, test, shift; feel, test, shift. Still, she climbed with a rhythm similar to a limp. She switched from her right hand to her left hand at a dangerous pace and kept her weight on her uninjured arm for far too long. When she neared the grass, she pushed herself off of the cliff, falling on her side and rolling to prevent any part of her body from taking the brunt of the fall.

Standing up, Lyra brushed the wet dirt from her head, but most of it stayed tangled in her hair. She reached for the river and splashed water on her face. She scooped some in her hands and drank it, slowly at first and then in big gulps. Though the cliff ensured she could not travel too far from the body of water, Lyra pulled her canteen out of her bag to refill it.

Her eyes searched the endless valley on either side of her. If there was anything to see, save for the large family of naked trees and the blanket of rotting leaves that covered the ground, it was hidden in the darkness.

"Hello," a voice called from behind.

Lyra spun around. She fell backward. Her eyes widened, and her heart thumped at a dangerous rate.

"I'm sorry," the newcomer said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

But that's exactly what you did. Lyra opened her mouth and then closed it again. Against her better judgment, she shut out her senses. She closed her eyes. Ignoring the sounds around her, she imagined she was floating in the air. She couldn't feel anything. Her painful wound and the burning questions in her head were gone. One, two, three.

She was hallucinating. She had to be.

"How are you alive?" she croaked.

The boy's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"You died. I buried your body."

"Did you hurt your head?"

"No." Her pitch rose.

"I'm Jaxon. Who are you?"

Lyra stood up and closed the distance between them. Could this be a trick of the night?