Born of Fire
Briana paused under the shelter of the old fir, willing the folds of her cloak to blend with the shadows of its massive trunk. Though spring had arrived, the late afternoon air bit at her cheeks with the lingering chill of winter. Her breath, ragged from running over the sea of moss that cloaked the damp forest floor, was an ephemeral mist upon the air. She laid her hands on the rugged bark — the ridges filling the curve of her palms, the furrows swallowing the tips of her fingers — and rested her forehead upon a thin patch of papery moss that softened its rough surface.
Silence filled her heart, deep and comforting like the darkest corridors of this ancient forest, home to her ancestors and guardian of her childhood. In the distance she heard her sisters in magic and their companions, bell-like laughter fading under the hush of a passing wind as they scattered through the understory. Twelve in all, the young magas had chosen their partners and run without fear toward the cover of the forest, embracing the promise of discovery. Only Briana had hesitated, all courage failing her when she looked upon the mages and found not one in that sea of embroidered masks and flowing robes who called to her. Heart choking with panic, she had slipped away through the chaos of dance and movement, choosing a solitary path among the oldest of her friends, until she came to rest here at the foot of the tree that knew her best.
Continue reading Gastreich’s “Born of Fire” here.
