#literally going through every book on my shelf and embossing it right now

[mykingdomforablog]

Got a book embosser for Christmas. Librarians hate to see me coming

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 1/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: For @silver-colour

Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt "Creepypasta format story (like a found footage or witness statement kind of thing)" by silver-colour. It is a mild reworking of an older fanfic of mine, but that goes tongue in cheek with the ending of this story sort of. XD I would put this between Spooky Level 2 and 3, with 3 being "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." But there's only minor mentions of blood/body horror. But the whole undead thing is a trigger for some people and I lean into that imagery a bit. I wanted this to be a sort of leveled up Goosebumps tale. Tl;dr proceed with caution <3

Chapter 1

 I am going to die.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.

I have to keep repeating it because I have to come to grips with it.

I am going to die.

Not in sixty years.

More like sixty minutes.

Oh, Amanda. I am sorry.

If you ever hear this … I never meant for this to happen.

My name is Warlock Dowling and I am 34 years-old. Devoted son and husband, I’ve spent over a decade working towards achieving my dream of following in my father’s footsteps and entering politics one day.

It’s a dream I don’t think I’ll be seeing through to the end.

I am telling you this because after reading what I’ve just read … and hearing what I’ve just heard … I am not certain I’m going to make it through the night.

I broke the rules.

There were four. Only four. And I broke them.

I didn’t break them by accident. I absolutely did it on purpose. I’m not suicidal or anything, but you only live once - am I right?

For the record, I don’t regret a single thing.

…

That’s not entirely true.

I’ll regret dying before morning if that’s the way things play out.

Today happens to be October 31st - Halloween night. I’d been tasked with clearing out the attic above a cottage in The South Downs which once belonged to a pair of old family friends. Technically, they were ex-employees of my parents from back when I was young, but I thought of them as surrogates. They practically raised me, educated me, taught me everything I know about coping in this cruel, pathetic world.

I held them in the highest regard.

They were the only people in my life who treated me as if I could become more than what I had been born into, that fate had something else in store for me. Because of them, I met the best friends a boy could ever have.

I will forever be grateful for that.

Cleaning out this attic was the least I could do to repay them, but to be honest, I don’t know who summoned me here. I assumed it was the executor of their estate, but now I’m not so sure. Looking over the letter in my hands, there is no legible signature. And the gold embossed emblem at the top that I took for granted as belonging to some upscale legal firm is, on closer inspection, gibberish - a mess of fleur-de-lis underscored by Latin words that roughly translate to “the cows shall rise”.

Ludicrous, right?

How did I miss that?

But more ludicrous - and confusing - are the rules.

I had been given rules about cleaning this attic.

The first rule on the list was to touch only what I could see. Under no circumstances was I to open any of the boxes or chests.

So, naturally, I opened every single one.

The second rule was not to put anything on. Fine by me. The only clothes up here are old lady outfits and a pair of white satin shoes.

But …

There was an awesome vintage leather jacket hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner and … well … it had my name written all over it! I had to try it on, see if it fit.

And it does.

Rule number three - keep to my torch. Don’t light any candles.

Nuh-uh! It’s Halloween! And torches are lame. So on the candles went. Jeez, there are a lot of them. Enough to burn down the whole place if I’m not careful. It actually seems like they’ve multiplied since I’ve been up here.

I won’t lie - it’s unsettling.

But according to the list, rule number four is the most important:

Don’t read any books I find. And definitely not out loud.

The first thing I saw when I entered the attic was a stack of leather-bound books. I scoffed at the sight of them, piled up to my chin, right inside the entryway. Isn’t that a bit like putting a huge bowl of candy front and center on your dining room table in the middle of dinner with a huge sign saying, “Do not eat?” If the most important rule about going into the attic is, “Don’t read anything!” why not put all the books on a high shelf?

Or the moon?

I’m not a book lover. I read hundreds of pages a day for work. I definitely don’t do it for fun. So this shouldn’t have been a hard one for me to follow.

But they looked like diaries.

And diaries hold secrets.

That made them a different matter all together.

I couldn’t resist.

But once I opened the top one, I knew I’d made a mistake.

These weren’t just any diaries.

They were the diaries of my two friends - Aziraphale and Crowley.

There had always been something odd about those two. I didn’t believe for a second that they were a proper nanny or gardener, not even when I was a young, impressionable child. But they were funny - a distraction from the dull as dishwater life of an attache’s son.

Yes, I was a spoiled little rich kid with everything I could ever ask for handed to me and, on top of that, diplomatic immunity.

Woe was me.

I realize how much of a douche whining about that makes me sound.

My life was still dull.

I was still lonely.

I never knew for sure what happened to them after they left us. I made assumptions - erroneous assumptions. I thought they lived happily ever after at least.

Now I know … that wasn’t the case.

I’m recording this in the hopes that someone will find it, so that you might know the true story of what happened to them …

… and why you might not be hearing from me again.

***

The Diary of Aziraphale Fell - Reluctant Widower

January 14th-

“Please, sir,” the decrepit woman hissed, but not unkindly. She came about her speech impediment by a mixture of symptoms - her thick accent coupled with her indeterminable old age caused her to talk that way. “Please, reconsider this decision.”

I glared at her regardless. I knew my eyes were bloodshot; my hair a mass of tangled, wayward strands; my lips quivered from constant, unrelenting crying.

“You said you had it!” I screamed, bypassing her arguments. “You said you would sell it to me! Wh---why else would I come here!?”

“You need to understand,” the woman implored, opening her hands in a pleading gesture. She fixed me with one clear blue eye, the other eye clouded – a useless, milky white lump of tissue bulging inside its socket, “what you ask for … it is unnatural.”

“But your granddaughter said it was a done deal!” I persisted, shooting a steely glare at the simpering young woman who ducked behind her grandmother to hide from my volatile stare. I wasn’t about to leave without the item I came for. At this point, I was willing to tear the place apart and everything inside - including the two of them - to get it.

They must have sensed that.

Even as the woman continued to defy me, she looked slightly more afraid than she had a minute ago.

“My granddaughter is foolish!” The woman directed the comment over her shoulder to the girl cowering there. “But she means well. We need the money. She was thinking with her head and not her heart.”

“I can pay you twice what you’re asking!” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “Three times! I’ll give you whatever you want!”

The girl, intrigued by my proposal, peeked over her grandmother’s shoulder, but the woman turned and barked sharply at her in a language I could not understand.

That was when I began to think I might be in danger.

I’d spent my entire life studying languages, so hearing one I didn’t comprehend, not even an inch, sent a shiver down my spine.

“Mr. Fell …” The old woman reached out, I presumed to comfort me, and took my shaking hand in hers “… your husband is dead. And I am more sorry than I can ever express at your loss. You carry your love for him like a beacon. I see it in your eyes. It shines from every part of you. With him gone, it is up to you to carry it. It will never fade as long as you remember him.”

Those were, without a doubt, the kindest words anyone had said to me since my husband passed. I crumbled, new tears falling hot down my cheeks. But regardless of her sympathy, sincere though it might be, I refused to relent.

I refused!

“I don’t want to remember him!” I whimpered, my anger renewed at the sound of my voice fracturing. “I want him here with me! I need you to help me bring him back!”

The woman sighed in pity but shook her head.

“The effects of life are varied, Mr. Fell. Our fate … it changes every day, with every choice that we make. But the effects of death should remain permanent.”

I flinched at that word as if she’d struck me across the face.

Permanent.

Crowley dead … my husband gone … and nothing for me to look forward to in life but emptiness. We’d had every moment of our lives planned together.

One arsehole drunk driver later and now I was alone.

I literally had no one.

I had lost contact with my mum early in life, never knew my father, didn’t have children of my own. My boss and mentor was an abusive prick who tormented me throughout the span of my career until I found a way out from under his thumb.

Until Crowley helped me discover a life where I didn’t need the man’s guidance or control.

But now I was going to lose him!? The only one who had stuck by me, who defended me, loved me through thick and thin!?

No! That was beyond cruel! And I wasn’t going to roll over and accept it!

I let the sorrow within me curdle, turn sour as I yanked my hand out of the old woman’s grasp.

“Your granddaughter said there are other methods of getting what I want!” I snarled. “Dangerous methods. Methods that might require payment in sacrifice … even blood. And not necessarily my blood. Innocent blood, if you catch my meaning.”

Both women gasped.

Despite the conversation at hand, I smiled.

Good, I thought. We were finally all on the same page.

Up until a few days ago, I never considered violence to be the answer to anything. But I had since come to a crossroads where an exception had made itself clear.

I was prepared to annihilate my humanity to get my husband back.

The old woman snapped her head over her shoulder, scolding her granddaughter in a harsh, guttural voice. The girl, who had started to brave coming out of hiding, shrank down once again.

“Be reasonable,” the woman begged, “please, and think about what you are saying. What you are willing to do.”

“No,” I said, my calm more potent than my anger … or so my husband used to say. “The time for me being reasonable is over. I will get what I want, no matter what the cost. The question is whether or not you will be the one to give it to me.”

The woman looked down at her gnarled hands and sighed a long, exhausted sigh. “Alright, Mr. Fell. I will sell the potion to you at the promised price.”

I stared at her for a moment in shock. I was relieved, of course. I hadn’t thought I would get this far. It frightened me how much I had begun looking forward to throttling her with my bare hands, imagined her neck snapping within my grasp, effortlessly like a twig.

That couldn’t be me though. I wasn’t that kind of person. It was this place - this shop and all of its trinkets, their age and professed magical abilities amplifying my grief, turning every rational thought I had into rage.

I had to get out of here and fast before I did something I might regret.

I opened my wallet with the onset of happier tears and thumbed through the bills, pulling out extra for the joy of getting what I wanted. I handed the money over, but the woman refused to touch it. She waved it away, her granddaughter popping up long enough to grab the money and then scurry off again. The woman reached into the folds of her skirts and retrieved a leather pouch that hung from a thin belt around her waist. From it she fished out a tiny blue bottle with a cork stopper sealing the mouth. She gave it a long, troubled look, then handed it to me.

For the first time, her hand trembled.

“Pour the contents of this bottle into your husband’s mouth, Mr. Fell,” she instructed, “and your husband will return.”

I held the bottle up to the dim candlelight of the musty Soho shop. The blue glass glimmered, a thick liquid inside swaying back and forth, shimmering like sun-tossed sparkles across a dark, foreboding sea.

“There are some rules that go along with that potion,” the woman said, her voice weeding into my head, summoning me back from my momentary trance, “and a few warnings you must heed as well.”

I sighed. I had hoped it would be a simple matter of giving my husband the liquid and living happily ever after, but I knew in my heart that nothing was ever that simple.

“Okay,” I said, slipping the bottle carefully into my pocket and patting over it twice to ensure its safety. “Tell me. What are the rules?”

“First of all, you will give that to your husband, but what will come back …” she paused, swallowed hard “… will not entirely be your husband.”

I nodded. I had expected her to say something along those lines, like a scene straight from an old time-y horror movie.

The woman locked both eyes, one clear and one clouded, on my face as I waited for her to finish her speech, eager to go back home and get on with my life. She realized, with regret, that I had every intention of going through with this, and took on the heavy burden of allowing this to continue.

“Be there to look into his eyes when he wakes,” she said.

I hadn’t dreamed of leaving his side, but since the woman made such a point of it, I asked, “Why?”

“He is being reborn, in a sense. And like other simple-minded creatures, he will imprint on the first person he sees.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “That person needs to be you!”

My gulp was audible, the weight of her words and of my plan suddenly settling within me. They pressed in on me, like that moment when the police came to my door. Their words – “Mr. Fell? I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but … it’s about your husband …” had turned me inside out, left my heart out in the cold.

I felt that cold now.

“Once the potion absorbs into his tissues, it will restart his heart,” she continued. “Then the potion will replicate. It will begin to take the place of his blood. It will make him calm, easier for you to control.”

I nodded again. I wanted to say something, assure the woman that I understood, but she didn’t pause long enough for me to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered. I saw the trepidation in her one, clear eye. I had no clue what to say to make this better.

“It will be a slow process, and you must learn to be a patient man!” She raised her voice, letting go of one hand to waggle an emphatic finger in front of my face. “You will be teaching him, raising him as you would a child. Remember, even if only a small portion of his soul returns, that soul belongs to your husband, and you must love him or this will not work!”

The woman stepped back, out of breath from her outburst, and her granddaughter (whom I had forgotten about) returned, pushing forward an ornate but dusty antique chair to catch her in. I held the woman’s arms gently and helped her into it, feeling strangely protective. The woman sat and waved us both off, not wanting us to make a fuss when she still had more to say.

“But most importantly,” she labored on, barely missing a beat in her speech, “do not let him taste blood.” I knelt down so that she didn’t feel the need to yell for her words to reach me. “He cannot eat meat, but most of all, don’t let him bite you or lick your wounds. Or anyone else’s – human or animal.”

“Will … will I become a zombie? If he does bite me?”

I’m not quite sure why the word ‘zombie’ leapt to my mind. In every interaction I had had with the woman’s granddaughter before tonight, she had been so careful not to use that term. She used other, more romantic euphemisms such as ‘bring back to the land of the living’, ‘re-associate with life’, and the most used - ‘rebirth’. But that’s what he would be, right? When we moved past the flowery vernacular and got right down to it? This potion I had pocketed would turn my husband into the walking dead, - a simple-minded creature that was once deposed from this Earth.

And that meant ‘zombie’.

As if I had nothing more pressing at hand, I suddenly recalled the Walking Dead marathon Crowley had convinced me to watch (against my better judgement). Crowley thought the show was hilarious, but I could barely make it to the middle of the first season. I had started watching with my hands over my eyes, then with my arm locked around Crowley’s, anxiously smacking his shoulder, and finally with most of my body lying over his lap and my face buried in his shirt.

It wasn’t just the gore in the show that skewered me, made me nauseous, unable to breathe. It was the fear and the pain those characters felt, being chased by a relentless enemy that needed no rest, constantly running into people they couldn’t trust, people who were so out for themselves they no longer believed in the sanctity of life, with nowhere to hide, nowhere safe at all, even behind thick, concrete and metal walls.

Watching your loved ones get turned into soulless monsters - still there, but everything about them that you had once loved out of reach.

And this ‘illness’ or whatever these people had - it spared no one. Even children had become zombies. And in the game that was survival for the remaining uninfected, children had become pawns.

Everything about it seemed so horrendous.

And while I suffered through my existential crisis, Crowley laughed at my antics.

I fought not to smile at the sound of his teasing voice.

“Uh … a little squeamish there, are you, angel?”

Angel.

From the first day we met, that’s what he called me.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me that again!

The old woman chuckled, bringing me reluctantly back from my daydream. ���No. Not in this case. That’s not the nature of this spell. No, blood will give him back his memories.”

I looked at the woman, bug-eyed, and shook my head. “I … I don’t …”

“It will ignite his brain. He will begin to feel. In many ways, he will become more the man you married than in any other.”

“Wha---?“ I stuttered, baffled as to how that could be a bad thing. If drinking blood could make Crowley more Crowley, I’d set up an IV drip the minute I got home! I would serve him cups of blood with every meal! I’d make donating blood a requirement for entrance into my bookshop! (That one would definitely kill two birds with one stone. In fact, I might consider doing that anyhow.) “And why wouldn’t I want that again?” I asked, trying not to sound like turning my husband into a blood-sipping fiend was the greatest idea in known history.

The old woman smiled, but it wasn’t fond. It was shrewd, as if she could read every one of my thoughts.

And she didn’t approve.

“Once he has his memories back, he will start to crave it. Soon, drinking blood won’t be enough for him. It won’t work as well. It won’t keep the memories as fresh. He will have to go further, do more. He will become a killer.”

My face must have gone as green as I felt because the woman laughed again, this time with a touch of wickedness. A killer? My Crowley? My sweet, kind, compassionate Crowley?

Okay, maybe I was going too far with the endearments. He’d been a bit of a bastard, after all. Which was why I could picture Crowley becoming a full-fledged bad boy. With that leather jacket he wore like a second skin and his gleaming classic car, he’d been well on his way.

But a killer? No.

Then again, I was willing to become one myself a second ago, so maybe I wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“You are playing with the laws of nature, Mr. Fell,” she said, patting me on the cheek. “You are responsible not only for your own life, but for the lives of those around you.” The woman leaned in close, those eyes – one alive, one dead - more menacing than when I had walked into the shop; her face no longer that of a frail old woman but of a powerful witch.

This time, it was my turn to feel afraid.

“So don’t fuck it up.”

[circle-of-six-mages]

It’s, uh, very late, and I missed last week, but here it is. Enjoy!\

Chapter 1- Aplla Village

Two girls sat in a tree. One of them, with snow-white hair, had a scrunched-up face like she was concentrating very hard. She had a piece of paper on a hard tablet propped on her knees, on which she was scribbling furiously.

The other had hair that was midnight black. A smile played at her lips and she appeared to be reading a book. However, her eyes never left the paper of the girl sitting below her in the branches.

“Hey, Ria!” She called.

The girl with white hair stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth, concentrating hard. “Hmmm?”

“Whatcha drawing?”

Aria froze up for a second in shock before draping her body over the paper. “N-none of your business, Ly!” Her cheeks burned in embarrassment.

Lyla sat back, smirking a bit. “Really? Because it looked like Jelin.”

Aria’s face got even redder. “N-no it wasn’t! Lyla, you know I don’t like it when you look at my drawings.” She lifted herself up, crumpling the paper and throwing it to the forest floor. “This one’s no good, anyway.”

Lyla leaned back.”No changing the subject. You like ver, Aria. I see the way you look at ver.”

Aria cast her eyes down. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. You know that just as well as I do.”

Lyla arched an eyebrow. “How so? Even if the Demons control everything else, the thing they don’t control is our love lives. As long as we follow their rules, we get to live and be happy with whoever we want.”

Aria looked up now. “So you haven’t heard. I’m surprised, they announced it over a week ago. Normally you’re telling me about the Demons’ new rules.”

Lyla looked down suspiciously. “What is it.”

“Starting with this year’s batch of sixteen- year- olds, after the testing ceremony, all those who have failed the Test will be assigned a husband or wife. They’ll come from the Sister Village, so I would get a husband from your village, and go to live there with him. They think that if they mix the descendants of Light and Dark Mages, they’ll get less of each. Apparently there’s been a spike in the numbers recently.”

Lyla sat in solemn silence. “So now they’re even taking this from us.”

Trying to hide her sadness, Aria turned away to wipe a tear away. “With the test only a couple days away, it would be pointless to confess now. Even if we both fail, it would literally be impossible for us to be together.”

Seeing her opportunity, Lyla seized it. “So you admit you like ver.”

“Lyla!”

She shrugged. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” She dropped down to Aria’s branch. “Look, there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s plenty of good guys in my village. I know they’re not Jelin, but they’ll treat you well if you do the same.”

Aria smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She chuckled a bit. “I can’t believe they think that they can make you get married.” She tried to wipe all the emotion off her face. “I’m Lyla, and I feel nothing. No pain. What, a husband? No way. I’ll just be emotionless till he goes away.” By the end, she and Lyla were laughing, trying not to fall out of the tree.

“Well, sorry that I keep my emotions guarded so Demons can’t use them!” Lyla laughed.

They laughed together, teasing each other until the Suns went down. First Renda, then Roodae sunk below the horizon. Only Rhysha hung in the sky, turning it red and orange and pink.

“I guess we better go home, huh?” Aria said quietly. Her hair was turned a soft pinkish orange by Rhysha.

Lyla sighed. “Only three days until The Test.” She looked down at Aria, looking frightened. “What if we pass?”

Aria, at the thought, looked just as scared. “I don't know. I think I'd run. Or try to, anyway. But… I really don't want to think about that. What are the odds of us passing, anyway? And we don't even have time to talk about that now. We can do that tomorrow, but for now, we better get home before curfew.”

They hopped down from the tree, and Aria looked for the paper she’d tossed down before. It was nowhere to be found. Lyla told her that they’d find it tomorrow; they had to go or they would be late and locked out of their hometowns overnight, fair game to the Demons. Aria nodded and they hugged. When they broke apart, they walked in opposite directions. Aria walked toward Aplla Village, a tiny town in what used to be the Kingdom of Light. Lyla walked toward Pilke Village, a town that used to be on the very border of the Kingdom of Darkness.

Just as Aria walked through the gate to town, a bell rang and the gates closed. The clock struck six.

She'd just barely made curfew.

Aria entered the house, offering a half-hearted “I'm home!” The smell of an unusual dinner filled her nose: steak and mashed potatoes. Her parents had kept that much beef and potato? That could've earned them some decent money on the shopping district.

Disputes her qualms, Aria was excited for dinner and quite hungry. She walked up to her room and pulled a random book off the shelf, one of the three her parents had managed to get her for a holiday or her birthday.  The shelf only came up to her waist, and was so old it was practically rotting, but it had apparently been her great great great grandmother’s or something. The shelf held other small trinkets; a feather from her favorite goose that had died when she was a child, a lone earring made from a fake ruby that she had found in the road, and her mother’s mother’s wedding painting. She tore her eyes away from her grandmother’s smiling face and forced them to look at the book. It was her favorite, she realized.

The front cover read The Legend of the Circle of Six Mages in shiny emboss script. Flopping on the bed, Aria cracked it open to the page where it told of the each of the members and their weapons.

The Mages kept their names well-hidden to shield themselves from surprise attack or betrayal. Not even the best historians can find their names, she read.

She sighed, skipping the next half page. It was the introduction, where the author of the story rambled about how great the Circle was, pussyfooting around the actual information, doubling the length that the intro probably should have been.

Her eyes finally landed on the known physical attributes and roles of the Circle. Though she could practically recite this part by heart, she read it anyway.

Water Mage: 5’5”

Strategist

Long-range weapon: bow and arrow

Melee weapon: Dussak

Fire Mage: 5’6”

Weapons specialist

Long-range weapon: atlatl

Melee weapon: urumi

Wind Mage: 4’9”

Communications specialist

Long-range weapon: chakram

Melee weapon: tessen

Earth Mage: 5’1”

Tracker

Long-range weapon: slingshot

Melee weapon: cestus

Light Mage: 6’0”

Illusionist

Throwing spear

Melee weapon: katar

Aria, usually teased mercilessly by boys for her height, still took great pride in the fact that she was exactly as tall as the Light Mage from the legend. It wasn't much, but still.

Dark Mage

Training Leader

Long-range weapon: kusarigama

Melee weapon: tekko-kagi claws (or tekagi claws)

After reading the table, Aria skipped the rest of the intro. She continued to the beginning of the story, where the author told about how the Circle came to be.

For all his rambling in the introduction, he was a fantastic storyteller. It never ceased to amaze Aria how he could weave the words together and make the images unfold in her mind, like she was watching a play or even the real event rather than just reading. It was no wonder he was known as the Spinner of Tales.

Aria read for a good hour before her mother called her to the table for dinner. The put her worn and battered book back on the shelf, when a paper fell out. She picked it up and started to open the folded sheet, but her mother called her again.

Shrugging, she put it on top of her books and ran down the stairs. She nearly ran headlong into her mother.

“Sorry, mom. You okay?”

It was easy to see who Aria took after. They had the same shiny, soft white hair, the same sparkling blue eyes, the same pale skin tone. And when her mother gave her a reassuring smile and nod, one could see they shared that, too.

Aria sat at the table, to her father’s left. He sat at the table’s head, and her mother at the other end. Her twin five year old brothers sat on the opposite side.

In front of everyone sat a sizable steak and a pile of creamy mashed potatoes with gravy in a makeshift well in the center. Aria’s mouth watered, but she held off until after the prayer.

“Oh great goddess Amasuru, please bless our food and protect is in these coming days. Especially watch our daughter as she prepared for her Test, and becomes a woman.” Aria blushed as her father prayed, not expecting to be watched over specifically. Nearly everyone prayed to the gods, but to ask to have someone watched over was special and highly intimate; reserved for families, close friends, and lovers. To pray for oneself was taboo, unless they were in an immediately life- threatening situation, like a fight.

The boys poked at their food, but it was clear that they were more curious and apprehensive than hungry. They had picked up on the worried atmosphere of the table, and the significance of their fathers’ prayer was not lost on them, either.

“Daddy?” Omnis, one of Aria’s twins, spoke up as he began to cut off a small piece of steak.

“Yes?”

“What is The Test?”

“Not sure you're old enough for that, son.”

“Them when is he old enough, dad? He needs to know at some point.” Aria interjected.

Her father looked at Omnis and Potis, chewing his lip. “Alright.” He consented with a sigh. “The Test is a once yearly test across the Demonic Kingdom. A group of Demons comes to even the smallest of villages. They test every person who had turned sixteen in the past year.”

“Test them for what? Math?” Potis asked. “I hope not. I'm terrible at it.” Omnis nodded in agreement.

“No, sons. They test for magic.”

As they got closer to what Aria knew the boys would ask, she felt herself growing more and more afraid. She stared at her potatoes.

“And if you have it?” Omnis asked.

Aria answered for her father, her voice shaking. “They kill you.”

Omnis and Potis looked shocked. “Why?!” They chorused.

This time, her mother answered. “That dog of a Human-Type Demon scum and his little master are afraid the Circle of Six Mages will return,” she said, sarcasm dripping from the word master.

At her words, Aria’s father’s face whitened. “Don't mention that group, the Demons will hear you.” He tried to cover his fear with a smile. “Let's enjoy your sister’s birthday dinner, eh?”

Aria smiled sunnily. “I almost forgot it was tomorrow. I really wish it wasn't.”

“Oh, hush now, when you fail that test, you can get a license and study the beasts of the Lakroni region.”

Aria smiled, thinking of the one region Demons couldn't set foot in, but was strictly guarded by its inhabitants. One could only enter for study or work, for within it lurked many fantastic beasts. There were unicorns and Yin Dragons, just to name a couple.

She stabbed her meat dreamily. “And then I can get a degree in zoology.”  

“I wanna go to the Lakroni region!” Omnis piped up.

“Me too!” Agreed Potis. Aria chuckled.

“When you fail your tests, you can come study zoology with me.” She assured them.

“Anyway,” her father said, clearing his throat, “I have something for you, Aria.” He produced a medium- sized package from his coat. It was wrapped in brown paper and a white ribbon perched on top. “Happy birthday.” He said.

Tearing up, Aria took it. “Thanks, guys.” She tore it open.

Inside were two books. One was a book on plants and animals: which ones were poisonous, which you could eat, how to kill animals and cook them. She opened the front cover, and a map of all of Rashivio fell out. The paper was ancient and worn, and Aria was afraid that holding it would disintegrate it. The borders were marked under one crown, rather than the six Kingdoms and the Capital housing the High King, so it had come after the Demon takeover. But by the look of the map, it was as old as his reign.

She knew exactly what this was for: if she had magic after all, and had to run. In case she actually made it out of the city alive.

The other was a guidebook on weapons, not unlike the one Lyla had been reading earlier. She opened this one, and a fifty Yuunash bill fell out.

“Mom… Dad…” She began, tears spilling down her face. “This is a lot of money. Are you sure?”

They both nodded solemnly. “Now,” her mother said hastily, wiping away a tear. “Let's finish dinner before it gets cold.”

Silverware clinked against stoneware, and their glasses filled were with fine wine (except for Omnis and Potis; they got fresh milk from one of the cows her parents raised). Aria found that her mother even saved some of their homemade ice cream, which Aria tried to refuse and make her mother sell.

Her refusal denied, Aria found herself enjoying her ice cream and her dinner. Worries of her Test looming on three days disappeared from her mind. When her father got out his old and dusty violin, she just danced and even took over playing at one point.

Laughter filled the house until almost one in the morning, when they decided they better go to bed.

Aria climbed the creaky stairs to her bedroom, exhaustion hitting her like a ton of bricks. She yawned and opened the door to her room, where her oil lamp was still lit, its flame dancing merrily.

Aria opened up the window to let the warm summer breeze in. She let it blow on her face, and tried not to think of the upcoming Test. Which, of course, failed.

Gazing out the window, she wished she could fly on the breeze like the Wind Mage. Or melt into shadow and darkness like the Dark Mage. Or ride beams of sunlight like they were real and tangible, like the Light Mage. Anything to get out of this place. Anything to get away from the Demons.

After a couple minutes of this, Aria chuckled at her foolishness. “Even if I did have magic,” she said to herself, “they'd kill me within an hour of me finding out.” And with that, she closed the window and changed into a ratty nightgown. She climbed into bed and reached over to extinguish her lamp.

Suddenly, the light flew toward her palm. The flame still burned on the wick, still gave off heat, but the light sat in Aria’s palm. She stared at it in shock and terror. She flapped her hand in panic, like an artist trying to shake a hand cramp, and the little ball of light flew back to the candle and went back into the fire, as if nothing had happened.

Aria but her lip and put out the flame. She rolled over on her bed, gripping her thin blanket anxiously.

Was that magic? The terrifying thought ran around endlessly in her head. She tossed and turned for a good hour.

Finally, she thought, it was probably just a hallucination. I don't have magic. That has to be it. She tried to comfort herself with this thought, and finally fell into a restless sleep.

________

A crumpled piece of paper hovered by her window, a terrible darkness blooming from it. It smiled wickedly, several rows of white teeth glimmering in the low lighting despite its obviously demonic appearance.

It smiled because she belonged to it.

And it couldn’t wait to devour her.

First- Prologue

Previous- Prologue

Next