Escape from Windenburg | 1

Like most people's stories, mine begins with a happy family. But don't get too comfortable with that notion because it doesn't last for long. For now, though, envision a newly-married couple who have recently finished renovating their dream home, a converted lighthouse on a blustery island off the coast of Windenburg, and are soon expecting the arrival of their first children, who they've recently found out are twin girls.

These are my parents, and one of the twins growing inside my mother's belly is me. Although they'd known each other their whole lives, they'd spent most of that time running in opposite directions. But, finally, they were ready to settle down together, and they couldn't wait to start a family. They were both full of dreams, still idealistic enough to believe that the future was boundlessly bright, that from here on out there would be no more obstacles blocking their way.

They were right - at first, anyway. My mother's delivery went smoothly, resulting in two healthy girls named Rowan (that's me!) and Sabrina. My parents were soon knee-deep in soiled diapers and spoiled bottles, but they savored every moment of those early days of parenthood, no matter how messy. Of course, I don't remember any of this. I can't even recognize myself when I look at old pictures. It's impossible to tell which fleshy, hairless blob is which.

My earliest real memory is of autumn, red, orange, and yellow leaves drifting lazily from the trees, crisp, bracing breezes raising goosebumps on my arms, the intensely sweet scent of mushy, overripe apples gradually giving way to an invigorating pine. I remember my father endlessly raking fallen leaves into neat piles, only for my mother to scatter them again, encouraging us to play.

From the beginning, Sabrina was the spontaneous and outgoing one, while I was more hesitant and reserved. She leapt into the massive mound of crackly leaves without a second thought, pinwheeling her arms and kicking her legs around crazily. She looked so free, but I hung back shyly, reluctant to join in. Even though our mother had just modeled the activity for us, I couldn't help wondering in my little toddler mind, Is this allowed?

It wasn't until Sabrina had tired herself out and Mom and Dad turned away for a moment or two that I finally found the courage to fling a handful of leaves in the air myself. For some reason, this is one of my few childhood memories that remains perfectly preserved. Maybe it's because of the purity, the innocence, the complete lack of drama or stress or anxiety, a feeling which would soon become exceptionally rare in my life.

But I didn't realize how lucky I was back then. I didn't realize a lot of things. We knew our mom was a spellcaster, but all that meant to us at the time was that she had a magical black cat named Inkblot who we adored for patiently acquiescing to our every demand for cuddles. We called her Inky.

It also meant Mom flew away on her broomstick early every morning to teach in a faraway place called the Magic Realm. Sabrina and I could always sense when she was leaving, and no matter how many times she smothered us with kisses and promised she would be back soon, we stood on the porch in our pajamas pleading to go with her until Dad dragged us back inside.

Dad worked from home most days. As a software engineer, he spent hours at a time hunched at his desk typing endless lines of code, which left us to entertain ourselves. We devoured anything magical we could get our hands on. Sabrina had a bad habit of hogging our Henry Puffer plushy collection. I wanted to make her jealous, so I figured out where Mom kept her spare wand and managed to lug it out all by myself. Obviously, I didn't know what to do with it, but I hoped the simple fact that I had it and she didn't would get under Sabrina's skin. We were already developing a rivalry, mostly for Mom's affection.

Whenever Mom tried to read me to bed with a storybook, I would beg her to bring out her magical tomes instead. They were heavy and oversized and full of strange markings I didn't understand, but I would pretend to read alongside her, sneaking frequent glances upward to marvel at how effortlessly she levitated her own book, turning the pages with a single swipe of the air.

This part of my mom's story I wouldn't fully comprehend until years later. In the Magic Realm, she mentored burgeoning spellcasters, mostly children. (Soon enough, Sabrina and I would begin counting down the days until we could be students in magic, too.) One day, she was approached by a young man named Misael. She had seen him around, practicing with the other older students, but he was too old to have ever been in one of her classes. He told her that he was bored with his current tutelage, that he knew he was capable of pushing himself further, and that he could also tell she was a more formidable talent than the introductory-level courses she taught conveyed.

She had to admit she was flattered and also reminded a little bit of herself. She, too, had once been an eager newcomer who was often frustrated by being told to go slow when all she wanted to do was barrel full-steam ahead. With this in mind, she agreed to tutor him privately, loading him down with plenty of books full of spells for him to memorize. If he was as serious about this as he seemed, she told him, he would have no problem putting in the extra study time.

She soon discovered that Misael was indeed a very quick learner. He had an unusually innate capacity for power and control in his casting and the ambition to match. Every time she thought she might stump him with a difficult new spell, he easily mastered it. He had the potential for becoming an extremely influential spellcaster.

But he was also impatient to a fault and possessed an unearned arrogance that often startled her. He began to grow sloppy in his haste and frequently demanded to up the ante before she felt he was truly ready. Finally, after countless requests to let him test his powers against hers at the Dueling Grounds, she agreed to battle. She knew he wouldn't defeat her, but if that was a lesson he needed to learn the hard way, so be it.

As she predicted, she easily outmaneuvered him. By now, he had a fair number of tricks up his sleeve, but she also knew exactly when and how to strike back, considering she was the one who'd taught him those tricks. At the same time, she wasn't overly cruel. She held back, wanting to give him a fair chance. After all, this was meant to be a learning experience, not a real fight.

Unfortunately, Misael didn't see it that way. He chose to be a sore loser instead, stomping red-faced toward the nearest portal, through which he disappeared without another word. Mom was disappointed, but she figured he would be back with an apology after he had cooled down. But he never returned, not the next day or even a week later. Months passed, then years, and no one in the Magic Realm saw him again.

Everything I knew at the time I learned through overheard arguments behind my parents' bedroom door, most of which didn't make sense to my young ears. But I knew Dad thought magic was more dangerous than Mom was willing to admit. I knew he asked her to quit teaching. I knew she refused, yelling that he had no right to tell her what to do. I knew he then asked if she would at least consider the possibility of holding off on teaching magic to us.

As much as we loved Dad, though, it was Mom who we idolized, Mom who we wanted to be just like. His complaints and suggestions, at least as far as magic was concerned, never held much water. The idea that Mom would give up teaching because of one bad experience was absurd. Magic was everything to her, and, by extension, it became everything to us. We saw how strong it made her, and we wanted to be strong, too.

So, as soon as we were old enough, Mom enrolled us in one of her magical courses for beginners. To say we were excited is an understatement. We were over the moon. We couldn't wait to start casting spells and having magical duels and brewing potions, all those unfathomably cool things we had seen the more experienced spellcasters doing on our way to the classroom.

But all of that would have to wait, Mom told us. "What is the most important asset for any spellcaster to possess?" she asked the young learners at rapt attention before her. A few of the expected answers were tossed out - "A wand! A broomstick! A pointy black hat!" That last one got a big laugh from everyone.

Mom smiled at us, her eyes sparkling. "The answer is patience," she said slowly, and a couple kids groaned in disappointment. Mom ignored them and began slowly growing a ball of glowing light in her palm. Their frowns turned quickly into astonished gaping Os. "Although you may be tempted to skip ahead, it's important to have a steady grasp of the basics first."

With a few quick turns of her wrist, the ball of light exploded, revealing Inkblot cradled in her arms as though she'd been there all along. The audience of children shrieked, gasped, and applauded. "The second most important asset for a spellcaster to possess is a familiar. With a trusty familiar by your side, the risks associated with magical overload, which can otherwise be deadly, are greatly reduced. As beginning spellcasters, you do not yet have the ability to control your magical charge. Your familiar will help you with that. However, no one familiar is like any other. In fact, I like to say that spellcasters don't choose their familiars; instead, their familiars choose them. Today, we will begin learning about the most common ways familiars are likely to manifest."

Of course, Sabrina, already so bold and self-assured next to my meekness and hesitancy, wasn't content to simply sit and learn about familiars. She was determined to manifest her own familiar right then and there before anyone else could claim they did it first. The taunts and jokes from the other kids only made her more stubbornly committed.

Not even Mom's teacherly commands that she march herself straight back to her seat could keep her from stomping out of that boring, stuffy classroom. By the time we all scrambled to our feet to see what would happen, she had already done it. She stood smugly in the courtyard, daring anyone to make fun of her now that there was a winged, electric blue orb hovering over her head. We were all shocked speechless.

Even Mom didn't know what to say for a moment or two. Then she cleared her throat and said calmly, "One way to manifest a familiar is through experiencing a pure, unadulterated emotion, the more all-consuming the better. For example, rage or grief or fear or jealousy. In this case, the energy of that emotion is expelled from the body, taking on a physical form. However, this method is exceedingly rare. Most of you will find your familiar in the wild, when the time is right, which is why you should pay no mind when others discover their familiars sooner than you do."

But how could I be expected to pay no mind to my inexplicably extraordinary sister and the fact that she already had a familiar while I remained as frustratingly ordinary as ever? We were supposed to be twins, but I already felt like I had so little in common with her. I felt like a failure. I couldn't help myself from exploding with jealousy that night at the dinner table.

"Rowan, your time will come," Mom told me patiently. "You can't force it. Sabrina got lucky. That doesn't mean you won't be a talented spellcaster, too. After all, good things come to those who wait."

Dad tried his best to stay out of it, but I could tell he was again questioning Mom's decision to introduce us to magic at such a young age. He kept glancing suspiciously at the orb that still hung over Sabrina. "Could you at least put that thing away for the night?" he asked. "I don't think it's appropriate at the dinner table."

Sabrina smiled sweetly. "Sorry, Dad, but we haven't learned how to do that yet." The conversation was closed.

Dad knew drawing us away from the allure of magic now would be impossible, but he still tried to spark other interests in us whenever possible. He said we needed balance in our lives, that we couldn't rely entirely on magic to ensure our success in the future. But I just couldn't see the fun in math or science, no matter how hard I tried. Sabrina, on the other hand, barely tried at all. Despite Dad's interventions, we were putting all our eggs solidly in the magical basket.

All he could do was look on in begrudging acceptance as Mom gave us extra casting lessons at home over the weekend instead of helping us with our academic homework. It strained their relationship at first, but then, once weeks had passed without us coming to harm in the Magic Realm, his anti-magic stance began to soften.

Meanwhile, I tried my best to take Mom's advice. I kept my head up and made an effort to stop pitting myself against Sabrina. Magic wasn't supposed to be a competition. It was about unlocking something special inside yourself, honing an elite skill that most people didn't even know existed. Mom always told us we had magic in our blood, going back centuries, but we had to build back the knowledge to fully harness it. Every time I practiced, I imagined myself as the descendant of an ancient Sulani sorceress and focused on channeling her fierce and boundless energy.

And, finally, I was rewarded for all that effort. On one of her foraging adventures, Inky came back pregnant. The moment I saw the new kitten, I felt an instant attachment. Here was my familiar, at last. When Mom realized, she even let me name him. I decided to call him Obsidian, which was one of the few words I'd retained from Dad's science lessons. The rock was cool and smooth and unremarkable in appearance but had been forged from a molten fire that still simmered at its core, which I could relate to: unassuming on the outside, blazing fiercely within.

As it turned out, meeting Sid was one of the last unbridled joys I experienced in my childhood. Soon, before I ever saw it coming, I would be forced by circumstances beyond my control to grow up in a hurry.