Lyrian Ashenbark's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Lyrian knelt on the old dock and rolled up her sleeve. The brown lines on her arm itched again. She had come here every morning for a week, hunting proof that the marks she was born with were finally speaking. She wanted to know what they meant. She would pay any price to find out. She pulled the cracked mirror from her bag and propped it against a post. Moss framed the glass. She held her wrist close and watched. A heron stood in the shallows, still as carved wood, its muddy legs locked in the reeds. Then a line moved. It was small, a thin curl sliding under her skin like a fish under dark water. Her breath caught. She pressed her thumb against it, and it shifted again, drifting toward her elbow. The itch spread. Another line turned. Then another. The heron snapped its head toward her and lifted into the air. Lyrian stared at her arm in the broken glass. The patterns were rearranging themselves into shapes she did not know. Fear rose in her throat, but under it, something sharper. Hunger. Whatever this was, it had begun, and she could not stop it. She rolled her sleeve down with shaking hands. The old archive of mossy stone sat a half day's walk inland. If anyone had ever written about marks like hers, the answer waited there. She stood, gathered the mirror, and started moving.