Thorn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Thorn pressed his palm against the academy gate and felt the magic in him surge, then die. Fire wanted to leap from his fingers. It always did. But it had no path out, and it burned back into his chest like swallowed smoke. He coughed. He wiped soot from his lips. Somewhere behind those soaring towers, the archmages of Broken Atlas trained the gifted. Thorn wanted to stand among them. He wanted it more than food, and lately he had gone without plenty of that. The problem was simple and cruel. Thorn owned nothing that could channel his power. Real students carried wands, rings, carved staves. Thorn carried a threadbare coat and holes in his boots. His talent was strong, everyone who touched his hand said so, but strong talent with no tool was just pain. The magic had nowhere to go. It stayed trapped, clawing at his ribs. His dragon nudged his ankle. The little creature was no bigger than a cat, its scales dark blue and scattered with points of light like a night sky. Thorn had found the hatchling half-frozen a month ago and shared his last bread with it. Now it followed him everywhere. It chirped and tugged his sleeve toward a flower cart near the wall. "We can't eat flowers," Thorn said. But the hatchling pulled harder. On the cart sat a bundle of peach blossoms, their petals threaded with fine gold veins that caught the light. Thorn reached out to move them aside. The moment his fingers brushed a golden vein, the trapped fire in his chest rushed forward. It poured down his arm and into the blossoms. The petals glowed. They did not burn. The gold veins drank his magic and held it, steady and bright, like a lamp finally given oil. Thorn gasped. The pain in his ribs was gone. For the first time in his life, his power flowed clean and calm. He curled his fingers, and a thread of flame danced above the blossoms, obeying him. The cart owner turned and saw the light. Her eyes went wide. "Thief," she said. "Those are worth more than you'll earn in a year." Thorn should have set them down. Instead he closed both hands around the stems. The blossoms were the only thing that had ever let his magic breathe. He could not give them back. He backed away, then he ran. His boots slapped the stones. The hatchling flew beside him, chirping. Behind him the woman shouted for the wardens. Thorn clutched the glowing blossoms to his chest and felt his power answer them with every step. He had found his channel at last. He had also made himself a hunted thief outside the gates of the very school he needed to enter.