There was once a world that was wedged between Time and the bosom of the Earth. It was a wound to the planet, having been created in the past to be used in the present, for the people of the future.

In this world, there was a town that was cradled in the valley of a forested mountain range. Where the forest met the many little scattered houses, morning life was beginning to stir.

A boy was sitting inside a little, ivy-covered, wooden hut. He was about twelve, with very frizzy hair and matching, forest-floor-brown eyes. Blues was his name, although it matched his looks terribly.

He was sitting by a small desk that held a thick, green-glowing candle, the only source of light in his two-room hut. The morning was his favorite time, and he reveled in the peaceful silence of the sleeping town. On a perch by a glass-less window roosted a pale dove, head tucked beneath a light-brown wing. One of his eyes flickered open as Blues pulled out a large, leather-bound book from the shelf beside him; then, it closed again.

The volume fell open to a marker about halfway in the middle when Blues set it down quietly on his desk. Although it appeared to be a dictionary at first glance, the words it listed were not words at all. The book was filled with expressions of power, each labeled with their unique definitions.

Blues opened one of the drawers in his desk, flinching as the wood squeaked. The dove’s eye opened again, shining with the neon light of the candle. It watched as Blues took a jar out of the drawer, before sliding it quietly shut. Behind the glass—almost made translucent by the many scratches—sat little wriggly creatures on leafless branches. These particular wills appeared no different from spiders; though wills usually had wings, Blues needed to ensure that they would not fly away. Uninterested, the dove’s eye closed.

In a practiced motion, Blues quickly opened the top and caught an extremely fat will by its leg. Holding it above his desk, he single-handedly screwed the top back on and set the jar on his desk, beside the candle. The captured black creature wiggled and swung itself around in circles by its leg until Blues placed it on the table. It scurried toward the edge, seeking escape, but its self-induced dizziness slowed it.

“Stay here,” Blues whispered as he caught it by a different leg and dragged it back into the middle of the table. “Sorry about this,” he told it as, holding its body carefully between two fingers of his other hand, he tore the leg out. Then, wasting no time, he let go of both the bug and the leg. Almost subconsciously, he flicked his right hand. A long, thin, and completely black wand slid out of his sleeve, into his hand.

“Reparium,” Blues muttered, closing his eyes to concentrate. No one would have noticed anything change visually, but those who had mage-blood and a trained ear would be able to hear a soft, far-away-sounding hum. It grew louder as the will froze, and a lump appeared where the old leg used to be. When Blues opened his eyes again, a new leg was in its place.

“Thanks,” Blues said to the will as the hum of magic died. After he returned his wand to his sleeve, he screwed the top off the jar and dropped the will back in with its fellow insects. He replaced the top and rolled it back into the drawer. At this sound, the dove gave up on trying to sleep. He straightened up and stretched his wings.

“Good morning, Jet,” the brown-haired boy told his pet. The bird yawned, fluffed his feathers, and took to the air. A gust of wind, created by his wings, made the papers on the desk flutter as he swooped out the window. For a minute after, Blues gazed absentmindedly at the place in the darkness outside where Jet had disappeared. Then, he gathered a paper and pencil, and started to make notes.

“Blues, breakfast time!” a familiar voice called from outside. It was his father.

“Coming!” Blues stood up, blew out his candle, and slipped into his soft leather boots. When he stepped outside, he was somewhat surprised by how dark it still was; he had hardly noticed it in the comfort of his hut. The sky was not covered by thunderclouds, as he had expected, but by another kind of heavy, black haze that he had never seen before. A strange feeling stirred in the back of his heart, telling him that there was something wrong.

“Why is it still dark?” he asked, troubled.

“I don’t know,” Blues’ father answered, shrugging. “I don’t have much experience with that topic. Rain would know.” Blues knew that his father’s magic concerned magical creatures, not weather. His sister, however, was a different matter.

“Why don’t you call her by her real name? I find ‘TearCloud’ much prettier than ‘Rain.’”

“Well, her being the mage and me just a wizard,” his father sighed, “calling her a lower-rank name makes me feel less... untalented.”

“But you’re not just a wizard! You’re an archwizard! You should give yourself more credit.” Blues looked up at his father: a strong, smiling man, although age was slowly catching up with him. He had dark brown hair, like Blues, but it was streaked with gray.

“After eating breakfast, you can go practice some spells in the forest,” he told his son, changing the subject as he lead the way up to the family’s main house. “Come to think of it, how’s your studying coming along?”

“Fine. I think I’ll be ready for Welding,” Blues answered with a touch of excitement. “I can’t wait!”

His father turned his head and smiled cheerfully down on his son. Blues returned the smile. “You’ll have fun there. I can tell.”

“How big exactly is Welding?” Blues asked to keep the conversation up. “I heard it was a few hundred acres across, or something.”

“Why do you ask? You’ve been there before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen the whole thing!”

Mr. Corelli took a moment to think about it. “With my experience, I’d guess Welding’s about, well, big enough to hold twenty metal dragons.” Blues nodded in understanding; he was familiar with his father’s way to express measurements. Mr. Corelli was a dragon-archwizard, and it showed.

The sweet, doughy smell of pancakes tickled Blues’ nose as he entered the main house. This lovely stone building consisted of a few rooms, mostly bedrooms for the younger kids who did not yet have huts of their own. The largest space was the dining room, where the family gathered to eat. The unpainted walls revealed that the building was entirely wooden.

“Good morning, Mom,” he said as he passed a brown haired lady holding a large plate of pancakes, and he hurried to take his place.

All of Blues’ siblings were already gathered around a large round table. The Corellis had a distinct sitting pattern: Mr. and Mrs. Corelli sat together, in seats close by the kitchen so that they could get more food. Lila (age nineteen) sat on her mother’s left, beside Valsin (seventeen), Etude (fourteen) and his identical twin Symphony (fourteen), Blues (twelve), Melody (ten), Gavotte (nine), Musette (eight), and the youngest, Bourree (six). They all had brown hair and brown eyes, thanks to their parents.

Mr. Corelli sat down, and Mrs. Corelli placed the plate in the middle of the table.

“Enjoy,” she said with a smile as she sat down. The kids helped themselves and began to converse with each other. Blues took a pancake, spread strawberry marmalade over one side, and rolled it up. He nibbled slowly, somehow not feeling nearly as hungry as he usually did. Blues didn’t understand what was bothering him so much. His eyes wandered to the window behind Lila.

It was still dark.

“Is something wrong, Blues?” his mother asked him. “You don’t seem quite as talkative as usual.”

“No, I’m fine,” he lied. He waited in silence for everyone to finish eating, slowly chewing on his pancake to pass time. Then, excusing himself, he got up and left the house.

Blues headed to the forest. Usually the sun would glow the sinister atmosphere out of it, but today it looked dark and threatening. He hesitated if he should really go in, but the mature part of his brain told himself that he was a baby to be afraid of the forest. Quickly, he pulled his wand from his sleeve. He pointed it at himself and, concentrating to keep the spell as quiet as possible, pictured flames, a square, and the light mage-knot in his mind. After a whisper of magic passed, Blues slipped his wand away again. His body now glowed the same soft green color that the candle in his hut did.

Lighting himself a way into the forest, his magic somewhat dampened his fears. His fingers stroked the soft wood of his wand. He wasn’t going completely unarmed into the dark. With a little chuckle, he considered the irony: a shadow-blood afraid of the shadows. But, then again, shadow needed light.

Strange, he thought when not even a will crossed his path. Usually the forest was flooded with creatures, from fiery Rocs to gentle Eohorns. Where is everyone?

He walked further into the forest, his senses made more acute by his fear. He listened hard every time the wind rustled the leaves overhead. A twig tickled the back of his neck; he spun around and around, shivers running down his spine. All he wanted to do was try a spell, and get out. A part of him desired to run home, back to his cozy house. Yet, he kept walking deeper and deeper into the forest, as if a magnet was pulling him in. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Suddenly, Blues noticed the ground beneath his feet had changed. His eyes left his glowing feet and he looked up. His breath came faster, and his mind seemed to quiver as it programmed what he saw.

He had walked into a clearing, where the remains of a circle of scorched tents stuck out like the ribs of an animal long dead. In the middle was a large fire pit, from which thick black clouds were billowing. It looked as if the fire had blown up. Fear swamping all judgment, Blues turned to run. But his shock was broken by something in his mage-hearing. It sounded like a plea for help. The source was near, but Blues had never even heard of anyone using mage-sound to communicate...

There is someone in the fire, Blues decided. Hardly hesitating, now that he had his mind set to the cause, he approached the fire, whose clouds covered the sky and created the darkness. He half-expected to see the shadow of a person lying in the ashes, but as he came closer, he saw the shape of a bird.

Its little useless baby-wings flapped uselessly against the smoke as it struggled to get out of pit. Again, Blues heard the call for help in his mage-hearing.

His heart twisted with pity. Who would dare to do this? he wondered, shuddering. He reached into the swirling smoke to grab the bird.

The fire was moderately cool, but as Blues’ fingers touched the quill-covered body, he thought he had brushed living fire. Yelling with surprise and fear, he was about to pull away when the body became cooler, until it was nearly too cold for any bird or living thing. Desperately hoping that it was still alive, Blues pushed his hand under the bird’s chest and lifted it out of the smoking ashes.

The roc-sized baby was covered in black dust, so he carefully used a hand to brush some of it off. Beneath the ash was the oddest, most brilliant bird Blues had ever seen: gold skin, covered in spiky quills that would someday turn into red-and-orange feathers. A violet crest crowned the head of the chick. It looked up at him with wide, turquoise eyes, and opened its hawk-like beak in an attempt to make a sound, but none came.

“Shhh, I won’t hurt you. I’m Blues. You’re safe with me,” Blues told the bird, attempting to be reassuring while his own heart knocked like a drum in the inside of his skull. The big, thoughtful eyes closed, and the head hung limp against Blues chest.

“Oh no, please don’t die on me!” He stroked the crest with a finger, wanting the eyes to open, but they didn’t. The body became colder. “Please don’t die, you haven’t even lived yet...oh no, no, no.” Blues looked around desperately for something to wrap around the bird, but he found nothing but his own black robes. He hastily pulled it off himself single-handedly, wrapping it around the creature, careful not to pull it too tight. Thankful that it was a warm summer morning, his mind seemed too numb to wonder about what people would think when he returned home.

He turned on his heels, and ran.

He ran so fast that he felt his heart was going to explode. The bundle he clutched to his bare chest was becoming colder.

Finally, between the trees, he could see his hut. A blonde-haired man in bright orange robes was walking near it; Blues knew he had seen those colors before. But there was no time to be spent recognizing him. Before he knew it, they were face to face.

“… There’s a camp… in… the forest. I found her in the fire,” Blues gasped, with his last bit of energy, holding out his burden to the man. Just as he took it, Blues fell on the hard gravel road and fainted.