Prologue - Layla
The candle trembled as she sucked in a steadying breath.
It was the only light in the room, thin and golden, the flame bending whenever she so much as blinked. Shadows danced over the desk, swallowing the edges of the pages and curling over the cracked spines of the books she wasn’t supposed to own.
The air smelled of wax, old paper, and a faint trace of salt.
Layla’s hands hovered over the open grimoire, its leather spine soft and cracked by years of use. Every time she looked at it, her stomach turned over, a mix of fear and reverence.
She shouldn’t have had it. She shouldn’t even haveknownthat books like this existed.
Still, she bent closer, squinting at the faded ink. The handwriting was delicate, looping, half-faded by time. A million times she’d read them, traced her fingers over the swirling letters. Spoke the words into the still air.
Felt her heart sink as yet again, nothing happened.
She nibbled her lip.
“By the four winds,” she whispered, reaching down into herself.
The candle flame held steady. Her skin stayed cool.
She frowned, tracing a finger along the next line. “By the ever-shifting tides.”
Again, nothing.
Layla exhaled, the breath shaky. She’d tried every night this week, always with the same result. No flicker, no warmth, nosign that her words had any power to them at all. She knew she must be doing something wrong. She just didn’t knowwhat.
The book promised signs. The words were supposed tostirthings, to make her skin prickle, her fingers heat up. She knew that. It was what happened with every other spell she cast. She had turned things to dust. Lit fires. Grown saplings into trees in the space of minutes. But whenever she triedthis one, all she had was the tired throb of her pulse and the weight of her own disappointment.
Her throat ached as she whispered the line again, slower this time, letting the syllables roll softly across her tongue. “By the ever-shifting tides…”
The candle fluttered.
She froze.
The flame tilted sharply, then steadied. Outside, the trees rustled with a passing breeze.
She tried not to throw her head back and groan. It was only a draft from her ancient bedroom window.
“Come on,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her fingers digging into the page, “come on,please.”
For a moment, the air seemed to still.
Then, nothing.
A small, helpless sound caught in her throat. She sat back, rubbing her temples. What did she expect? That she’d suddenly get it? That after ayearof trying, after nearly a lifetime of practising other spells, the universe would suddenly take pity on her?
It was no use. She couldn’t shift. And no amount of magic was going to help her.
With a childish growl, she shoved the grimoire aside, turning and rummaging under her bed for a different book. This one was newer, the leather still firm, the pages crisp and white. She opened it on the makeshift altar in front of her, glaring at the candle as the flame flickered and diminished, daring it to go out.
She flicked through the pages, landing on a familiar spell. Squinting her eyes at the candle, she held out her hand and spoke the words.
The effect was instantaneous. The tips of her fingers tingled, then grew warm. The air around her seemed to freeze, as if captured by her will. And the flame, for a single second, flared crimson red.
And then, as quickly as it came, the magic faded again.
Layla exhaled, slamming the book shut, and threw an imperious glare at the other grimoire.
