Fractured Magic: Chapter One

Welcome to Fractured Magic, a fantasy webserial about political and personal accountability, ghosts both figurative and literal, and a pair of estranged friends who act like they’ve gone through the world’s messiest divorce.

Leandros Nochdvor had a secret: he loved ghost stories, especially the trashy, serialized variety that sold on street corners for a penny. Losing himself in a whirlwind romance and dubious haunting was easier than confronting his own ghosts, the failures and losses that clung to him like cobwebs.

As far as guilty pleasures went, this one was relatively harmless. Before today, it had never caused him any problems.

He’d been browsing market stalls with his cousin when he’d spotted it: the latest installment of his favorite serial, taunting him from a newsstand across the street. The author was known for her scandalous content, and her cover illustrations were no exception. This one depicted a scantily-dressed woman wrapped in her lover’s arms, a dark house looming behind them, and Leandros couldn’t imagine buying it in front of the Crown Princess of Alfheimr. The trouble was that he might not get another chance.

Penny dreadfuls, even popular ones, had limited print runs that sold out fast. While anyone else could borrow copies off friends and neighbors if they missed a week, Leandros was a prince of Alfheimr. More than that, he was the son of a traitor and the man who killed Egil. His reputation was poor enough; if anyone learned about these little indulgences of his, it would sink even lower.

Back home, he had a strategy. Once a week, he donned a disguise, stole out of the palace, and holed up in a dark café to read. Unfortunately, traveling with family afforded few chances for sneaking out. When they weren’t on the road, they were guests in someone else’s home. When Leandros did manage to sneak away, his cousin stuck to him like papier-mâché.

Kitty, the naïve heroine of The Carmine Brooch, ended the last installment locked in her evil godfather’s attic, the hero a day’s ride away. Leandros hadn’t been thinking about that then, when he’d agreed to this trip, and he regretted that now.

Leandros looked back at the newsstand, then over at his cousin—only to find she’d wandered off. All he could see of her was her parasol, her back to him as she perused a jeweler’s stall. It was now or never. Penny already in hand, Leandros stepped off the sidewalk into the street, but before he made it even a step further, someone crashed into him with all the force of a freight train.

It knocked Leandros into a florist’s stall, where he collided face-first with bundles of flowers hung to dry. The florist jumped back in alarm, and tipped over a tub of wilting roses, all that sickly sweet water pouring right toward Leandros, then right down his trousers. It was freezing. Muttering an ungentlemanly string of curses, Leandros swiped away the dried bouquets, shook off as much water as he could, and whirled to confront whoever had run into him.

He found her on the ground, pushing herself unsteadily to her hands and knees, and all the fight bled out of him. He didn’t even mind the cold anymore. Around them, people were pointing and whispering, but he paid them no mind.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, offering the stranger a hand. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, but she shook her head as Leandros pulled her up. It was only once she was stable and steadied that she looked up at him and he glimpsed the face beneath the hood.

Goosebumps broke out along his skin.

Leandros loved ghost stories, but ghosts were never supposed to be real. They were only metaphor, feeling. Still, he could think of no better word to describe this woman.

A mask covered the lower half of her face, but by her long ears, Leandros could tell she was one of the orinians that lived across the valley. What skin was visible was bloated and mottled like a corpse, parts of it torn open by gaping wounds. She met his eyes, her own feverish and bright, and then took off running. Leandros did the only thing he could think to do: he gave chase.

 “Leandros!” he heard Rhea call, her voice barely audible above the florist’s shouts and the onlookers’ rippling murmurs. At first, the crowd resisted him, but when they pushed, he pushed harder. He elbowed his way through until he finally shot free of them like a bullet from the barrel of a pistol, and then he sprinted after the woman.

He didn’t even know what he wanted from her—to help her, to question her, or simply to stop her—but he was no stranger to trouble. He trusted his instincts, and right now, every instinct told him that losing this woman would be a mistake. He kept the back of her raggedy cloak in his sights until it disappeared around a corner ahead. Putting on a burst of speed, Leandros turned the corner himself only seconds later.

She was gone. The street was empty. There were no alleys, no side roads, not even open storefronts that Leandros could see. There was nowhere to escape to. Leandros slid to a stop.

“Damn,” he swore, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. He kicked a loose cobblestone and sent it flying. “Damn!”

He should have expected this. Leandros Nochdvor was made up of good intentions that always met bad ends. Why should this have ended any differently?

When his anger cooled, he looked around and realized he’d followed the woman halfway across the city. Even worse, he’d followed her to the last place in Illyon he wanted to visit: Egil’s old neighborhood. Of all the ghosts Leandros wished to avoid, this was the worst of them.

The neighborhood had taken a downward turn since Leandros’ last visit, the cobblestone pock-marked and the houses neglected. Illyon had always been a dingy, self-important little city, “progressive” in a way that only meant progress for the lucky, but Egil had made it bright. He had made everything bright. Today, factory smoke filled Illyon’s skies, burying the suns and casting the city in shadow. Beneath the smog was a stench so foul it hurt to breathe, the product of a sewage system that hadn’t grown to fit its increasing population. If Illyon was good for anything these days, it was this: ill omens, bad feelings, and reminding Leandros of everything he’d lost.

Still hoping to find his mystery orinian, he hurried down the street, but he knew in his heart she’d become just another ghost.

He found himself outside Egil’s old house before long. He hadn’t meant to come this way, not consciously, but now that he was here, he couldn’t seem to leave. It was a small building, better maintained than most in the neighborhood, with cheerful windows and a door that stood unexpectedly open. It had been turned into a museum, he remembered now, the eight-foot-tall statue of Egil that stood on the front lawn jogging his memory. It looked nothing at all like the famous hero. Egil would have loved it.

Leandros wondered what it looked like inside. Was the guest bedroom still there, the one Egil had ready for him whenever he’d wanted it? Were the halls still lined with the blue wood of the ibal trees he and Egil had hauled in from Troas? What had happened to this place, which had once been more of a home to him than his own?

A sigh escaped Leandros. As an alfar, he’d always been warned that humans died young, but he’d never been taught how to live on without them. He couldn’t help but think that if Egil had been here, the orinian wouldn’t have gotten away. Egil would have known what was wrong with her. Egil would have known how to help.

Across the narrow street, a group of children played jump rope, chanting an old rhyme to the beat:

Taurel, taurel, old stone and coral
Where do you end your reign?
Spread through the valley, down to the trees.
You will be Egil’s bane.

As Leandros turned, watching them without seeing, the young girl holding one end of the ropes slowed, almost tripping her friend in the middle. “Ansel, what’s taurel?” she called. “It sounds made up.”

The boy holding the other end shrugged.

“It’s a blue flower that grows far north of here,” Leandros answered. When the kids all turned to look at him, he held out his forefinger and thumb, about an inch of space between them. “They’re about this big, and they smell like every beautiful thing.”

“Have you seen them?” the girl asked.

“Many times, but they only grow on Unity Island. The rhyme is about Unity.”

“But it wasn’t Unity that killed Egil,” Ansel argued, regarding Leandros with suspicion. He looked older than the other children, and like Leandros, he was alfar, with pointed ears and sharp features. “Egil went mad and killed a hundred people and even Unity couldn’t stop him! That’s why Prince Leandros had to do it.”

“Ms. Olsen says Egil was a great hero,” argued the middle girl. She stopped her jumping to glare at Ansel. “Heroes don’t kill people.”

“They do if they go mad.”

The girls looked conflicted about this. Feeling vaguely ill, Leandros didn’t notice the carriage rattling up the street until it stopped behind him and a familiar voice called, “Leandros!”

Leandros was about to swear again when he remembered the children in front of him. He bit his tongue and turned to find his cousin climbing out of a hansom cab.

Rheamaren Nochdvor wasn’t like Leandros. Though younger, she was the perfect in alfar in ways Leandros had never pulled off: collected. Composed. Controlled. She never ran; she only walked. She didn’t get waylaid by mysterious strangers or inquisitive children. She never cursed, especially in front of kids, but Leandros could tell by the set of her mouth that she dearly wanted to, right now.

They were supposed to be discreet, sneaking around the city without an escort, but even if she hadn’t just broadcast Leandros’ identity, anyone could tell at a glance that Rhea was royalty. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a deep red dress with a full skirt and mutton sleeves. As a symbol of her status, she wore her long, golden hair down, the pointed tips of her ears sticking out from beneath it.

She looked back at the house, then down at the children, and finally at Leandros. “Am I interrupting something?”

“We were just discussing Egil,” Leandros said with a wry smile. It softened when he glanced back at the kids, and he gave them a playful bow. The two girls grinned and curtsied back, but Ansel only stared, open-mouthed. “I’m sorry to have kept you from your game. Please, excuse me.”

Rhea glanced at the children disinterestedly before returning to the cab, imperiously holding a hand out for Leandros to help her up. Once they were both settled in the shared seat, she asked, “Egil, really? I don’t know why you do this to yourself.”

“It wasn’t intentional, believe it or not.”

“You ran off and ended up at Egil’s old house on accident? I don’t believe it. What in the world made you take off like that?”

Leandros scratched his chin, now embarrassed to say. Maybe he’d only imagined that woman. Maybe he’d been reading too many penny dreadfuls. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I thought I saw someone strange and was trying to follow her.”

“And abandoned me in the process,” Rhea complained. “What if something happened to me? What would you have done? What would you have told my father?”

“You’re more than capable of handling yourself, Rhea.”

“Hmph,” Rhea said. “What was so strange about her?”

“It’s hard to describe. She was orinian, but she—”

“Orean is a day’s ride away, Leandros,” Rhea interrupted. Her voice was flat and measured, flawless as cold stone. “Of course there will be orinians here.”

“Let me finish, Rhea!” Leandros snapped. Normally, he tried to be patient with his cousin, but the cold wind blowing through the cab made it impossible to forget his wet clothing, and that only reminded him of the rest of this miserable day—the Carmine Brooch installment, the lost orinian, the unwelcome memories. There was only one silver lining he could see: his mourning blacks had at least preserved his dignity. If he’d been wearing a trendy white linen suit instead, he would have had a truly terrible day, instead of just an irritating one. “Something was wrong with her, Rhea. Really wrong.”

“Not with her endurance, given how fast she ran from you,” Rhea said. She paused, then, and examined her cousin’s expression more closely. His unease must have been obvious, given how quickly her tone changed. “Well, where did she go? Should we keep looking for her?”

Leandros sighed and checked his watch. “There’s no time,” he said. Besides, he suspected they wouldn’t find her even if they did look. “We can make it back for your father’s reception if your driver’s any good.”

“He’s not my driver. I had to hail a public cab when you ran off,” Rhea grumbled. Still, she sat forward and called back to the driver, “To Hampstead Hall, and there’s more in it for you if you’re quick.”

“How did you find me, by the by?” Leandros asked.

“I had to stop and ask a dozen people along the way. You made quite the impression, with your mad dash through the streets.”

“Ah,” Leandros said, sheepish.

The carriage rattled easily through the streets, the crowds parting for it in a way they hadn’t for fellow pedestrians. Leandros kept checking his watch on the way, watching the smooth ride shave minutes off their arrival time. It was an old watch, the front dented and the metal tarnished, but it still ticked steadily in Leandros’ hand. When he shut it again, his eyes carefully avoided the initial engraved on the inside lid.

“Only two minutes late,” he said smugly.

“You’re the one who made us late, so why do you sound so proud?” Rhea asked. “There are flowers in your hair, by the way.”

Leandros frowned and ran his hands through his hair. It was the same golden color as Rhea’s and was cut fashionably at chin length, though a single, stubborn lock tended to fall rather unfashionably into his eyes. Sure enough, a handful of dried petals fell into his lap.

“I had to pay for all those roses you ruined,” Rhea added. “I expect you to pay me back.”

Leandros scoffed. “Those roses were already as good as dead. Whatever you paid, it was too much.”

“And what was I supposed to do? You didn’t exactly give me time to barter!”

“I don’t believe you even know how to barter, but fine. I’ll pay you back if your father doesn’t kill me for making you late.”

“He won’t. You know how he always defends you. Besides, he’s too glad you finally left the palace to be angry.” Rhea watched, unimpressed, as he continued to shake out his hair, then took pity and plucked the last bit out for him. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Leandros paused. That wasn’t a common thing to hear from Rhea. “For what?”

“I finally coaxed you out of Alfheim and then all of this happened,” she said, gesturing at Leandros. “I feel responsible.”

Leandros shook his head. “My rotten luck has nothing to do with you.”

A small furrow appeared between Rhea’s brows. All alfar expressions were subtle, Rhea’s more than most, but Leandros knew where to look. “Are you all right?” she asked softly. This wasn’t about the roses or the orinian; this was about Egil.

Leandros’ expressions were not subtle. He looked out the window to hide his face. “You were right; I can’t hide from the world forever. It sounds strange, but I think seeing the house gave me the closure I needed. In a way, that strange orinian was a gift.” Turning back to his cousin, he added, lighter, “I just wish they hadn’t turned the house into a museum.”

Rhea smiled, a small, private expression Leandros had seen enough times to count on one hand. “So buy the building. We’ve arrived, by the way. Would you like to complain more, or shall we go?”

“By all means, let’s go. I can complain on the way.”

_____

If the guards of Hampstead Hall were surprised to see their guests of honor on the wrong side of the gates, they didn’t show it, just pointedly informed Rhea and Leandros that His Majesty the King was meeting with the mayor in the east tower. Past the guard post, the two alfar stopped in an empty, echoing courtyard to brush the road dust from their clothes. By now, Leandros’ trousers had mostly dried, though they’d dried stiff and crunchy.

Around them, the unique silver brick of Hampstead’s walls caught in the sunslight, making the place feel like a glittering mosaic. Now and then, servants scurried along the upper corridors, disappearing and reappearing between ivy-covered columns and glancing over the edge to catch sight of the princess and her infamous cousin. More than used to being a subject of curiosity, Leandros ignored them.

From there, they climbed the spiral stairs to the east tower, stopping before a pair of gilded doors that were opened for them by the guards posted on either side. Rhea swept inside first. She treated her arrival like it was a gift to everyone within, and Leandros had to wipe a smile from his face before he could follow. In Illyon, as in the whole Alfheimr province, expression was a weakness that would be used against him.

The reception hall was a round room circled on all sides by arched windows. The nobles inside made Leandros squint even more than the suns outside; their sparkling gowns and bright jewelry refracted light along the domed ceiling as they circled a man at the room’s center, planets circling a bright sun. Nobles and politicians, circling the King of Alfheimr.

Amos Nochdvor turned when Rhea and Leandros swept in, tall and regal and golden. He didn’t smile—that would be boorish—but his eyebrows lifted. It was the warmest welcome he could afford to give them, and Leandros felt a rush of fondness. “There you are.”

Rhea and Leandros both bowed. As she straightened again, Rhea said, “Apologies, father. I asked Leandros to show me the city.”

At the mention of Leandros’ name, scorn whispered through the room, more than a few nobles tilting their heads to look down their noses at him. “You couldn’t have chosen a better time for your tour?” Amos asked. His sharp blue eyes pinned Leandros in place. Leandros had the same eyes, as had his father before him.

Leandros bowed again. “The fault is mine.”

The whispers swelled around them.

“It’s a beautiful day and you’re both young. I cannot blame you, and neither can anyone else,” Amos said pointedly, silencing the whispers in an instant. When the king again met Leandros’ gaze, the ice in his eyes had thawed. “But we will discuss your leaving without an escort later.”

With that, he returned to the conversation they’d interrupted. It was an obvious dismissal, and Rhea tugged Leandros toward the windows, out of the way. Even after his uncle defended him, he could still feel eyes on him, weighing and judging, so he leaned out the open window. Slowly, conversations resumed around them.

Alfheimr treasured stoicism: hide how you feel. Never say what you mean. Be private, be discreet, and give your enemies nothing. Leandros had a history of breaking these rules—he’d traveled too often and too far in his youth. He’d spent too long in the very human hero’s company. He’d lost what made him alfar. To his people, he was something of an oddity. Without his uncle always accepting and defending him, he didn’t know where he’d be.

“Shouldn’t you mingle?” he asked his cousin.

“If anyone wishes to speak with me, they can come to me.”

“They won’t, as long as I’m beside you.”

Rhea nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

Alfheimr meetings started notoriously slowly, alfar engaging in business like hesitant new partners at the start of a dance. Leandros had no use for dancing, no use for gossip or small talk, so he continued admiring the view. From here, Illyon sprawled below him like a map, plumes of factory smoke curling at one end and the rooftops of Hampstead Hall sloping beneath him at the other. A valley stretched beyond the city’s walls, and the independent city-state of Orean sat even further, little more than a spot on the horizon.

Leandros was trying to make out the shape of the city when the doors opened again and the captain of Hampstead’s guard entered to kneel before the king. Everyone in the wide room quieted. “A messenger from Orean has come to speak with you, Your Majesty,” he said.

Leandros wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the nobles reacted even more disdainfully to the mention of Orean than they had to his name. Orean was always the subject of empty grumbling, like bad weather or a favored horse losing at the tracks, but this was different. Leandros had heard whispers of rising tensions and disputes over valley resources, but whispers were normal. He’d thought they were normal, but now he wasn’t sure.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Amos asked the woman beside him—Illyon’s mayor, Leandros remembered from earlier introductions. “No matter. We’ll hear them out.”

“Yes, Your Majesty," the captain said. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you don’t mind my saying, there’s something off about this woman. Something unnatural.”

Rhea and Leandros shared a look. Rhea grabbed for Leandros’ sleeve, but Leandros was already stepping forward. “Your Majesty, if I may,” he said. “Did she have a black cloak and red hair?”

Eyebrows raised, the captain nodded, and Leandros felt his stomach drop. Every bad feeling he’d had while chasing the woman returned in an instant. “Princess Rheamaren and I ran into her on our way here, I believe.”

“Explain,” Amos ordered.

Leandros bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I only saw her for a moment, but her face was full of cuts from no weapon I’ve seen. She ran before I could speak with her.”

Amos considered this. “Do you suggest I invite her up, or turn her away?” he asked. Behind him, a dozen nobles stared unblinkingly at Leandros.

“Invite her up, but be wary. She may have something important to say, but—” She gave me a bad feeling, he’d been about to say. Fortunately, he realized how childish the words sounded before he spoke them. “Just be wary.”

“Invite her up, then. I won’t turn away a missive from Orean.”

_____

The captain hadn’t been gone long before the doors opened again.

The smell hit first, like rancid meat and spoiled perfume, then the darkness: shadows stretched preternaturally through the doors, reaching along the walls and floor like grasping claws, snuffing out the dancing lights cast by all the glitter and gold. The woman followed them inside. Since their meeting in the marketplace, she’d removed her cloak; etched onto leather armor so old it belonged in a history text, she wore Orean’s insignia.

She moved forward with a jerky sway, like a puppet guided by an inexperienced puppeteer. Only then did she lower her mask, and amidst a chorus of gasps, everyone who could backed away.

She looked even worse than Leandros had realized: her skin was gray, almost translucent, and framed by curls as red as blood. Like all orinians, she had long, calf-like ears and a tail that hung behind her, twitching like a cat on the hunt’s. The wounds Leandros had glimpsed before stretched across her skin in a mockery of an orinian’s birthmarks, and where muscle and bone should have been visible beneath instead swirled a strange magma, orange and sluggish and hypnotic. Her eyes, alight with the same glow, fixed unblinkingly on the king.

“Madam,” the king gasped. “You’re ill. Let us call a physician.”

Leandros felt ill simply from looking at her. Near him, one of Illyon’s nobles fainted in a heap of heavy skirts, her friends too entranced by their flyblown visitor to catch her. Faced with everyone’s horror, the woman only smiled. At least, Leandros thought it was supposed to be a smile—only half her face cooperated, the other cut through by those awful lacerations. Beneath the cruor, she was tragically beautiful.

Beyond her appearance, beyond her smile, beyond even the smell of death that clung to her like perfume, something about her unsettled Leandros. It was something bigger, a presence behind her eyes, looking out. It made Leandros feel very small, looking at something too large to even see. It hid in the swirl of that glow on her skin, and it had Leandros’ hand going to the revolver he wore at his hip. He needed to get Amos away from her, and Amos seemed to have the same realization. “Guards!” the king shouted, his voice breaking on the word. “Guards!”

There was no answer from the hallway beyond, only fingers of blood creeping along the floor from without. When the orinian woman took a step toward the king, the mayor bravely moved to block her way.

“Don’t!” Leandros warned, but too late. The orinian caught the mayor by the throat, her graying fingers swollen, and lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing.

“Release her!” the king commanded. “Release her and tell us what you want!”

The orinian tilted her head to one side, considering the command, then let the mayor drop. “Very well,” she said in an accent as old as her clothing, as old as the impossible presence that wore her like a shell. “I want you. Will you come with me?”

Leandros drew his gun and aimed it at the woman. His hands were steady. “He’s not going anywhere.”

The woman glanced at Leandros and seemed to dismiss him, but then she looked again. “It’s you,” she observed. “What is your name?”

Leandros hesitated, then answered, “Leandros Nochdvor.”

The woman nodded, as if committing it to memory. “It was kind of you to help me stand, before. I’m sorry, but I will have this king.”

When she took another step, Leandros fired.

The crack of the gun echoed through the room. Someone shouted and ducked, but the bullet struck its target, tearing into the woman’s shoulder. While she stumbled and lost her stride, she didn’t so much as glance down before pressing forward again. Instead of blood, the wound oozed black sludge. Again, Leandros shot. This time, she barely slowed. It was impossible. Inhuman. Leandros shot her again and again and again, shot until his gun ran out of bullets and the orinian reached his king. Standing before Amos, she pressed a single finger to his chest.

Leandros watched his uncle crumple like a broken doll.

Rhea screamed and surged forward, but Leandros caught her by the wrist and dragged her back. Finally, others were moving as well. They rushed toward Amos, but before they could reach him, the orinian swept a hand through the air and something erupted from her palm—something like lightning and something like fire, something that glowed with the same crimson as the magma beneath her skin. It hung in a ring around herself and the fallen king, keeping everyone back. It cracked and sputtered, and as she hoisted Amos off the ground and threw him over her shoulder, it expanded to singe anyone standing close enough.

Despite Rhea’s struggling, Leandros dragged her further back, only stopping when the backs of his thighs hit the windowsill. He tore his eyes from his uncle’s limp form to watch the flames: every few seconds, they sparked and spread, growing wider and wider. By the time he looked back at the orinian, what he saw made him grip Rhea’s wrist so hard she gasped. The orinian’s had changed, shadow eclipsing pupil, iris, and sclera and leaving her eyes entirely black. Leandros was frozen in place. He’d seen eyes like those only once before. Egil’s had looked the same on the day that he died.

Before he could do anything else, the woman disappeared into thin air, the king disappearing with her. Rhea sobbed and tried to pry free Leandros’ grip, but even though the orinian was gone, her flames were not. It sputtered, molten sparks flying. Leandros could feel the heat, now, even from where he stood. He made a decision, then. He turned, caught Rhea by the waist, and launched them both out the open window.

Rhea screamed as they fell, only to be drowned out by a final, deafening pop from behind them. When the women’s flames exploded, every window in the eastern tower burst. The alfar fell amidst a shower of glass and flame.

They hit flat rooftop a few fleeting seconds later, searing pain shooting up Leandros’ shoulder at his landing. He grunted in pain but immediately pushed himself up, holding himself over his cousin to protect her from the falling glass. It hit his back and arms, cutting and slicing even as the smaller shards dug into his palms. After what felt like ages, it stopped, and only then did he collapse atop the debris.

It gave him a perfect view of the charred tower, its bricks no longer sparkling. Before he could process the sight, Rhea entered his field of vision, her cheeks streaked with tiers. “Leandros!” she cried, voice hoarse. “Leandros, she took my father! What do we do?”

Leandros shook his head. His ears rang, but he could hear the distant sound of fire bells. When he closed his eyes, he saw all-black ones staring back. The answer came to him easily: “We get him back.”

Welcome to Fractured Magic!

If you haven't already seen, there's a Character Guide and list of Content Warnings in the table of contents link above. If you’d like to support the story, the best thing you can do is share it with others. You can also support the author with a one-time tip, or get perks in one of two membership tiers:

$2/month - Receive a behind-the-scenes newsletter that includes character art, exclusive content and updates, writing advice, and more.
$5/month - In addition to the above newsletter, receive chapters one week early.