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Hello! I'm a fourteen year old aspiring author and my name's Avery! I really appreciate you taking the time to come visit and read my chapter draft.

Disclaimer: This is not the entire chapter; the second half is currently being edited. Thanks in advance.

Chapter One

Discovery

Sorrel was not talented. Sure, he knew how to tend to his family’s farmland, feed the

chickens, or sing a herd of sheep to sleep. But those were human talents.

Sage Valley valued the divine talents.

Sorrel could not wield a blade of fire--or even begin to create such a thing--like his

teacher; he could not balance a drop of water over his palms like his mother, or places protection wards like his father; he could not make the ground shake at will like his best friend--he could not do all of the things the valley saw as valuable, though his parents claimed he was great at ‘other things,’ and that was what made him talentless. It was not a matter of talent, it was always a matter of what others perceived as talent.

All that aside, he did offer himself the slightest bit of pride when he finished singing to

the sheep herd, or spent a hard day of labor on the farm. The town may deem the process as useless; a human job for those who lacked divine talents, but Sorrel saw the much needed value in nutrition--many seemed to think that magick alone would keep them from starvation--and felt useful in his help to feed the valley.

His family--the Attah family--owned the largest plot in the entire valley. Attah farm’s

nearly covered a quarter of the valley’s land in its residence of one of the southern corners. It was a successful farm despite the backlash at the undivine methods of farming and a sense of pride to both his old mother and father.

On the final day of a week, when the students of Sage Valley’s Academia of Magick were

offered a break day, Sorrel was assigned to plow the large wheat field that backed onto the village’s protective barrier while his mother and father took a well-deserved rest.

Even so, as Sorrel wiped sweat off his brow and winced at his blistered hands holding

the shovel, he desperately wished his parents had decided to have another child--even one more would have be generous enough for him. Sorrel didn’t think he was alone in the opinion either. With Sage Valley’s quickly decreasing fertility and birth rate due to a lack of interest in marriage, it seemed larger families were sour at the fact the old woman never thought to contribute at a younger age--and with such a spacious property too--he often heard the other woman gossip.

The property was certainly spacious; the back field in particular. It seemed not many

people wanted to live near the barrier, leaving a plethora of space around the town.

Sorrel lifted the shovel from the dirt. The shovel was made for much taller than people

than himself, and Sorrel found himself heaving with every lift of the large tool.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m never making progress,” he whispered to no one in

particular.

Over the crest of the hill, his favourite sheep, Lilo, bleated his way in answer.

“Hard day for you to, huh Lilo?”

Lilo’s eyes were focused on something behind Sorrel; his hooves grinding nervously.

Before Sorrel could turn around to see what had frightened him, the sheep cried out, running down the hill and back to the pen.

What was that all about?
If it had been any other sheep--they all seemed to panic at the slightest things--he

would’ve have simply turned back to his work and mentioned for his mother to plant fresh lavender in the sheep’s pen to calm their nerves. But Lilo was different. He was the eldest of the herd and just as wise and mature. When others cried out, he often rammed his head into their side to quiet them. It was unusual for him to be scared, and at such an extent as well.

Then again, Sorrel was near the barrier, and behind it uncharted and unknown lands.

Perhaps Lilo had only seen something strange--it was certainly not unheard of.

Sorrel too was not fond of the other side; it’s bare-branched trees and strange noises

accompanied by even stranger creatures. It was childish of him, but he feared to turn around lest he come face to face with a terrible beast only a nightmare could conjure.

Shaking thoughts aside--he worked here every seventh day and nothing had ever happened,

nor had he seen any outlandish creatures aside from the odd crow--he whipped his head to face the barrier, only to dispel the fear that ran in his veins like an icy shock.

Nothing. He shook his head, laughing to himself. What did he expect?

The same dead vegetation, gray sky and hollow wind--it was nightmarish, but it was

nothing out of the ordinary.

He began to plow the dirt again, losing his thoughts in the simple yet tiring motions.

The sun was perfect this season; bright and warm but not enough to scorch plants to a crust. It didn’t happen too often that they had such a mild season, as the climate in Sage Valley was never a solid thing. It could be a blizzard one day and a drought the next; unpredictable but charming; a welcome change for a village that stayed the same far too long too often. The old human farmers would have found such weather tedious, but for Attah farms, though Sorrel Attah himself wasn’t blessed with any magick, his mother and father certainly were. His mother had a talent with water and his father with charms and hexes. Even when seasons were strange, the combined skills of his parents were always enough to turn the tide and save the harvest.

And what about when I’m the only one left in the family?

He shook his head again, shaking the stubborn thoughts away. People didn’t die

behind Sage Valley’s barriers--not from age at least. And his parents would always be safe from harm with their talents.

Behind his back he heard a crunch in the dirt; the soft sound of something smaller than

himself landing.

He turned around once again to see a small, dark bird in the dirt. Its eyes were small

and intent--like it was watching him or searching him for something--and when Sorrel met its gaze it warbled in an ugly way.

“Mischievous little creatures,” Sorrel sighed, setting his plow and shovel down in the

dirt. When harvests were plentiful, corvids from behind the barrier who were small and clever enough to slip between the gaps took a liking to Attah’s farms and its produce--corn in particular. His father often put up sigils to ward of the sneaky creatures, but by now the blood had washed away, leaving the farms wide open and ripe for picking.

Sorrel, who couldn’t do many--if any--of the things a divine citizen would do in the

situation, did what he could only do; a simple human reaction but something that almost always worked. He screamed, loud, in its face.

The bird only hopped a step back. It raised its beak and tilted its head to the side like it

was daring him to make another move. Sorrel shook his head. “You’re not planning on leaving are you?”

It scrabbled in the dirt for a minute with its beak and talons before hopping to where

Sorrel’s tools still lay. It cawed again, loud enough that he could hear Lilo and the other sheep bleat from over the hills.

Sorrel gulped. “Can you leave . . . please?” he pleaded, knowing he sounded as

ridiculous as he felt. Olive would never let him hear the end of this if she witnessed him speaking with crows.

Behind him, the wind howled through the barrier like a winded flute. Sorrel rubbed

the goosebumps on his arms. He heard, distantly, the town square’s clock chime five bells--his parents would have started preparing the evening meal now . . . but the field was only half plowed . . .

Sorrel sighed and picked up the plow, turning his gaze away from the attentive corvid.

What do you want?  The question echoed in his head even when he forced himself to continue plowing. And why do you keep staring at me?

Sorrel could hear scuffling from behind him. The creature was going to ruin his

finished work now too? Putting down his shovel once again, he watched as the crow took dirt from the ground and placed to the side where an ever-growing pile stood.

What an odd creature . . . I shall have to hit the books later. Did crows always have such

strange mannerisms? He wondered if there were many books about crows and other birds in the library; he hadn’t ever seen or read much about the wildlife behind the barrier. Perhaps he could write a book on crows? He’d always wanted to publish a book; something new and explosive that offered a new perspective on the world. It was a childhood dream of his, to be the one who changed the world with the intensity of his words.

He snorted at that, a novel on crows wasn't particularly world-changing, unless you were

a curious child like himself. When he was little books were like matches to him. Some children took pleasure in the act of lighting fires and creating havoc; he took pleasure in diving into a fresh book. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. It was like a moth to candlelight.

When he began to ponder the oddness of such a creature--it came from the outside . . .

what has it seen? How does it . . . live?--curiosity spread like a flame from Sorrel’s mind to his fingertips. This was a creature from the outside--the unknown. How come no one has ever tried to understand one before?

Sorrel knelt down in the dirt. The crow cocked its head momentarily before turning

back to its seemingly important work of separating dirt clumps.

Sorrel moved out his hand near the crow’s back. His fingers shook as he

reached--both from caution and a hint of fear at the unknown. He didn’t want to scare the creature away after all it took from his farming, and he also wasn’t fond of touching things he didn’t know or understand--what if the creature sprouted a second beak and bit his hand off? It was probable with the lack of research.

Sorrel felt himself shutting his eyes and turning his head as his fingertips began to

graze the crow’s feathers.

“Please don’t kill me,” he whispered several times like his own form of prayer. If he

could create sigils like his father, then perhaps he would be rubbing one right now for strength in the mind, but unfortunately, he couldn’t, and was resulted to simply searching for bravery.

Think of Lilo. Yes, think of Lilo and his soft ears and dappled coat"

The crow let out a human scream.

“Eek!” Sorrel fell back in surprise, hands thrown over his face. Isn’t that what you’re

supposed to do when faced with a sharp-clawed creature when it attacks? He’d never been faced with a sharp-clawed creature so he couldn’t be sure.

The crow, however, appeared to be just as terrified as the boy. He took to the sky in

a storm of black feathers, frantically shrieking along the way. The last glimpse Sorrel saw of the creature was the end of its glossy tail feathers before burrowing itself into the leaves of a large oak. The air hummed in its wake--it was a feeling Sorrel was accustomed to; the faint tune of magick and the energy it leaves behind--and the boy was hit with a wrenching pain in his gut.

“Ouch"” His words trailed off as a second wave hit, this time like claws of ice wrapped

around his stomach. He put his own hands over the ache, clenching his teeth so hard together that he thought for a moment his jaw would break.

The faint melody of magick had all but disappeared from the fields, but the pain only ebbed

down slightly, enough for Sorrel to remove his hands and come to his senses. What he felt now could only be described as a migraine . . . in his stomach, that is.

He blinked up at the sun, his vision swimming. “What . . . happened?” he asked himself. Books and scrolls and papers ran through his mind at lightning speed. Class rules; Union

rules; the strangely cursed Morga’s hollow, where the law was said to have been planted. Yes, now he remembered. The Protection legislation, founded in 600 B.C by Sir Normadis Nuttle and Sir Frederick Krass. It banned all corrupted magick from being used for ill in the valley--with the help of powerful dark magicians from behind the barrier who’d placed age-old charms in the ground that cracked the hands and wrists of anyone who dared to go against the law on Sage Valley’s soil. The valley must’ve took it extremely seriously at the time, because when the Protector’s Union attempted to unearth the charms five years ago, they were so deep under soil, they must’ve crossed into the earth’s core--an impressive feat in that time period. And then there was the matter of Morga, the powerful magician who was said to have been the one to bury the charms. She was used like a sacrifice; thrown into the molten with a handful of charms and never seen again--until she took to haunting the hollow above, that is.

So, how had he felt that?

Such unthinkable pain at the presence of magick--

It had never happened before.

Not to him. Not to anybody. At least since 600 B.C.

This was corrupted magick--used against him--and yet no suspects stood watching, nor

vengeful Protector’s on the rise.

He would have to go to his father, plead him to perform a protection charm on him. But . . .

how could he possibly explain the matter at hand? It was a childish-sounding story; he was examining a crow, the crow digged up dirt, the crow got scared and flew away, and now his stomach was in terrible pain--was that really what his father wanted to think of Sorrel’s use of working time?

Sorrel could hear it already; ‘Keep your imagination locked, boy,’ His father would chorus, ‘save it

for later, and by that I mean when you’re done everything else.’

And then his mother would click her tongue from her chair and add a warning in her

ominous drawl. Sorrel often felt like he was being told horror stories when she spoke. “Your father is right--imagination is beautiful, but it is also a weapon. Remember what happened to ol’ Morga? She was so desperate for a mission; something to buy her time in the valley, and you know how she ended up . . .”

Then her eyes would widen like she’d remembered something she’d once forgotten"which

was common, especially with her recent memory loss. “Ah,” Her face would crease into a large smile. “And then there was little ol’ me: before Omani.” That’s what Sorrel’s mother always called her younger, free self; the one that was born and raised in Egypt before meeting his father in Africa when the darkness set in. She saw the world like that: befores and afters, like people were just split down the middle when big things occurred. “She was a wandering soul, always hoping for a little adventure. Curiosity, however, was how she got her entire family murdered.” She’d sigh like she was talking about a disobedient child and not her own self. “Reckless souls.”

(not sure why the text got close there . . .)