Red washed over the world. Rivulets of blood gushed from shining, black, plated scales, and the great wings’ labored flapping shredded the lakeside calm. To avoid the beast’s counterattack, Lysander snatched his sword and stumbled backward. His first instinct was to puke, but out of the chaos, his brother’s panic-stricken “run!” fought the fog in his ears. He fled for the forest’s protection, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the tall grass and into the dense underbrush. Thorns raked deep gouges in his skin, and branches slapped ...

Dawn’s curtain opens.I hear a cascade of lightGently greet my eyes –A symphony of all thingsThat belong beyond the dark. Editor: Erynn Crittenden

“Stop!” All the tranquility of our grotto snaps in an instant. The grass physically recoils in fear, like a hundred frightened children, and the greenery dulls. Pollen grows stale on my tongue, and he wind grows still. I’m on my feet in a second. Quince stands just beyond the birch tree line, eyes stormy. Hawthorn ...

A flower pushed its way through the soil toward the sun. It coils upwards, then, just before blooming, tilts down and sheds its petals. “Damn,” I say. Hawthorn smiles with a flash of disappointment in her eyes. “You got close.” “Not close enough.” “You’re being too hard on yourself. It took me months to get ...

I love my family. My brothers and I always get along, despite their loud, obnoxious nature. Having a dad to take care of me is a breath of fresh air when I’m normally so alone. But two weeks is the longest break I can remember them taking between hunts. Since Quince turned eighteen, at least ...

Each year in the village of Wigden, people fall under winter’s spell. Citizens bundle up, stoke fireplaces, write cards, and give gifts. Wigden has its own butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. The candlestick maker, Albrecht, lives in a tiny cottage and makes all kinds of candles from local beeswax. Each night, he lights a candle ...

I walk home, holding my potion tightly. It glows blue in the afternoon sun. The concoction is one of illusion. If you give it to someone, they’ll see whatever you choose. There’s a burning taper in the kitchen window. Seeing it makes me stop. I haven’t lit a candle in days. I don’t need them ...

Out in the forest clearing, Hawthorn and I sit in the grass with fresh cups of tea. The sun is warm on my skin. “Now what?” “Just breathe in the air. Feel the surrounding roots. Witchcraft is about connecting with nature.” I close my eyes and try to focus. I’m able to pick out the ...

“You’re a witch!” Hawthorne holds her hands up. If it were anyone else, it would be a symbol of surrender. But from a witch, it’s a threat. Her eyes darted around desperately. “But I–” “But what? Did you poison the tea?” The knife shook in my hands. “No, I swear! I’ll leave; you’ll never see ...

The knife comes loose with a tug as I inspect the wall. There isn’t much damage, but it will need to be refinished. I’ll need to have dad cleanse the house when he gets back. Another chore. Another day. Downstairs in the kitchen, the poorly wrapped cake mix sits on the counter. I shove it ...