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When another hour bleeds away with no news and evening shadows stretch long across the floor, I'm getting less and less scared.

More and more annoyed.

And angry.

Who do these shamans think they are, leaving me here hanging? I'm not a dog to chain me up, and even dogs are fed at least once a day. Have they forgotten about me? Got carried away, reading the nerd's books? Or it's their plan: once I get bored and famished, I'll agree to anything, even to the fate of being a sacrificial pig, and then publically, they'll say it was my choice to come and die here. Shamans once again will get what they want.

I tried to like shamans, I really did. I idolized them when I was a kid, they seemed so...supreme. Exquisite clothing, formidable powers, wisely long lives--who doesn't want to be like that? Or befriend that? But like many childish dreams, this one shattered one day, too.

I don't remember how old I was exactly, but I guess I was pretty small because only when you're small, you can find a new toy to be more important than the rest of the world. For me, it was a tiny vial of colored water--no magic, just some science--that sparked and changed colors when I shook it. I liked trying to predict which color it'd be next as I waggled it. It made me feel like I could be a shaman, too.

But I wasn't. Not for the real ones.

Some boy--a shaman boy, about my age--walked toward me while I wailed for my big brother Cale who stood in a line to buy cupcakes. That boy didn't say anything, didn't ask. He just reached out with his grabby hand and tore my new toy from my hands. When I argued, he laughed and ran off. When I followed and tried to take my vial back, he shoved me, throwing me off my feet with a magical wave of his hand, and when I screamed and his mother and my Cale found us, he said I'd been the one who jumped in his way. Nobody remembered about the toy by then--which he'd hid in his pocket--because his mother blamed both Cale and me for attacking a shaman. A shaman! How dare we? Isn't it an indirect insult to our empress? Do we want to attack Her Divinity, the oldest--and therefore the wisest--being alive, who protects us from the horrors of the magicless rest of the world wallowed in corruption and chaos, too?

Long story short, Cale paid a fine to the police. For the toy I got deprived of.

Now, vegetating in the sultry Great Temple's vestibule of that exact empress for the whole day, I think it wasn't about the toy, or that woman's son, or gods. It was about magic. Power. It twists your mind when you hold too much of it for too long--especially when you're born with it. You forget that others have feelings, too. Stop worrying about inflicting pain upon others. Because when you're stronger, others deserve to be hurt, right? They're born weaker, therefore they're born to be hurt.

We will never be anything but inferiors in the shamans' eyes. Not blessed with magic. Not worthy. Not important. Expendable. Only good enough for serving them--designing their robes, mining the gems for the gemcoins, cleaning the floors in the temples, and dying too quickly for their blessedly long lives to remember our names. And for being humble servants, the shamans graciously grant us the chance to live among them and use their magic with aura rings. That's alright because even with those rings, we're no match for even the weakest shaman. Shamans channel aura from its natural source, have unlimited reserves, and aura rings can barely ignite a spark before they require a recharge--which only a shaman can provide. But you should work first--clean the floors--earn a loaf of bread and that new spark.

And if you say one word of criticism...well, your right. But don't be surprised if your house gets burned down by a horrible accident the next day--with you inside. Or if you catch incurable stomach flu a week later--if you miraculously survive the fire.

Or you just go missing. Quietly. Beautifully. In the dead of night. The wrath of gods, they call it.

Don't like the rules? Leave. Run away--if you can for nobody leaves Cabracan without shamans' permission--and find another place to call home, you ungrateful traitor.

I groan, and the bench under me groans with me as I fidget, trying to stretch my stiff back. After that lost toy moment, today is the second worst day of my life. But I'm not giving up. Never until I see justice done. My siblings are going to make it right, stop the shamans and change the world, and I'm going to be a part of it.

If I survive today.

As the last rays of evening sun seep in through the window, illuminating the complicated mosaics on the floor, I glance at the shut office door again. Is anyone coming to decide my future at all? Or should I scream to remind them of my existence? They'll probably punish me for screaming in their holy halls, but at least I won't die of starvation on this stupid bench.

When I shut my eyes and seriously consider shouting to attract some attention, I hear a whisper by the vestibule doors the nerd has left half-open. "I told you he'd still be here." I recognize the voice. My eyes snapping open, I see the patrollers who escorted me here peeking at me.

"You now owe me a gemcoin," Twin Sister adds as she walks in after making sure nobody's around. Her brother frowns in response.

Now they both look fresh, their uniforms clean and crisp. They must have had time to eat, sleep, and rest while I've been rotting here. Strange, my life seemed to freeze for a day, and theirs kept spinning. They lie when they say time goes with equal speed for everyone. Another illusion of equality. "Are you here to let me go?" I ask, my meager hope sparking.

Twin Sister shakes her head. "No. But I've got you this." She brings a sandwich and a soda can out of her pocket, not a trace of her previous coldness on her face. They're off duty, I realize. No need to play diehards. "I know shamans don't think of feeding the detained. How are you?"

I don't know if it's genuine concern in her voice or my tired loneliness to thank, but I drop my shoulders without even trying to be sarcastic. "I think I'm damned."

Twin Brother laughs. "Aren't we all?"

"I'm Geneviève," Twin Sister says, perching on the bench beside me and handing me the sandwich. "Or just Gen. My brother's Ian. Sorry about earlier, it's not like we enjoyed arresting you. It's just a job, and it pays the bills. Our captain would have killed us if they caught you later and learned we'd let you go. But you didn't lie about having abilities, did you?"

Stuffing the sandwich into my hungry mouth, I shake my head. I can't tell her the truth, what if shamans sent her here to pry the information out of me? After all, these two are way too friendly all of a sudden.

"Great! Then you'll get a teacher, and we'll get a nice reward for finding you. Everyone's happy, right?"

Or we'll all be killed soon. "Sure."

"They won't give him a teacher," Ian says, leaning against the column. "I've heard some aurabloods talking downstairs." Aurabloods. An insult invented a long time ago to name everyone blessed with magical powers. I've never actually found it as offensive as what shamans call us in return--plainbloods, like someone unremarkable and undeserving--but it still proves the point, and shows that shamans are nothing without aura. Maybe the twins don't like shamans much, and it really is just a job for them. "They need someone with all affinities to train him, to see which one is his."

I frown. "Affinities?"

"Different kinds of magical powers," Gen explains.

Are there different kinds? Shit.

Her brother nods. "There ain't many shamans who've a set of skills that wide. The only teachers there are already have mentees for now, others qualified enough are the council members, crotchety and old snobs who won't waste their time on someone who doesn't look like obedient student material. But--" Ian hesitates for a moment, his long face clouding over. "They also mentioned Loretto Tayen. That one appears to be skilled enough."

Gen's eyes widen. "Her? Oh, you're screwed then, em...?"

"Elisey," I prompt.

"You're screwed, Elisey. Loretto won't give you a break until you die or become the best shaman in Cabracan. You'll be so constantly exhausted you won't even have a second to appreciate her hair." She runs her hand over her tight ponytail, her eyebrows knitting. "But if you do, ask what shampoo she has, my hair has never looked that silky." Her gaze flicks to my haircut. "What about yours, by the way? Your curls are cute."

Cute. I hate when people say that. You want to be seen as smart, strong, successful--not cute. My parents said that when I was a kid, comparing the color of my hair to milky-milky chocolate, and it vexed me every time. Personally, my hair rather reminds me of the color of dried dirt: neither dark nor fair but something in between. Besides, my curls have always been a mess so I can only guess what disaster is on my head now after running through the night, being shoved in a fight for a lost bike, and sweating of nervousness all day. I don't know what Geneviève finds cute here.

Still, my curls are the last thing to worry me right now. "Who's Loretto Tayen?" I ask. Should I know her?

"Come on, Sis, Loretto's not that insufferable." Ian suddenly grins. "But yeah, he's too competitive to be someone's teacher. Rivals don't share their skills and secrets, huh? They dance on your bones. He'll eat you alive, Elisey."

"Wait." That is confusing. "He?" My eyes travel from Ian to Gen. "Or she?"

Gen shrugs. "I've always called her she, none ever corrected me."

"And I called him he," Ian laughs. "Same."

Taking another bite, I put the sandwich away. "You're not helping. How does she--he--look? Physically, I mean."

Now both twins laugh. They're so alike it's eerie, like watching two mirror reflections talking to me. Then Gen says, "You're asking what's in her pants?"

Do I? "Maybe."

"You're not gonna see that. It's not like Loretto walks around here naked. If she had, I'd have known as I keep track of all local gossip." Gen sprawls back on her seat, her arms outstretched proudly on either side of the bench's back. "It's the next best thing to trade, after gemcoins. Anyway, it's not about what's in one's pants, is it? It's about the spirit, and Loretto's is free. Just like mine. Feminine."

Ian grunts in disagreement. "If he has good hair and comely face, it doesn't make him a girl, Gen. And no girl can be that strong! She is a he, I'm telling you. I sparred with him once in the training quarters. Don't you remember that bruise of mine from last autumn?"

Gen's expression grows serious. "You think a girl can't beat you? What about me?"

"You don't count, you're my sister."

"That's double standards! Or now you only count those who turn you on? Then just admit it, Bro--you've fallen for an aurablood. And since you always fall for boys, you want her to be him to fit your tastes."

Ian pushes away from the wall, annoyed. "I've not fallen for an aurablood! And if you're still angry with me for your last boyfriend, just say it! It's not my fault you and I are so alike, and he took me for you when--"

Her hands balling into fists, Gen jumps to her feet. The twins bore their eyes into each other, their glares withering. I wonder if I should stop them, or just enjoy the show, but before their quarrel has a chance to turn into a real fight, the chamber door finally cracks open. Spooked, the twins whisper something about good luck, and bolt out of the vestibule before they can be noticed.

Rising to my feet, I watch the shamans who have gathered here throughout the day slowly spill out of the office. My heart quickens, preparing to hear my sentence, but all leave one by one without saying a word. The councilor who asked about my mother's dress shop, however, doesn't leave but stops before me.

"Congratulations, young man. It seems today is your day," he says, his smile both brilliant and fake. He doesn't really care if I want his congratulations or not. "Because we've done the impossible. We've found you a teacher."

I have a bad feeling about it. "Who?"

"May I present to you Loretto Tayen."

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