The first thing Blanca felt was cold. An icy cold that seeped into her bones. Opening her eyes slowly, she tried to take in her surroundings. Four walls... a room. A small one at that. It was cluttered with jars and bottles, and an odd, sharp smell filled the air, almost like a thousand different herbs had been crushed together.

Trying to sit up, Blanca realized that a bubble-like sphere was covering her face, siphoning some green mist into a glass jar nearby. Panic swelling, Blanca ripped it off, allowing it to flutter to the ground.

"Hello?" she croaked, her throat burning. A tendril of the green mist escaped her lips again, winding its way through the air. Blanca clamped a hand over her mouth. That wasn't normal. People didn't just breathe mist. And it was green. She shakily removed her hand once more, her labored breathing creating even more of the stuff.

A door opened, causing Blanca to jump, her nerves already wound tight.

A lone, elderly man entered, a similar bubble around his head. "Hello, m'dear. I'm relieved to see you awake; you've been asleep for quite some time." He sat himself down in a chair to her left, picking up the jar that still contained the green fog. "I must say, you've made this room extremely dangerous within the short time I left you unattended." His tone wasn't accusatory; instead, it was warm and pleasant as if they were old friends.

"Who are you?" Blanca whispered, her mouth on fire. But, as she thought about it, she didn't even know who she was. If her heart was beating rapidly before, it most definitely was going to explode now. She closed her eyes, trying to bring to mind anyone... anything.

"I am Randule, one of the High Mages. And you, m'dear, are a very special person indeed." He smiled warmly and placed the jar back down. "Please don't be frightened if you're not able to recall much. Our experiment seems to have made certain memories disappear, but I have confidence they will return within the next few weeks."

Blanca's mind swam with questions and confusion. "Why did you take my memories? And what," she stammered, "what is this mist?"

Randule's expression changed, the smile fading away. "Well, you see, I found you in a forest. And," his gaze fell from hers, finding the floor instead, "you were dead. I didn't learn of the poison until after you were brought back."

She had died? Her head ached, and her throat wouldn't stop hurting. Her heart thudded rapidly against her chest. Why couldn't it stop pounding? Blanca didn't realize she was falling off the edge of her bed until she hit the floor.

***

Blanca carefully opened her eyes, a sense of déjà vu overwhelming her. Same room, same jars, same mist hovering around her face. Except it now had a name. Poison. A shudder swept through her and the man sitting next to her turned. Randule. At least she knew that much.

"My apologies," he stated slowly. "I hadn't thought how the news might affect you, especially with no memories. This all must be too much."

What was she supposed to say? Her brain couldn't form a full thought or question without bringing on a headache. She could feel one brewing now.

Randule seemed to understand, for his expression softened. "In pain? I can offer something for that. I wish I could offer some advice too, but bringing someone back from the dead... It is forbidden magic and extremely difficult to wield."

"Why did you do it then? If it is forbidden, then why disobey the king?" Talking felt like she was trying to shout through a door, every word a chore.

"The king?" He looked surprised. "You remember him? How odd. Well, King Jore has many flawed concepts of how a country should be run. I'm not overly fond of him, if you get my meaning. When I saw you alone in the forest, it reminded me of my own daughter. She's away studying in Moorehaven—such a beautiful kingdom—but I couldn't shake the feeling she would be disappointed in me if I didn't at least try to bring you back."

So Randule didn't agree with the king. That was treason. For some reason, that made Blanca angry. The king knew best, even if she had only vague memories of him. It wasn't the mage's place to defy or question him. "What you did was wrong."

His eyes narrowed slightly at her comment. "Perhaps, but you are alive once more, though a bit deadlier than before." He rose from his seat, coming over to adjust her air bubble.

She shrank away, the action triggering a deep-seated fear for some reason. Her body trembled as his fingers brushed her neck while he finished adjusting the bubble. "There," he said cheerfully. "No stray poison will be escaping."

He grabbed a vial beside her and swirled it gently. The grey color wasn't appealing, and when he handed it to her to drink, she recoiled. Who knew what was in it?

"For the pain," he explained.

Tentatively, she grabbed the vial and held it up to the bubble, pushing through it with surprising ease. The poison didn't escape, though. Taking a sip, she was surprised by the immediate effects. The pain disappeared, leaving her with a pleasant numbness.

"Now," Randule continued, "how about we try and spark some memories? That potion should help bring some back, though they may be scattered and a bit confusing."

Closing her eyes, she tried to bring order to the random images that were never in focus and just out of grasp. Surprisingly, it worked.

"Lyra," Blanca whispered. For some reason, the name brought a memory of cold. Snowflakes were falling in a silent forest. There was laughter and a bright blue dress. The name made Blanca want to smile, though the face accompanying the name was nothing but a hazy blur.

"Lyra?" Randule's brows furrowed in thought. "The name is oddly familiar." He rose and consulted a glowing sphere that was floating above a golden pedestal. An image rippled into view. A dark-haired woman was smiling, her high cheekbones and red, laughing mouth only a small indication of the woman's exquisite beauty.

Blanca grimaced, the face triggering a series of images.

"Hurry up, Blanca!" the young woman shouted, her shimmering blue gown catching the light reflected upon the fresh snow. Her dark hair was flowing down her back, her ivory skin flushed in the cold. Blanca had never seen a more beautiful woman than her youthful stepmother and believed she never would.

"I'm hurrying!" she shouted playfully back, trying to wade through the ankle-deep snow in her own gown of gold.

"We're going to be late," Lyra protested, her full lips forming a pout. Blanca had always secretly thought of herself as the more mature of the two though Lyra was ten years older. Lyra was far too young to be her father's bride, her twenty-five years a stark contrast to his forty-three. But Lyra never complained though Blanca knew she'd had no say in the matter.

"You exaggerate far too often, Lyra," Blanca laughed and ran to catch up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she slowed down next to Lyra.

"I know." Lyra's eyes twinkled.

After struggling for a few more minutes in the snow, they came upon a clearing, the source of their search. "Look," whispered Lyra, her eyes shining. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Blanca's eyes widened at the sight below. Four dryads danced in the clearing, each movement like the faintest trace of a breeze as it caressed a tree's branches. In the center of the clearing, a lone, young tree stood, its branches naked. The dryads were speaking softly to it, their voices no louder than the tinkling of a bell but all the sweeter.

Slowly, as if drawn by their coaxing song, a slender arm reached through the rough bark, a small head clad in brown curls following. Two doe-like eyes blinked in astonishment at the world around them. The dryads enveloped the new young dryad in their arms, their song one of thankfulness and joy.

"Oh my," breathed Blanca, turning to glance at Lyra. The birth of a dryad was truly a rare occasion, one that only happened during the eve of spring at a certain time of day.

"It was indeed beautiful." Lyra hesitated, her eyes conveying uncertainty. "Blanca? I have something I must tell you." Her hands rested on her stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement caused a small grin to form on her face. "I am expecting."

Expecting?

Realization dawned on Blanca, and she hugged Lyra tight. "A child? Why, Lyra, this is magnificent!" The words were a mite too loud, and the dryads melded into the trees, gone in but a moment.

"You're not upset? I was afraid this might ruin our fun times." Lyra smiled in relief. "I believe it might be fun, having a wee little one following us about and perhaps seeing the birth of a dryad as well."

"This is splendid," Blanca said. "We shall have even more fun, the three of us. But what about Father? Does he know?" Speaking his name caused a chill to settle in Blanca's bones. He was not a kind man nor a loving one. Blanca tried to believe that his heart was cold because the love of his life—Blanca's dear mother—had passed on, but Blanca knew better. He was simply a cruel man who could not even love his own flesh and blood.

"I have not told him, not yet. You know how your father gets. I'm afraid he'll go into a rage and throw things as he usually does. But I'm hoping he'll be excited. Perhaps having another child will do him good." Lyra bit her lip, knowing that the hope was a vain one. Blanca's father loved only one thing: his title.

Lord Rikor had been a good man at one point, before his title and the incident that took his wife's life. Every time he returned from discussions with the king, he came back sterner, fiercer, and with a tendency to drink his worries away. Now that man, the one Blanca had loved and cherished, wasn't going to come back, no matter how much she wished for him to.

"I'm sure it will all be perfectly fine," Blanca said, holding Lyra close, feeling the tenseness of her body. It had to be fine.

"Lyra," Blanca whispered again, tears pooling in her eyes. The one memory was so strong, she could nearly feel the cold snow around her. She clutched at any other memories of Lyra but remembered nothing. What of the child? Her father? The name still made her shudder, and she could feel that her memories of him were not pleasant in the slightest.

Randule approached her once more, his countenance sorrowful. "I'm sorry that was so painful, Blanca. Though it seems to have been somewhat pleasant, correct? I have heard much of your father, Lord Rikor of Ebeni. A powerful man indeed."

Lord Rikor. The name brought a sense of dread, but Blanca refused to allow herself to associate any memories with it, not yet. The nearness of the first memory faded, but it was still there, lingering in the back of her mind. Blanca held onto it, savoring the pure joy it sent rushing through her.

And her name—Blanca. How sweet it had sounded coming from Lyra's mouth. It had sounded loved and wanted. She desperately needed that back, no matter what.