"Long ago, there was such a thing as magic. Not magic one can feel when staring at a beautiful sight, or the magic that happens when two people meet each other. No--this magic was special. It could make the weak strong and the strong cowardly.

This magic existed inside the hearts of many. Only a few knew how to unlock it, and those few grew and taught others. It became a beautiful thing, with people using it each day. They could heal small wounds, summon forth objects from the other side of town, even make rain fall from the sky.

But, as always, there were those who feared it.

Misused it.

Those who misused the magic were declared rulers out of fear. The people who could not unlock their power became terrified of those who could. Magic users became outcasts, shoved away from friends and family. Brother turned against brother, father against son, mother against daughter.

Almost overnight, the magic users became extinct.

There were a few who hid, never to be seen again, until the need would arise.

And the need would arise."

"Clair!"

"Magic has not been seen in the five kingdoms since. Those who can use it wait impatiently in the shadows for the day they are needed. Then, they will come to the aid of their countrymen. They will disregard their hidden lives.

They will win."

"Clair, come on!"

Almost immediately, the world shattered. Words fells from pages, from minds, from existence.  

Well, crap. Thanks, Mom.

I glanced down at the papers sprawled out below me, then back up. My teeth found my lip for the millionth time that hour. I swear, I should've had a bloody pulp for a mouth.

I wonder if they'll notice if I stay.

Nah. Remember the food? You're going.

I grabbed the side of a piece of paper, careful not to touch the loopy words messily written on the page. While my mother wrote the story years before, the ink seemed to like to smudge at the slightest touch.

I gathered up the papers I'd strewn across my bed and put them in the neatest pile there could possibly be. Corners of folded over paper stuck out from all sides of the pile, making it more circular than rectangular.

I don't really want to move these.

I looked at the shelf they'd be put on. The top--where they belonged--was way over my head.

I glanced around her room for a place to put the story. Leaving on the bed was an option, but seeing as the first thing I normally did was to flop down on it, the book would be in danger of being squashed.

I sighed. Only one option left. "Dad? Can you help me?"

No answer. Muffled voices and faint thuds from downstairs met my ears.

I rolled my eyes and walked out of my room and down the hall. My bare feet lightly tapped against the cold, wooden floor. I reached the stairs quickly, but instead of going down them, I forced myself to go to the balcony.

My heart rate picked up the closer I got to the edge. My fists clenched and unclenched involuntarily. The ledge seemed to be taunting me, laughing at the fact that I was forcing myself to get to it. It wasn't that it was short-- the top came up to my collarbone, so I shouldn't have worried. The height shouldn't have bothered me. 

But I wasn't afraid of the height. I was afraid of the fall. The feeling of wanting to lean over and see what would happen. The feeling of wanting to jump.

That's what scared me.

I stopped at the ledge and placed my sweaty hands on it. My fingers tried to grab where there was nothing to grab. Quickly, I thrust my neck out, barely getting a glimpse of the floor below, and called as quickly as I could,  "Dad, I need help."

You know, Clair, actually speaking in a recognizable language might help.

My brother's laughter sounded from down the stairs, followed by a shout from a deeper voice.

I took a shaky breath and forced myself to stay at the balcony longer. Just a little longer wouldn't kill me.  "Earth to the tall person in the house! I'm in need of assistance!"

A quick, high-pitched screech followed my shout, then the deeper voice laughed loudly.

"I win."

A smirk twisted at my mouth as I pushed myself away from the balcony. It was easy to guess  how my father beat my brother, and the answer was simple.

Dad knew how to fight. My brother... didn't.

Headlocks to everyone.

I walked back to my room and stared  at the pile of papers on my bed, wanting to start reading them over again. They begged to be touched, to have eager hands flip through each page and eyes to drink in every letter. 

Almost  hypnotized, I stretched out my fingers to brush against them.

"Nuh-uh. If you pick them up, then I'll never be able to pull you from story-land again."

A giggle broke free from my mouth. I turned around to face the one who spoke. "Who says that I'd have a problem with that?"

My father shook his head, his ear-length blonde hair falling down to his eyes. "It's not that you'd have a problem with that." He grabbed the pile and held it above my head, eyes laughing, and leaned down, still holding the story out of my reach.

A puff of air blew into my face. I started to recoil, then laughed.

"It's your mother that would have a problem with that," Dad finished.

I opened my eyes and found herself staring into a set of identical brown ones.

Too close!

"Gah!" I laughed, backing away. The backs of my legs touched the bed. "Dad, too close!"

He grinned, then whirled around and tossed the papers to the top of a shelf with too much of a flourish. A few of the ones atop the pile shifted to half hang over the side. 

My heart skipped a beat. Please don't fall. Mom will kill me if they do.

The story stayed in the pile it was in.

I let out a slow breath. "Dad, if those pages fell, Mom would have both of us scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush."

"Ah, but that's where the perks of fathering come in. I can dictate the job to you." He started to walk out my room and turned around, waving his hands in a big, circular motion.

Follow me, he says.

I didn't move, cemented in place. Walking out of the room meant leaving, and leaving meant we were going somewhere, and going somewhere meant people.

I swallowed, my throat constricted to the point there may as well have been a fist shoved down it. A hoarse whisper came out as my voice. 

"Dad?"

I don't want to go. Food or no food.

My father's face softened. He walked back over to me and paused, then put his hand on the top of the curls of my hair. I wrapped my arms around him, barely able to reach all the way around.My head found the middle of his chest, where half an inch over was the spot he had once told me a big scar was.

The faint pounding of my father's heartbeat reached my ears, calming me.

It always calmed me. 

Dad said that the scar came from something he should have died from. If he can survive something like that, then I can survive a stupid party.

It was a tactic I'd used plenty of times to calm down. Panic would begin to set in, then think of my father because--so help me--if he can live through whatever happened to him, I could live through whatever was happening to me.

"Anything but death is survivable, but you don't fight death, either."

Dad never told me where the scar on his chest came from, but frankly, I didn't want to know. The magic war was going on when my parents met, and that it ended before they were married. My best guess was that he had been a soldier in the war.

His hand stroked the top of my head. "Clair, it's okay."

"You say that," I mumbled.

"If it's any consolation, I don't want to go either."

Really?

I pushed away from my dad. "You don't? Why? Then we can just stay here, and Mom and Raoul can go."

His eyes widened and he held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa! I never said that I wasn't going to go!"

Really? Imply it but not mean it? "Might as well have," I huffed.

Things like that had always bothered me--things like people saying they didn't like one thing, but doing it anyway. Why do it if you don't like to?

Two small thumps told me that he was behind me. I braced myself, waited for the scolding, or the laughter at my silliness.

Neither came.

Instead, his warm hand found a resting place on my shoulder. "The reason I don't want to go, Clair, is that I don't like castles. Never have, never will."

Who doesn't like castles?

"Why not?"

He pursed his lips. Immediately, I noticed his hand move up to the back of his head.

There would be more to it than what he told me.

"I... spent a long time in one, Clair. When that happens, and you're in something like that for--" he broke off, searching for the right words, "--not the right reasons, it's hard to be excited when told you'll be going back."

"Oh."

We fell silent. I didn't mind the quiet, honestly. It was nice to just sit down with Dad and just be, not do anything special. The silence eventually had to break, though.  I let out a puff of air and started to walk to the door. "You win."

"It's not all bad, remember?" He ran in front of me and out the door, turning to face me in the process. "They have better food than what your mother tries to cook."

I raised her eyebrows, noticing the dark-haired woman standing a few steps behind him. "Really?" I drawled. 

I loved seeing how much trouble I could get him into.

Dad bobbed his head, completely oblivious to what was going on. "Mhm. At least it's not burnt charc... she's behind me, isn't she?"

I nodded. loving the look of well, shoot that came over my father's face.

"Burnt charcoal? That's a new one."

I bit back a laugh as my mother stepped out from behind my father. I backed up a little bit, plotting out an escape route.

"You know, you can try and cook."

O-oh.

Dad shot me a glaring-daggers look, then turned to face Mom. "Hi?"

Smack!

The rolled up paper in Mom's hand quickly became a weapon. She quickly gave a series of quick taps to her Dad's shoulders, laughing as she did so.

If I didn't move, I'd be in the middle of the play-fight.

I darted between my mother and the wall, tearing my way toward the stairs. The light at the end of the tunnel was so close.

"Don't think so, kid!" Mom laughed.

So close, only to have the light extinguished.

Something grabbed my arm and gave it a tight squeeze. I let out a yelp and quickly found myself staring at my mother's bright blue eyes. A wisp of dark, curly hair fell into my face, which I blew away before it could tickle my nose.

"Dad, help!" I shrieked.

Too late.

Mom's fingers flew to my side, where they barely touched me.

I couldn't help it--I started laughing. "That tickles!" I gasped. "Dad--dad, HELP!"

Through halfway closed eyes and tears, I saw him shake his head. "Nope. You're on your own."

After what felt like forever, I was freed. I fell on the chill floor, stomach aching from laughing so long and so hard.

Dad reached down and held out his hand. "Get off the ground. It's cold down there."

Tell me about it.

I didn't grab his hand, but sat up and stared at my parents. "Are my bags downstairs already?"

Mom nodded, not taking her eyes off Dad. "Yes. Why don't you go see if you can help Raoul put them in the carriage."

Oh, joy.

I started down the stairs and stopped, not hearing either of my parents follow her. "Are you two coming?"

My father jumped slightly and looked at me. I wrinkled my brow. His face had become paler than usual, which was saying something. The words "are you okay" etched themselves into my mouth, but I didn't say anything.

Dad smiled. "We'll be there in a minute or two, Clair. Your mother and I need to talk."

Everything's fine. Just go downstairs and help Raoul.

But, as my bare feet hit the cold steps, I could have sworn that one of them said something about "dreams."
______________________________________

Hello!

So, the first chapter, and already you get the sense that something's not quite right. Joy joy.