Forbidden Magic

by Hopiedoodles

In a world where magic is feared and seen as the root of all evil, those who were once held in high esteem by society now have prices on their heads. Only a few young magical people remain, and they live in a constant state of fear for their lives. This is the journal of one of those few. She is determined to change the world for her people or die trying. T just in case.

1. Chapter 1

I am an outlaw. I am a criminal, always on the run. Never safe, never knowing if each day would be my last. Constantly in hiding, I haven't ever stayed in one place for more than a month. Hundreds of identities, blurring together like the trees I gallop past while riding through the forests in the darkness of countless nights.

I am on my own. My friendships are fleeting and far between. Understandably so, as I everywhere I go. There is no way to know whom I can trust, whom I can let my guard down with. My existence is a miserable one. Yet still far better than the fate that awaits me should I be found. For if I slip up, if I am outwitted, unimaginable torture will ensue. They want information, information I do not have, knowledge I do not possess. Still, I shan't be able to convince them of my innocence. I shan't be able to tell them what they desire to hear. Therefore, once they discover I will not be a source of enlightenment, they will dispose of me. This is my fate. This is my destiny.

Certainly, I am able to delay my capture. I can prolong my life, but imprisonment and execution is inevitable. Each and every one of us faces this punishment. There is not one who has survived and made a life for themselves. The Midnight Riders have made certain of that. Meticulous records are kept, every date of birth recorded as well as every date of death. Each name which doesn't have a date of capture or death is considered a blight of the Riders' reputation. I am one of those blights. I am one of a select few who has evaded their cunning and cruelty. Each day that number continues dwindling. For they have succeeded in wiping out all mothers and fathers. All they have to do now is kill off the last of us adolescents and children and we will be gone forever, remembered only by the distorted images painted in their twisted accounts of history.

I've spent my whole life focusing solely on survival. My childhood was murdered by them, the Riders and their employers, on the same night that my parents' blood spilled onto our cabin's dirt floor. I was only a girl of five and a half years. I have been an orphan for almost twelve now. Six of those years have been spent on the run, traveling through mountains and valleys, deserts and woods, always looking for a safety I will never find. I will never find unless the ways of this world change. Drastically so. That is what I hope to do before my people are wiped off this planet. Before our flame is extinguished forever.

You do not know me. You do not know what dangers I face. You surely are wondering what a child, or even a child's family, could have done to warrant such extreme and merciless punishment. I know what. I may not understand why, but I know what. For, you see, we have not committed even the smallest of crimes. That is if your idea of a crime is doing something wrong intentionally, such as lying or stealing. For those are examples of a blackened heart, of a person lacking a strong moral compass. Yet my people have done no such thing. We have always been good, fair, hardworking citizens. Eager to please and happy to help. Appreciated and valued. That is, until about fifty years ago when King Edward and his family rose to power. It is by his decree that we have had prices put upon our heads, his word is that which made us all criminals, though we've not done any wrong.

My crime, our crime, the reason we may never live a normal and happy life, is that we were all born with a talent. A very peculiar talent, possessed by only a small percentage of the population. A talent, that though it was a subject of jealousy, was also a bringer off joy, health, and happiness to all. We were born, as you may have by now guessed, with the ability to perform magic. It is both our saving grace and our death sentence, and the reason I am writing these words today.

This is my story. This is the story of my people. I am writing this so that when the Riders catch me, as it is only a matter of time, there is a chance my story will survive. There is a chance my journal will fall into the hands of someone who is open-minded enough to hear the truth. There is a chance that though I will not live long my thoughts and words might. There is a chance that things could change, and there is a chance that this small, worn book could be the cause of it.