PROLOGUE

THE THIRD AGE, YEAR 2995.

DEEP IN THE EASTFOLD, ROHAN.

Motherhood has taught Briana to perfectly balance a chubby child on one hip and a coarsely woven basket – one of her first, crude in its shape, but perfectly functional, and Rohirric custom prescribes waste not, want not – on the other. She stands bare-footed in the grass, tall enough that the child on her hip – freckled, dark-skinned like her mother, with a tuft of shocking red hair like her father – reaches to play with each blade of bouteloua that her chubby fingers can grip. From the way her body faces the rising sun, just now reaching with pale yellow like over the plains of Anorien, you can tell she's waiting.

The horse-lords of Rohan hadn't welcomed Briana kindly at first. That had been seven years ago. She was twenty-seven then, and now she stands here as one of the village matrons. Seven years ago she had been taken into a saddle and ridden west. She'd beheld battlefields that reaped soldiers, and she still had nightmares from it. But she'd won respect after her healing hands saved the newly crowned King of Rohan. Now here she stands, clothed in their clothes, laundry in the basket on her hip, waiting for the return of the Rohirrim.

Respect hadn't been the only thing she'd won after the Dunland battles. Her prize came in the form of Arthfael. Six years of marriage hasn't dimmed her love of him. The birth of three children and loss of one only deepens it. Aeron is six – tall for his age, intelligent, and currently with his father on his first ride with the Rohirrim. As much as Briana hates it, you can't keep a kid away from a horse in Rohan. Or a sword. Destiny is a word that leaves a bad taste on her tongue, but she can already see Aeron's, clear as glass in her mind: to rise as a warrior, become captain, maybe even general. This baby on her hip, though… Briana won't kid herself. There are some in Middle Earth with the gift of foresight. She's not one of them. She'd have to wait and see what her daughter manifests into. Aeron's had come early – he'd been on horseback since he could walk – and maybe… maybe her daughter will too. Shieldmaiden, maybe? Scholar?

She'd be damned if her children receive the same ugly looks as she had when she'd first arrived… fallen… into Rohan. They'd make something of themselves. Something great – something to last the ages. They're not like the other Rohirrim. Her daughter doesn't know it yet, but Aeron does, and Briana's cuddled him close just to tell him how proud she is of him. Her beautiful son. Her children don't have to be blonde or pale to be beautiful. They're Black, and she wants them to be proud of it.

It's not like… racism is systemic here. This country wasn't built on the backs and bodies of Black people. Briana won't have to worry about private schools and red-hat-wearing white supremacists and cops. But her children still aren't safe. There's nobody that looks like them here. For all Briana knows, and she does know, she and her babies are the only Black people in Rohan.

Which sucks. But she won't let them forget their background. Their culture. Half Rohirrim, yes. Half Black, too. It won't be easy for them, wherever they go. She doesn't have her mom to help her braid her children's thick hair, or tell them stories, or keep Briana's culture alive around her. There's a deep pain in it – being separated from people that look like her, talk like her, understand her.

But if there's a way to go back, she hasn't found it yet.

Nor is she entirely sure she could.

Briana's dark brown eyes turn to look at her daughter, pressing a kiss onto the soft auburn hair on the baby's round head. "Look, baby girl." She sets down the basket, shifting the child in her arms to focus her attention on her. "Daddy and Aeron are almost home. You see that? That's Daddy's horse. He's getting back to us real quick."

Daddy's horse is barely more than a dust cloud against the slopes of the White Mountains at this point, but rapidly approaching. Briana has time to finish the laundry, but she stands with her feet planted in the grass, watching.

For just a few more moments. Then she lifts a tunic from the basket and hangs it on the line. A row of clothes hang streaming like flags to welcome her husband and son home.

It's not long before the thunder of hooves against hard-beaten earth fill her ears, and just minutes after that, shifting leather as Fael jumps down from his massive mare and lifts Aeron down from the shaggy pony next to him. "Mama!" Aeron's all smiles, showing off his missing top teeth, and clings to Briana, speaking so quickly that his Rohirric speech seems jumbled. She laughs, tells him to slow down, shifts her fingers through his thick hair. It's braided close to his scalp, to keep the hair from breaking as well as keeping it secure while riding. Trademarks of Rohan decorate the ends of the braids – bronze caps and bands, a pewter bead in the shape of a horse head.

This is his world. She couldn't leave Aeron, nor could she take him back with her. This is where he belongs, and she'll stay here. She, Fael, Aeron, and Leoma.

Fael's calloused hand cups the back of their daughter's head and kisses her, his beard almost obscuring the baby's face. "And now for you," his rough voice grumbles, his thorough kiss saying more than he can in words: I hope you're well. I missed you. I love you. I worship you.

That's why she can't go. She never thought she'd marry a white man, but… looking at Fael, she can't imagine anyone else. Nobody else could give her the gifts that are Aeron and Leoma. Nobody…

"Aeron, baby, you gotta tell me about your training," she says, leaning into Fael's side as he puts his arm around her waist, the other gripping his horse's reins, and his voice reminding Aeron to take care of his pony before he runs inside.

It wouldn't be long before Aeron would be holding a real sword instead of the wooden one strapped at his waist. He'll leave their little village, go to Edoras. She sees it all so clearly.

Leoma burbles, and Briana leans over to wipe some drool from the corner of her mouth.

It's strange, really, that she can't see much for Leoma. Like a twisted ball of yarn…

. .ㅤ COMMON MAGICㅤ. .

CHAPTER ONE

THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY, YEAR 2021.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA - FOR NOW.

Let's be honest. "It was a dark and stormy night" is terrific prose. We've got a time, a setting, an atmosphere, and… me.

I don't belong here.

This isn't a fairy story. It's my living room. It's cramped. It exhales ramen and cheap beer - college staples. It's not bad for a three-room apartment in a sketchy area, but it's home. Roaches and all. Actually… no, it is disgusting. I can't believe I ever missed this place.

It's a dark and stormy night.

The weather had changed around noon, chasing away a bright sky with slate-gray clouds and a wave of humidity that made stepping outside feel like getting hit with a wet blanket. I'd barely had time to get to my apartment before the skies opened up. With the way it's raining right now, you could have convinced me I'm watching the heavenly flood.

My nose is pressed against the cold glass of the window. Condensation from my breath clouds against my lips, leaving them clammy. Mm, nature's lip balm. I step away from the glass, turning and almost tripping over Opal.

A friend. One of my best, and currently sprawled across the floor. She has her nose buried in one of my copies of a Ms. Marvel comic, and sock-covered feet kicking back and forth in the air. That's the thing with my friends. Give them a space and they'll act like they own it. Give them my living room and they'll camp out for a week.

Not that I mind. I love them, I really do. Besides Opal, there's Robin, who's cradling his newly-pierced ear – newly pierced as in five minutes ago, in my bathroom, with a needle – and talking loudly to Desiree. Robin's red-headed, covered with tattoos, and likes lipstick. Des has perfectly laid edges and her glossy lips smack you with affectionate kisses or some truth you didn't want to hear. She's studying social justice law, which is perfect for a girl who never loses an argument and likes to punch fascists.

We have it all! The bimbo, the catboy, the sexy activist, and me. Introduced in that order.

Me… I'm Leo. Nothing special. I have a ten-step skincare routine that isn't doing me any good. I jog every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Milk gives me runny shits but I love ice cream anyway. I'm majoring in veterinary science. I'm normal.

But the night is still dark and stormy.

My friend's voices lull into a comforting background, and I'm sitting in between Des and Robin, feet on the coffee table, trying to focus on the movie. I never really liked fantasy movies, and this one is almost putting me to sleep. Robin's loving it, he's talking to Opal about this or that elf for their upcoming Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and I'm only half-listening as Desiree asks for the popcorn. How interesting could it be to watch people in cloaks climb over rocks? And that elf looks stupid. Everyone knows elves are short little green guys from the North Pole.

But I guess it's hard to rip a nerd away from a movie like this. It's any dungeon master's wet dream.

"Ouch, that must hurt." I wince, a chuckle bubbling in my throat, as the guy on screen dies a violent, if not somewhat amusing, death. Amusing only in that he falls to the ground in slow-motion, arrows piercing his back – not because I'm a psycho – but Robin doesn't take my sarcasm in stride.

"You can't say that! He'd just had a redemption arc! This is an important and heartbreaking scene!" He wails, and Opal pats his back comfortingly. I'm failing all social cues at this point, slapping my knee as I laugh harder. He's crying, he's crying over this guy in this movie and –

A generator blows.

We can tell because of the distant boom and the entire room going dark, the image on the television fading to a faint glow and then disappearing altogether.

"Look what you did." Accusation is sharp in Robin's tone.

"Come on, Rob, you think Leo has power over the weather now?" We can all feel Opal rolling her eyes as she speaks. It's all in good fun, even though it sounds like we're fighting. Everyone we've ever met thinks we hate each other, but of all the people in the world, these are the three I would die for. Plus my mommy. God bless.

"Last time I said she had lightning powers nobody took me seriously!"

"Only because you followed up with a smoking hot joke," I counter, feeling my way in the dark and accidentally placing my hand on her pelvic bone. "Sorry, Des."

"No worries, baby."

I get to my feet, stumbling a little, and her hand catches mine. "Lee, you alright?" Her voice is thick and warm in the dark, and I squeeze her hand in response. "Yeah, just tripped in the dark. Why?"

It was no secret that I'd looked like shit for nearly twenty-four hours now. I had never considered myself an astoundingly beautiful girl, but it's not like I made it my goal to look like I do right now. Yesterday, I had woken up from a four-hour nap and it seemed like everything had shifted slightly to the left. By this morning, I looked gray and drawn out, the whites of my eyes becoming a bit yellow, my dark skin washed out.

Maybe I had jaundice, but… maybe it was just the stress catching up to me. Yet Des and I both knew that I hadn't tripped in the dark. I'd nearly eaten concrete because my brain felt so fuzzy.

She clings to my fingers for a second more and then drops my hand, releasing a sigh. I don't know what expression she's wearing, but I bet she's disappointed. She's my closest friend – I've known Opal and Robin longer, but there's a bridge between us that they can't cross and Des can.

I skid past the couch, feeling my way down the hall to the one dingy bathroom housed in my apartment. It smells like toilet bowl cleaner – strong, chemical, making my eyes burn. Out of habit, I flick the light switch – but it doesn't do anything.

Even in the dark, I can barely make out my reflection. A tall, slender girl with a good head on her shoulders. I place a hand on my clammy forehead, reaching for the washcloth draped over the sink basin, turning the tap on, closing my eyes in relief…

Cold water soaks into my socks. Is there a leak? If my water main busted… god, if I have to get a plumber out here…

I'm ready to screech for someone to get me a towel. But my eyes open and the noise dies in my throat. Silence swallows me.

It's not possible to close your eyes in your bathroom and open them in the middle of a forest.

Or it is, and I'm the butt of a huge cosmic joke.

"H-Hello?" I stammer, lifting one foot off of the ground. It's mossy, muddy from the remnants of a recent thunderstorm. I don't know who I'm talking to – there's nobody around. This is a forest.

Where's my apartment?

Have I finally gone mental? Oh, god…

I'm still holding the washcloth. So tightly that my knuckles are white. Only when I realize my fingernails are digging through the cloth into my palm, I drop it… right onto the muddy ground. I give a little whimper of disbelief, and don't bother picking it up again.

Instead, my eyes follow a straight line up. The twisted oak in front of me rises, gnarled, bent, into a canopy of thick leaves so dark I can't see the sky. My neck cranes. It's the same in every direction. These trees are so deformed I wonder how they reach the sun. Then I realize that must be why they look like this.

There is no sun here.

Panic presses against my throat. A nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. I've never taken hallucinogens in my life. This isn't an acid trip, this isn't… it can't be. It can't be real.

Tears spring into my eyes. It's cold. My eyes always tear up in the cold. I'd dressed for a warm Georgia evening – shorts and a tee shirt. When the wind whispers by me, its cold fingers feeling along my skin, I shiver. And after that, I can't even stop shaking.

One step has my foot skidding over a puddle of muddy water. My socks were already ruined, but it doesn't stop a hiss of disgust from leaving my mouth. Fuck – it's cold. I'm not used to chill soaking into my bones in August. In Georgia.

But you and I both know I'm not in Georgia anymore.

If only I could see the stars… maybe I could find north. Maybe – no, who am I kidding? Who am I, Bear Grylls? I don't know what to do.

I'm cold, and I'm scared.

A branch rustles, and I utter a silent scream. My vocal chords must have dried up in fear. No sound comes out of my mouth, and I feel… so defenseless. When the small bird, sparrow-sized and russet in color, flutters to a different perch – uncomfortably close to my face – I feel a bit stupid.

What other kind of wild animals are out here?

I don't major in animal behavioral studies, but I've done enough training to know just how animals are capable of hurting you. As a vet student, I'd worked with farm animals, cows, horses… dogs.

Dogs aren't too far removed from wolves when it comes to their teeth.

I stifle a shudder. One from sheer cold, healthily mixed with fear. I haven't moved in about five minutes, so I force my legs forward, hoping to get my blood moving to warm me up. Hypothermia won't kill me – not at this temperature, not immediately, at least. But it's enough to make me sick.

I stick my hands into the pockets of my shorts, and my hand grasps my phone. I give a cry of disbelief. Pulling it out, checking the time.

Five forty-three PM.

No, that can't be right.

It's at least midnight. It's dark enough to be, and the sun never sets this early in August.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I unlock my phone. No signal. My battery's at 56%, and I should save it.

The relief I'd felt seconds before turns to a heavy weight on my shoulders.

After checking a fallen log – there's no shortage of that here – for bugs and dead bodies, I sit down, placing my head in my hands. For some reason, the touch shocks me. My warm palms feel like fire against my sweaty forehead. I brush baby hairs away from my face – the little strands that had become frizzy in the damp weather. The rest of my hair is braided, creating a thick shield from the wind against my neck.

"God," I whisper to myself, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand. "I'm high. I have to be."

I'm sober.

Resisting the urge to check my phone again, I glance around the dark forest. An owl hoots in the trees somewhere nearby. I used to go birdwatching with my mom, so I'm eager to pinpoint where the bird is – but it's too dark to see, and I quickly give up. It served as a distraction for all of two minutes.

When I was a kid, my mom was with me twenty-four-seven. My dad was never in the picture. Some part of me hated him for being a deadbeat, but a few times I'd been curious enough to ask. She was never straightforward with her answer. She told me tons of stories, and the ones about him wove him like he was some kind of fairytale prince.

She was just making it up to sensationalize my lack of a father figure. I thought it was just how she is. She's a fun-loving, kind, beautiful woman, and I owe a lot to her. But sitting here alone makes me remember something deeper.

She used to burn small, white flowers. She'd gather a small bouquet of them, bind them together with grass, and set the stems ablaze. Then she'd breathe the smoke and mumble under her breath in a language I only barely understood. One time I'd watched her, and when I asked what she was doing, she only smiled and gave me a simple answer.

Magic, baby girl. Mama's just doing a little magic.

She treated it like it was common. Our world was small. It was us, and we visited Grandma's house each Sunday. Mom had a large family. Three brothers and a sister. All older. They had families of their own and we spent holidays together, but there was distance. Animosity. One time I heard my uncle – my aunt's husband – calling my mama crazy. It never deterred her. We would just go back home after family dinner, and she'd tuck me in, and then I'd smell the faintly sweet smoke drifting from her room.

She loved those flowers. She had herbs hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen. She had a job, working long hours as a nurse on the graveyard shift. She'd leave after I fell asleep and be home in time to send me off to school. She was a college-educated woman, but there was something about her I'd never understood.

She acted like she was half-stuck in fairyland.

I wasn't quite a part of her world. She loves me – I know she does. But I was on this side of a garden wall, and she was on the other, and I could never find the gate to join her.

Whatever her magic was, I wished I had a little bit of it right now.

The wind rustles through the trees again. I rub my shoulders slowly, realizing with no small touch of fear that it felt about five degrees colder. How much had the temperature dropped? How much would it drop before the night was over?

That's when I smell it.

A strong odor. Cooking meat. It rushes in on a gush of warmth that surrounds my senses. I feel as if twenty years have been added to my life. The breeze doesn't have a sharp chill anymore. Instead, it almost feels inviting.

Is that laughter I hear?

I almost faceplant in my rush to stand. Before I know it, my legs are churning into a stumbling run, almost tripping over my own feet. There's one thought on my mind, and it's not food or the mud splattering over my legs as I make a landing in a puddle.

People. There are people here.

I finally see it: a faint glow that grows larger as I approach. I suck air into my lungs, peeking through a bunch of ferns. A ring of white birches – delicate, fairy-thin trees that seem out of place in the encroaching darkness – illuminated by the warm glow of the bonfire.

But more importantly…

The tall and elegant figures around the fire. They're talking and laughing, words too quiet for me to make out. The fire dances, distracting me from the tones of a language I don't recognize. I step towards them, into the ring of birches, lifting my hand and calling out a greeting.

"Hey!"

And just like that – everything disappears.

Everything.

Boom. Gone.

Nothing left but the faint, almost empty, smell of smoke on the breeze, and even that is rapidly disappearing.

I rub my eyes. It couldn't have been a hallucination – I had all but felt the warmth on my face. But… how could it have disappeared so fast?

Glancing at the ground, scuffing the dirt with my feet, sifting dirt through my socks, I realize with a knot in my throat that there are no footprints. The forest floor bears no sign of a fire, either. That's weird… I know what I saw. I fold my arms around my body, leaning against a nearby tree. It's not a birch, thin and dark as it is – the firelight must have tricked me.

I slide to the ground, my knees tucked against my chest. When the firelight beckons me again, hundreds of yards to my right, I ignore it. It's horrifying and lonely here. And cold. But I'm too tired and too afraid to chase after magic visions or hallucinations.

The laughter is mocking me.

The telltale knot in my throat tells me one thing: I'm about to cry. I haven't cried in years, but I'll forgive myself this time.

It takes all my strength not to crawl towards the fire in the distance. "Just sleep, Leo," I tell myself, letting my cheek hit the packed, damp earth, wondering if I'll get eaten alive before morning comes. "This is all a dream. You'll be fine."

I'm a goner.