Cursed: Briar Rose's Story - Kaylin Lee Page 0,7

reading primer, letting the old explorer’s words and the gentle rhythm of the Western language quiet my nerves.

In the ancient land of Theros, magic pulses in the air. Our world is formed of facts and mechanics, you say? Not magic? Dear nephew, heed my words. Theros is no legend, but a real land, as real as ours. I have seen it—touched it—tasted it. And here, I have drawn it.

The journal’s author claimed to have adventured in Theros over two hundred years ago, just before the golden age of trade with the West. His illustrations and observations were enthusiastically fanciful—and occasionally outlandish—but I loved it like the man had written it for me instead of his nephew.

The mountain initially of least interest reveals itself to be the one hiding the greatest treasures. Cold wind whistles through its valleys. The trees and shrubs are dry, barely living, though somehow, they grow all the same.

The sun never quite seems to shine. In places, exposed rock includes patches of slick, black rock that will cause even the most stable step to slip. At the top of this menacing slope sits an impassible collection of rocks so enormous, so unforgiving, the mightiest of our machines would be required to drill through them.

And yet, would you believe me, young man, if I told you I’d found my way through?

The rocks may not be moved by any power, but for the worthy, they may part—just a crack—just enough that a young man with a taste for adventure might creep through a tunnel that grows ever narrower before opening. And when it opens, my boy, the idyllic scene will take your breath away, for the rocky mountaintop is no ordinary peak. It is verdant and secure, an oasis built on eons of death and power.

I flipped through the dictionary as I got to work translating the next sentence, the structure and repetition of the Western tongue now comfortingly familiar. My pencil scratched the paper, one word after another, the translation emerging like a satisfying puzzle.

It is the top of a dead volcano.

My breath caught. I set aside the dictionary and the sheet of notes that held my translation. Could I be reading that correctly? There was an extinct volcano in the Gold Hills?

I’d memorized a map of the Gold Hills years earlier, sketching each mountain with a rough hand and labeling the peaks and major bodies of water under my mother’s watchful eye. But never, not in a single Asylian book of geography, had I read of a volcano in the Gold Hills.

“It’s just a story,” I whispered under my breath, running my hand over the etching of the mountain beside the adventurer’s entry. “Just a tale for his nephew. Not real.” But the longing unfurling in my chest was real enough.

This eccentric Westerner had seen far more of Theros than I, a native citizen, had. How was that fair?

Meanwhile, I languished behind an endless series of walls, bored and useless. Waiting for my mother and father to do the important work in the Badlands while I played cards with Alba.

Nothing fair about it.

“—here!” Alba shrieked downstairs. “It’s them! I know it!”

The front door slammed.

I shoved the journal and dictionary under my pillow, threw myself off the bed, and rushed into the hallway.

The surging need to see my father—to be held in his arms, to hear his deep voice again—shocked me and scared me, but not enough to slow me down as I hurtled down the stairs.

“Dad—” I stopped short.

Alba stood in the kitchen, her arms around his waist and her face pressed against his chest. “I missed you so much, Daddy.” Her voice was muffled. “I was so worried. Please, don’t ever leave again!”

I must have made a noise. Dad glanced up and met my eyes over her head. “Briar Rose.” He smiled, deepening the creases around his eyes. “Good to see you.”

Alba didn’t budge.

My pulse thudded in my veins. A raw, exposed feeling carved through my chest. “Hi.” My voice was thick. Were those tears gathering in my eyes? I swallowed, my throat tight. I was dimly aware of my mom and Ella entering the kitchen from the front entryway, arm in arm, with broad, matching grins.

“—hungry? I can make dinner. Bri. Bri!”

I started. Ella was in front of me, and Mom had her arm around my shoulder. How had they moved so quickly?

Dad continued to embrace Alba.

“Do you want to eat?” Ella furrowed her brows.

“I’m fine,” I answered—somehow. “Just tired. And I need to study.”

I