Young Writers Society

Usually the familiar routine of twisting her magic through her spiraling locks would be meditative with peace. However, she couldn't organize her thoughts. Her fingers tremble. The vibrant crimson hue that she typically adored of her hair only brought to mind a thrill of fear. Her thoughts jumble from one thought to the next in a rattling haze. Ariana wondered would she ever wake up one day and not be back in that horrid cage. The feel of biting cold chains around her wrists. The phantom aches of whip marks cutting through her back. The unbearable freezing cold that stole her life until it became a part of who she was.

Even the rolling waves brushing the dock don't distract from the beauty that she became. The last time he had physically laid eyes on her they had both been starving, broken children within a lab. He can't even hide the pride in his eyes when he notices the tight crown of braids that make up her crimson, spiraling locks. Magic hums visibly to his ears of her dedication to his lessons on coating each strand with her life essence to invoke protection. Her amber eyes loosen their rigid guard when he allows his magic to swell to join her own. Recognized it as easily as he did her own. He can't help the warmth that fills his cheeks, hidden by the night's darkness, when she stands tall, hands gripping the daggers under the armored skirt around her hips. She never looked so mesmerizing then now, prepared to spill the blood of her foes and not an ounce of hesitation filtered through those words.