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The History of Magic
Sector One: Pairings
Magic, as a whole, has always existed. But not until the Elder and his wife joined forces did we as humans know how to use it to our advantage.
The first noted usage was between Markus Arban, who is now a known Elder, and his soulmate. From the research done, Markus could perform his magic without the presence of his soulmate, but she needed a connection with him to thrive, to be able to harvest and use her energy.
Thus the study of soulmates initiated.
To be able to properly use magic, one must have complete trust with their magical equal, often referred to as a soulmate or pair.
There is only one instance in which someone would not need a soulmate to use their magic, and that is with the Elder. As of 2001, there have been four known Elders* to live (listed below). It is unknown if they run in the same family, as for the instance of Lucas Braam. But, as seen in the chart, there have only ever been firstborn sons to present as an Elder.
If in the future there are ever two Elders alive at once, the Councel have made note of what the process is. While it has yet to happen, both the Elder and the Councel has decided that precautions are necessary for the possibility of a future event.
In the rare case of two Elders existing at the same time, the eldest may decide to eliminate the younger if he wishes to do so. The requirements for this are:
- The younger must prove to be weaker than the current Elder
- Must be younger than 16
- The Elder must be in a sound state of mind
- Cannot be directly related (immediate family)
If the younger presents early enough and is seen as equally strong to the Elder at the time, the younger may attempt to duel for the position if he so wishes. If not, they are able to live their life as an apprentice to the Elder until he dies and his position is taken over.
(From the Code of Magic, 1967)
*List of Past Elders - circa. 2001
Markus Arban 1732 - 1817 (85)
Lucas Braam 1817 - 1885 (68)
Jonathan Arban 1885 - 1962 (77)
Markus Tabares 1962 -
☆ I. ☆
Chapter One
Cal
Beachwood is quiet. Not the cozy quiet everyone initially thinks, but the deafening silence of a town gone mad, plagued with disaster and sickness yet still alive and breathing. The mindless living that only accompanies an event too unnatural, too vile to handle. It’s the grasps of winter holding onto spring two weeks longer before finally letting it slip through his fingers while flowers bloom.
At first glance, Beachwood looks normal. And maybe to some it is. But at the heart of it all there is magic. Gold dust coating the brick roads and empty sidewalks, birds singing until their voices die out, dwindling down with the time. It’s a simple town, and it’s beautiful for it. A familiarity in the passing seasons, the scent of being home.
Beachwood is famous for only three things. Unremarkable things at that. The first is the Elder. The strongest magician in their province, born of pure magical blood and created amongst the Gods. He’s the one everyone knows, because he doesn’t need a soulmate. He doesn’t need a bond. He just needs himself.
The second is their apple pie. Not that Cal has ever had it, but the way people describe it is enough. The golden flakes of dough, the liquid apples and the melted whipped cream floating on the top, a heavenly mixture. It is delectable and dreamy, and as people often said, the food of magic.
The third and final thing is exactly that, but more of a concept: Magic . The fire that mends a soul, breaking it in two and then sealing it together with wisps of pale blue stars. The constellations that form a person, from the moment they are born until the moment they die. And then there’s the rebirth. Those constellations are passed down. Little specks of microscopic strength that form into a twirling, dancing string of magic, a ribbon tied into a strand of DNA. The Gods passed down gifts of light, of fire-making and earth-bending spirits to break a soul and then to reform it again.
And that’s what Beachwood is. A city made by the Gods.
Cal Lewis moved to Beachwood when he was twelve; barely alive, a runaway with an extraordinary gift. No family, no one to lead him. It seemed that nothing could possibly make his life worse. And yet…
“Cal, listen. Just because you don’t have an ordinary power doesn’t mean you’re alone,” Ella says, catching up to him quickly. Their current height difference definitely doesn’t help her. She grabs his wrist and looks up at him with wide bambi eyes.
“I’m not upset about that,” Cal scoffs. A blatant lie, of course, but he won’t let others know, especially Ella.
Ella Harmon is the bite to Cal’s bark, although it didn’t look like it: a five-three girl and a six-two boy, as dangerous as they were odd. With words of steel and a powerful punch, Ella Harmon raises the bar for every girl Cal has ever known. She’s resilient, never stepping down from a fight, especially if it means putting someone in their rightful place.
She’s a sister to Cal, their relationship packed tight with the love and bickering of siblings. “Livia’s power isn’t obvious either, you know,” Ella points out and Cal wants to scoff as he rolls his eyes.
He shakes his head, hands tightening on the woven straps of his bag. “Lots of things match with light, Ella,” he points out quietly, and it’s the truth. “Not to mention the obvious match to light is darkness ,” he draws out, pulling away from Ella’s grasp. But even Cal knows that nothing is ever obvious in Beachwood. “I have to go.”
“Cal,” Ella calls, “wait!”
Cal is already running North, away from where Ella stands, jaw locked tight and legs tingling. In fact, all of his body is tingling. “ Shit ,” he says as he looks down at his hands, which are fading at the edges, twisting and changing every nerve. He’s becoming a new person, phasing into their body. Fraying was the correct term Cal had come up with.
He runs faster, as if he can escape the sudden change happening to him. He was tired, exhausted, even, of being so out of control. He had never been able to grasp his power. It was a string, tight around his finger, but slipping from his grasp when he needed it most; fraying at the edges, decaying and breaking down, just like him.
The shameful part is that there is no one to teach him how to control his phases. Shapeshifting isn’t common and it never will be. With only one presented every four decades, there is no one to lead him. He is running blind.
Cal hits something and he hits it hard. He stumbles backward, tripping on his left foot and spiraling to the ground. “Shit,” he mumbles, not bothering to look up. Instead looking at where his hands are now scraped and dripping blood. He doesn’t feel the pain because it isn’t his to feel. It isn’t his blood and it would never be his blood.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole.” Cal looks up with wide eyes, pushing himself to a standing position. The some thing he ran into turned out to be some one .
“Sorry,” Cal whispers. Except the voice that leaves his mouth isn’t his. Shit , he thinks, cursing the world silently. Running was easy, Running would always be easy. But running from Kennedy Arban? That was unfeasible.
But Cal would sure as hell try.
His feet caught underneath him once, and he imagined himself toppling backwards into Kennedy, in the midst of fraying.
He slides into a side alleyway, breaths trapped under his skin. The tingling only worsened, a plague against all of Cal’s senses. “Please, please, please ,” he mutters, eyes closed and fists clenched at his sides. When Cal frayed, his entire body changed; he took on the form of another human. Watching himself change was never an option, so he assumed the worst for how he must look right now.
He knew it was impossible for Kennedy to let go and not run after him. But worse than that was that he was much more athletic than Cal. If he really wanted to catch up, he could, and there is nothing Cal can do to keep him at bay.
With his head between his legs and nerves ablaze, Cal waits. He waits for his secret to be revealed, he waits for the punch to come to his head, sending him dizzy and floating into another dimension. The stars flinging past his head in one motion, the lines of his body folding and making him sick.
But it never comes. There’s never a swing, never a backhanded comment followed by the sound of flesh on flesh. Blood rushing in his ears and the sound of rain beginning to fall are the only things to remind him where he is. Cal closes his eyes, letting the change wash over him like a tide. His senses are drowned out by the salty tang of the murky gray waters that capture him, pulling him down until he is breathing the heavy water into his lungs. It pulls at every part of him, from the thousands of hair follicles on his head down to his eyes, past his lips and to his torso. It feels more like the lick of a flame than the comfort of the ocean. His clothes are baggier now, his jeans too long and hanging low on his hips. In hindsight, he should have predicted this change. He hasn’t changed in weeks. But the past doesn’t help now.
So Cal picks himself up like he always does. He drags himself around the corner and he walks, deciding that running would get him nowhere. He passes by where he ran into Kennedy. He holds his breath like he does when walking by a graveyard, as if his dead body was there and he was just a walking corpse, reliving the moments in which he was still breathing, still running.
The air is buzzing with electricity, and Cal wonders for a brief moment if this is the end of him. There’s a crackle of thunder and Cal is thankful the dorm building is so close.
This wouldn’t be the first time he had shown up, soaked through his shirt while wearing a different face. Cal knew it wouldn’t be the last time, either.
In the safety of his own dorm, of his own bed, Cal let himself fall apart. The twisting feeling in his gut tightens and he clenches his eyes shut. There’s a tidal wave of change, followed closely by a wave of nausea; Two things he can’t force down, yet he tries so hard to.
He’s halfway to ripping out his hair when a light tap of knuckles lands on the white wood of his bedroom door. He leaps up, but he’s too late. Met with the worried gaze of Ella, he sighs. “Ells…” he trails off, using the nickname he had given her years before.
“Don’t,” she says. Her pastel bag swings over her shoulder and into her hand in one motion, and she digs through it, retrieving a Snickers and throwing it to Cal. He catches it with ease. Eat first, ask questions later.
Ella catches the look in his eyes. “You were twitchy,” she says, her tone that of a history professor, someone who knows everything. “You get twitchy before you phase.”
“ Fray ,” Cal corrects, but he knows the two words are interchangeable. . “I didn’t realize it would happen so soon.”
Ella hums as she rests an arm on the door frame. “Was it bad?” she asks, looking over him once with a worried gaze.
Cal isn’t sure whether to lie or to hold back or to tell the entire truth. Without another thought of the consequences of his words, his mouth starts moving. “After I ran, it started.” He doesn’t say what. He knows Ella understands. “It hasn’t ever hurt so bad,” he says, and the memory is enough to make his eyes burn. He takes a deep breath and looks into Ella’s eyes. “I ran into Kennedy, Ells. He could have found out everything.”
Ella looks at him with a sharp gaze. “Did he see?”
“I don’t,” Cal stutters, muffled by his palm. “I don’t think so.”
Ella is silent, but Cal can feel the thoughts drifting out of her like an electric current. Plus there are vines twisting around her exposed ankles, her power was out of control again. “I’ll talk to Clare about it,” she says, and then she turns to leave.
“Ella,” Cal says, and she turns swiftly, mouth open as if to say something. She meets his eyes and closes it, raising an eyebrow. “He didn’t run after me. He knew he could catch up to me but he didn’t.” With a hand clenched around strands of his shaggy hair, he shakes his head. “It just does not add up, Ells.”