Layla's Point of View

After the chaos and stress following the Accident, her parents had finally managed to slip away from the court, taking a night for themselves out of the busy week.

She stood in an little garden outside an old home in Veron, bedecked with golden lights. Her parents and aunt watched, smiling from the deck, hidden away from the palace for a little fleeting escape.

Her father, Orion Swallow, with red hair that proved rather rebellious, and purple eyes that twinkled, was gingerly taking his old guitar, her mother, Selene Charlize, with her moon-white hair (an unusual shade that ran in the Charlize line) and light blue eyes, was taking out her violin, despite the panic on her husband and daughter's faces.

Talia Swallow, her aunt was wincing, ears widening in warning. Maia was already dancing, her blue dress spinning in the evening light. The sunset caught her moon-white hair and sparkled in her dancing, purple eyes. The features that they both shared.

No crowns perched on their heads, just the wind in their hair. So fleeting now, so rare, for them to escape the demands of their countries, away from their frustrating court and their power games. But now it was just them and her, their worries fading away.

How she treasured these nights, split between their house in Veron and their apartment in Celeste over the lake. When they did not have to be the Lord and Lady of the most powerful city-states in the archipelago. When they sang and danced and played music together in the evening light.

Tonight was their night, the night the family got to forget about past and future, to live in the present. So Layla took a deep breath. Tonight was alive and rich with spices of a thousand laughters. She stared up at the sunset, bleeding red on the bursting colour of the flowers. Bleeding red on the wood of the house she loved. She smiled a little, a twitch of her lips.

Her father smiled back at her, and picked up the guitar. He didn't need the notes. He knew the song like the back of his hand. Her mother didn't. She pulled out crinkly sheets and picked up her violin. Layla knew when to cover her ears, but the screeches were still painful. As much as she might try, her mother could never master the violin.

She frowned and tried again. Talia swiped the instrument in a flash and Orion chuckled. His wife glared at him icily, and he reverted to play Selene's favourite song. She hummed along, content. Talia got to her feet and began to dance alongside Maia.  Even if Talia could have won fame on the piano, she still had a deep love of failing to dance which encouraged Selene in her own pursuit of the impossible. Sometimes her father and her would sneak away to play properly.

"Talia can't dance," he would smile. "And your mother cannot play. But we three Swallows-we can put on a show." Then Layla would sing, and sometimes he would sing with her. Maia would dance to the beat, as wild and free as ever. Every once and a while, Layla would try with the guitar and music would waft through their home before Talia or Selene came and they had to tuck their instruments away else they be hurt.

"We're going to be late," Talia interrupted.

"Endlessly practical, my sister." Orion called back. Talia went red, and Selene used the distraction to reach for her unattended violin. He noticed this and sighed, reaching for the door. Selene's expression matched her sister-in-law's.

Two minutes later they entered the streets, breathing in the scent of fresh bread. Her father gazed longingly at a cart smelling of caramel and Selene sighed, her eyes on a jam and cream croissant.

The money split between the five of them, each one wandered to the theatre with flakes of pastries trailing behind them and chocolate or jam on their noses. The air was crisp and clean, the lights lit up the evening sky, children dashed through the streets.

Everything was just as perfect as it could be. Faces hidden by elaborate masks-Talia sported a white wolf, whilst Orion wore a fiery red dragon pattern contrasting Selene's icy one and Layla and Maia donned swan's masks (because there was no way they were spending any time not identical)-they joined the thousands at the Halloween Masquerade that took place all across the streets.

Entering the opulent hall of the Music Theatre, mingling with the wealthy who paid an arm and a leg to be at the preview of this season's music and those with noble or royal blood who'd been paid to show their faces at the event. She recognised a few from the court who weren't wearing masks.

They filtered through to their seats, speaking to each other, none of them in such perfect suspense, excitement and reverence as Layla and her father were. They had waited months for this. To hear the perfect sound of the orchestra play. Perhaps Layla was looking forward to it most.

The Lydia was an orchestra famous across Asriel. They had played in every city-state, earned every award imaginable, but that was not what interested her. No, what captivated Layla the most was the the tight-rope walkers. The group had been started because of them. Because of one girl in particular, a girl named Lydia who had captured the world one hundred years ago, dancing on a tight-rope.

The orchestra had come later, a wonderous feast of music that accompanied the girl. But even then, they had not been what they were today.

The story that truly captured Layla's imagination was the tale of when Lydia had fallen. She had slipped from the tight-rope, and into a net that had caught on fire. The orchestra had played at her funeral, and so beautifully, so perfectly, that all who heard it wept and the orchestra became famous beyond compare. The best of the best came now, to join their ranks.

Every time, the Lydias- tightrope-walkers almost as skilled as the orchestra was-would take to the sky, dancing beautifully, with an illusionist projecting an image of flames every time. Sometimes the whole stadium was on fire, other times it was just the net. The acts were death-defying and beautiful, and they were what caught Layla's imagination, the story of a girl who had fallen into flames. Of course, it wasn't true. Elfin magic would have saved the girl from death. But it was a good story for the Lydia Orchestra to claim.

As the curtains unveiled the orchestra, Layla shivered with anticipation. The first note came, in a symphony that set the deadly tone for another dance on the ropes. The lights went out, and the fires lit up the stadium. Layla let the world sweep her away

        --------------

It was halfway through the performance when the attacks began, and it began with arrows and fire. Layla heard screams echo through her head as she watched the seats catch aflame. At first she thought it was a trick. Then she reached to touch the seat in front and her hand came back wet with blood. No illusion could trick the sense of touch.

"Mother!" She screamed. "Father! Talia! Maia!" She felt heat rise in the room, and she wondered if it was her father's or the assassins'.  Fear was ice white and bright red.

She turned to see the fire lighting up her mother's panicked face, her father's desperate flame. Talia was beside her in an instant. Watching the theatre around her, Layla felt helpless. Her magic was too uncontrollable to fight back with, and she couldn't tell who the fires belonged to: the illusionist, her father or natural flame. Her parents seemed to gather themselves together, ice streaking through the stadium, waiting for the fire to melt it and bring its doom.  Her father reached out for the fire and harnessed it, snuffing it out with lethal ease.

"My lord!" The security said sharply. "We have to get out."

"Don't be ridiculous," he growled. "I can save the people trapped here."

"I'm sorry my lord," he replied. "But I have the authority to make choices on your behalf for your safety when your heir is not yet ready to take the throne." Her father sighed, defeated. He was bound by magic to follow the laws of his ancestors, and he had no choice but to obey.

They ran after the guards, fire quieting in their wake as they leapt for the door. They left behind the arena and dashed into the hall amongst dozens pushing for the exit.. But Layla kept looking back at the theatre, watching it burn down, with so many still trapped inside. Her parents couldn't manage to save them without clear sight of the theatre. 

Her mother reached for them, gathering her daughters in her arms, tears slipping past her cheeks. Thousands gazed at the burnt theatre as dozens poured out, fleeing desperately. Talia gripped her hand tightly, half for reassurance and half to ensure Layla stayed beside her. Wild, unbridled fire circled them, Orion's flame.

The chaotic scence blurred as the guards rushed them out of the crowded streets. Shaking, the four clambered into a carriage that sped toward the palace. The scenes kept replaying in their heads: not knowing where the others were, the flames almost swallowing them, the screams and the arrows and the blood.

The court was assembled in fifteen minutes, rushing in from all over the city-state. In that time, she, Talia and her parents had dressed to look the part. Her mother, in reassuring, cool, calm blue and silver, her father in wrathful armour, red and gold. Talia wearing a matching ensemble, this time in gold. Layla wore silver and dark red.

The Calm Rebuilder. The Burning Avenger and his Right Hand. The heir and the spare, portraits of Power. Safety, wrath and strength.

The façade was beautiful and perfect, but Layla noticed her parents holding each other's hands tightly, Talia's face paling. She clung to Maia desperately.

They were both still shaking. She remembered the way her hand had come out covered in blood when she so touched the seat in front of her. The erratic flames they'd barely escaped. She remembered the pure, undiluted fear they had gripped hold of her with icy hands when the theatre went dark and she did not know who was alive and who was dead.

Her eyes kept darting to her parents, her aunt and her sister stood, as if she could not believe that they were truly, tangibly there. Not amongst the dead.

She was shaken to her core, but if she showed this, it would spread fear through her home. If the Singer, the daughter of the gods, the Spare Heir to Celeste and Veron, was afraid...

Layla stood up straight, hiding shaky hands, and tried to look like the legend she was painted to be. Tried to look powerful. But she didn't feel powerful.

She felt like she was a  thirteen-year-old girl with thousands depending on her, a girl who was helpless and powerless, a girl who had everything to lose.

Her mother held her hand as they entered the court, the politicians from all over the vast, sprawling city-states dressed in silver or gold, each one with a hint of black on their clothes. Some in full mourning clothes. Outside, Layla knew flags would be at half mast. They had still lost many in the attack, a number yet unconfirmed.

The feeling of being lost was much like what Layla imagined was what ghosts felt when they drifted away from their bodies.

They bowed when Layla, her sister, her parents and Talia entered the room, falling to their feet in a swift bow. Layla, Maia and Talia bowed seconds later, though she felt a little ridiculous bowing to her own parents.

"Your Ladyship," said the ones in silver.

"Your Lordship," said the ones in gold.

"High Heir," They said as one. "Princess. Right Hand." The words were familiar, yet echoed with a terrifying burden.

"Rise," Orion and Selene said, nodding to Talia and her. They got to their feet, and the four sat down, Talia beside her father, and she between her parents.

"Rise," they repeated.

"Face the dawn," the politicians replied, traditons echoing. They rose to their feet with the same graceful symphony as before, taking their seats.

"You all know of the tragic events that occurred two hours ago. Reports have come in giving an estimate of around forty deaths, along with many injuries, most of them non-critical.

A thousand people were in the Music Hall including myself, my wife, my sister and daughter. We believe this was an assassination attempt as well as an attack. My wife and I managed to deal with much of the fire, along with several other elves using magic. We will now be making a public appearance via image mimicry. Any further questions?" Her mother asked.

"What do we know about the people involved in this?"One politician asked. The others agreed, demanding retribution.

"We are unaware who the perpetrators are at this point, or their allegiance." My father replied. "But we will find them." That voice promised blood.

They exited the room quickly, cloaks trailing behind them.

"Head to your room, Layla." Her mother whispered. "It's late.We can talk more soon. About everything." Layla crept upstairs, past the empty, dark corridors, feeling weary and alone. Sleep claimed her swiftly, her thoughts pouring into her dreams instead.

She stood outside the ring, but this time the tight-rope walker was Maia, fear flashing across her face. This time, the arrows shot for her, fire lighting up the sky.

"Maia!" She screamed, but no one heard her. The arrow hit her, and blood blossomed on her chest. "Maia!" She screamed. Her twin fell from the sky, screaming. The flames consumed her. Suddenly she felt blood on her hands. She cried out, but the fire dashed for her, and she felt herself burning.

"Maia!" She screamed out again. "Maia!"She woke, trembling, but her hands still felt wet. She lay in bed, shaking, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Sleep reached out for her hand and stole her away again.

This time it was her on the tight-rope, and her parents, sister and Talia in the front seats, watching with pale faces. The arrows fell just like before, and blood pooled from their chests, the fire hissing.

"No!" She screamed again and again. She lost her footing, just as Maia had, and fell into the fires.

Again and again, the nightmares came, each one with fresh blood and terrors, until finally dawn kissed her face.

Like a friend in hard times, like a lighthouse, it rode in as a saviour, a brightness in a dark world. She opened her eyes, and gave away a little smile. The night was over, the nightmares were done, and at least the light of the day was there to stand beside her.

The familiar room was a friend too, no longer warped by shadow and night, but a place that she knew, with the books she liked to read when she felt alone and sheets of music littering the floor. She let herself sing, just a little note, like a bird, like a windchime. She saw the paper as it slid off the bed.

Breakfast.

Dining Hall

Love, Mum

She slipped the note on her bedside table, changing into a simple dress. The opulent palace glared at her, cold and harsh. Layla realised her hands were shaking as she entered the room, a little corner with pale blue walls and a wooden floor with a glass table holding a range of pancakes, thin and fat but all covered in syrup. Her mother stood up and hugged her, gripping her tight.

"Medea, Empress of Kallias, has announced that she was behind the attack," her father said grimly. It was obvious now she thought of it; flame was the chosen element of humankind, just as the sky belonged to the elves and the raging ocean to valkyries. "And with it, comes a declaration of war against our city-state, the rest of Asriel, and Miras." 

Layla did not know what to do, or say, or think. She caught Maia's eyes, their steadying presence helping her calm down.

"How are you feeling?" Her mother asked, directing her to the table.

"I don't know," she mumbled. "Scared." Her mother nodded slowly.

"Did we know anyone?"She asked, but the words felt foreign, as though they were coming out of someone else's mouth. "Did we know anyone?"  

"No," Her father said slowly. "No, we didn't." Layla nodded faintly.

  There was something in her father's eyes that made him shiver. There was fury and rage and fire that dwelled in his soul. Layla often forgot the raw power her parents possessed. Their power had merged-and turned into something so powerful and uncontrollable, but their own was deadly. Fire that could obliterate cities. Ice that trap a kingdom in frost. Magic that could topple armies.

"We'll find them, Layla." He promised. Selene nodded.

"For Celeste."

"For Veron," her father roared. Layla could not see her parents in their faces. They had become what the legends called them: The Ice Queen, the Raging Storm. She was not ready to be what the stories called her: The Singer.

That's the thing about legends. We see a perfect portrait, but the portrait is cased in glass and it cracks