Page 1 of Ruled By Magic

Heavy boots thumped toward my cell. I jumped off the narrow bed and faced the door, everything focused on the tiny, barred window. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream as the footsteps halted. I’d learn my fate today, when the judge pronounced my sentence.

A low electronic buzz rang out and the door slid open. I blinked in the harsh fluorescent light at the guard silhouetted in the doorway.

“It’s time,” a young male voice said. “Come on.”

I smoothed down the baggy orange jumpsuit and took one last look at my cell. Fixed it in my mind. The scratchy sheets, the uncomfortable chair. Green walls that lulled me into depression. The non-mage prison must be better than this solitary misery, right?

I followed the guard into the corridor. Same green walls, same odor of mold mingled with disinfectant. The guard couldn’t have been more than twenty, faint acne scars visible on his stubbled cheeks. But his arms held the red bracers that marked him as a mage. In a few years, he’d be lording it over non-mages from a cushy executive position. That’s how things went in Dexia.

Two figures waited at the end of the corridor. A guard, and a woman in an orange suit to match mine. My heart twisted. “Hex,” I croaked. The word rasped against my throat, unfamiliar. When had I spoken last?

“Be quiet,” my guard snapped.

Hex whipped her head around, light brown eyes meeting mine with fierce intent. At almost six feet tall, she stood level with the guard by her side. My heart lurched in my chest and tears stung at the sight of my best friend.

“Liv—”

“Shut it!” Hex’s guard appeared fortyish, burly, and grizzled. No red bracers. He glared at us. “Not one more word, or I’ll shut your mouths for you. Understood?”

Hex’s hands balled into fists. I tensed.

Not the time for a fight.

With a visible effort of will, Hex took a deep breath and nodded. I echoed the gesture.

“Get moving.” The burly guard glanced down at his watch and set a quick pace.

I frowned. I expected bored professionalism from the prison guards. This one radiated tension.

A fast march through a maze of corridors, and we emerged onto a raised dais at the back of a cavernous space. I froze and stared until a prod from the older guard got me moving. The opulent space was more throne room than courtroom. We faced rows of carved wooden benches. The polished marble floor shone, and late afternoon sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows.

Hundreds of people observed us, with not a single empty space. The crowd was a sea of red. All mages. The women wore modest, high-necked gowns nipped in at the waist, and the men, tailored suits. Very posh. The guards motioned us to sit. I perched on the edge of the solid wooden seat and glanced at Hex. Her face reflected my anxiety, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Would the prison house us in the same wing? Unlikely. As a former Guardian, Hex’s life would be at risk. They’d keep her in a separate, secluded section. This might be my last sight of her for years. Tears threatened again, and I forced them down. Not now.

The burly guard pulled out his radio. It gave a harsh crackle as he pressed the button. “Let the Lord Commander know the prisoners are in place.”

Surely not.

Why would he come here? Dexia’s ruler could pass sentence on any criminals he chose, in theory. But he never did. He had better things to do.

Not today, apparently.

The Lord Commander represented the worst abuses of Dexian society. Privilege granted to mages. Glass ceilings in every organization. And, most frustrating of all, the inability of anyone without magic to enter our government. The Grand Assembly. A bunch of crooks.

In a few minutes, he’d be standing right in front of me. Why? I’d exposed some of his cronies as corrupt on my news channel, that was all. How could it warrant his personal attention?

A twist of blue light. I sucked in a breath and my hand flew to my mouth as a man flashed into existence in the center of the dais. My heart hammered against my ribs at the wrongness of it, the unnatural speed. Mages could teleport, everyone knew that, but seeing it in a vid didn’t capture the strangeness of the event. As my breathing slowed, I registered the change in the air. Silence enveloped the crowd, and as one, they rose to their feet.

The man waved a lazy hand. “Sit.” His voice rang out in the echoing chamber and the entire room obeyed. All eyes rested on him.

This wasn’t the Lord Commander I knew, though the crowd’s reaction and his confident authority left no doubt as to his identity. The old Lord Commander was pushing sixty, overweight, and favored elaborate, military-style outfits. What happened to him?

This man was young. Early thirties? He wore a red silk shirt and a tailored suit, the rich, gray fabric cut to complement his lean, muscular frame. His black hair lay in a sharp, modern style. Cold, dark eyes raked the crowd from a striking face, strong cheekbones highlighted by his stern expression. He wasn’t one of the Primes, or even a senior minister. It made no sense.

He sat and leaned back into his chair, a picture of studied arrogance.

“A decent turnout to watch the show.” He moved his attention to us. “And here we have the brave revolutionaries.” His voice dripped sarcasm. He made eye contact with us both but lingered on me. His face tightened, a hint of emotion suppressed. Anger? I met his eyes, though a survival instinct urged me to drop my gaze.

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