Chapter 1

November 20, 2040: Britain

I awoke in the cotton sheets and beige pillows of my bed in the orphanage, quiet bubbles of little girls’ snores murmuring around me. Groggy sunlight trickled in through stained glass windows, casting blue, green, red colours on our sleeping bodies.

“Bad dream?”

To my left was Gardenia, leaning over her bedside table. She looked at me with a curious gaze, pink fuzzy teddy bear clutched in one hand. She flicked a pink bowl cut from her face and activated the lamp on my bedside table. Gardenia’s fingers dropped off the table and onto the floor, cold, white tiles unheated at bedtime. Another girl stirred, Olympia. She sleep-mumbled something about sport, then turned over and sighed.

“I guess. But it felt so real…”

“Dreams are like that sometimes. What was it about?”

“I dreamt I was a dove… or an angel? I was talking to this glittery girl, who-”

“Who’s talking? It’s 6:36, 2 hours before your scheduled waking time.”

We dived under the covers as Matron walked in, torch in hand, and though she tried to hide it, her loafers rapped loudly. She shone the light at me, then chuckled and left.

“That was close. Tell me more at breakfast, kay?”

“Kay.”

As Gardenia slipped back into the bubbling chorus of snores, I stayed awake, an uneasy feeling seeded deep inside me.

-

My private chat with Gardenia had become the centre of attention, girls of varying ages and tones approaching me with questions.

“Ooh, ooh! Was there a god of candy?”

“No?”

“Your dreams are boring, Caitlyn. Last night, I dreamt of-”

“If you’re done asking your question, budge off!”

A small crowd of people lined up in front of me, this no doubt being the highlight of their week. Some held half-finished plates of food, some wielded cutlery like gladiators. Even girls as old as 15 lined up to ask questions, tired of the one video game they had to play.

“Out of my way! Go, go, or I’ll call Matron on all of you. Hurry along.”

As the crowd dispersed, Isabella strutted through. Her elbow-length hair flicked in my face, which she apologised sparsely for.

“You’ve got to get that cut, Izzie.”

Gardenia pointed a fork at her, mouth stuffed with mash potato.

“Well, I have style, unlike a certain person with a bowl cut.”

“Low blow, low blow.”

Gardenia put her head back down, shoveling food into her mouth. I took a bite of chicken, watching Isabella sit in front of me.

“So. Spill. What’s the scoop?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“What kind? Was it eldritch? Was it scary? Was it lewd?”

“I-Izzy!”

“Ok, ok, I’ll stop.”

“Thank you.”

Matron entered, a pair of Godmothers trailing behind her. Their metal bodies floated around, collecting our messy, cleaned, half-eaten plates, stacking them in piles to be washed.

“Ok girls, it’s exercise time. Everyone out into the courtyard!”

There was a singular ‘yay’ among the sea of groans and sighs, no doubt from Olympia. She weaved her way through the shuffling crowd to do a jumping jack to a split. Two more Godmothers appeared behind Matron, now wearing red-and-white striped exercise bands and pink jumpsuits. One carried a grey boom-box, cheap 80s music exploding from the speakers. Slapping on her own exercise band and a wide smile, she clapped her hands together.

“Ok! Everyone jog on the spot!”

Matron’s legs flapped in her black dress, not much unlike ours. The scene was like an old fitness tape, as it always was. As the scent of sweat evaporated into the air, my eyes once again drew to a sign towering above us. It read ‘Bernard’s home for war-displaced children’. Posters plastered the surrounding walls, propaganda about the terrible might of Russia and the magical advancements it has gained in the last 20 years. There are even rumors about the current president of 38 years, and that he’s immortal. Something about a pact with Gods. I don’t believe in them, but I’m inclined to. Magic became known to humans in the Virtionite crisis 40 years ago, when large amounts of the magic-bearing crystal Virtionite burst like geysers from the Earth’s core. This event only affected Europe and the Mediterranean, giving rise to two new superpowers: Egypt and Russia. The Egyptians were revered for their exceptional aptitude with magic, but in more recent years, Russia has birthed powerful magicians as well. That’s why the war began. Fearing Russia, Egypt started it. We, Britain, have been dragged in as well, because we are allied with Egypt. A sharp whistle ripped me from my thoughts, to Matron, who, with the Godmothers, was escorting kids to the steel door leading inside.

“It’s the Irish,” One said.

“They’re using the abandoned portal to the east of here to invade us.”

Sirens blared, and we hurried inside. The tapping footsteps of frenzied, distressed, afraid children echoed through the room as the steel door sealed behind us and a force field was deployed. We sat in the bustling cafeteria and waited. This was common. Every so often, the Irish would open a portal in the heart of London, deploying a raiding party of skilled magicians to ransack the city. Our military, the guardians, was capable enough to stop this. The clinking of enchanted weapons approached us, answered by the deep rumbling of machinery. Magitech weapons hummed outside, followed by a loud explosion and slashes of metal-on-metal.

Churn.

Clang.

Scream.

Shiver.

Boom.

Bang.

Blam.

Bam.

The force field shook, and Matron pulled up a screen. A magician had sliced a guardian’s head off, which fell from its 40-metre body onto the building. Its green Virtionite core powered down, and a raider plucked it out. In his hand was a crystal the size of his palm, still buzzing with energy. He turned to the camera Matron watched from, and fire emanated from his sword. With a quick slice, the feed cut out. Another explosion rang out, and the roof caved in. Through the murmurs and cries of little girls was a loud, mechanical groan that was falling closer and closer, crashing through the force field and into the room. They had felled another guardian, its lifeless body collapsing on the roof of the orphanage. Fire spread like tendrils across the ground, enveloping everything in a capsule of flame. We stumbled on the charred tiles that crumbled below our feet, toppled chairs and tables littered around. From the fire emerged a man. Behind him stood 4 others, wielding silver enchanted weapons. The leader stepped forward.

“To your knees,” he ordered.

Matron nodded and dropped. Everyone else followed. The leader walked to Olympia, placing a V-reader to her temple. After a second, it beeped, he shook his head, then an arrow was shot through Olympia’s head. Her flowing, brown hair, now coated with blood, gathered in bunches on the floor as she slumped down, dead.