This tale begins not from a traumatizing tragedy nor from a great revelation. The faithful night had arrived as uneventfully as it always had, casting its serene glow upon a small farm nestled in the Mileth countryside. Within the farmhouse, next to dying embers, sat a frail woman named Savannah. She rocked gently in her wooden chair, using every moment of life left in her fire to finish her knitting. A rainbow of colored lengths fell from her lap into a basket at her feet. Next to that stood a modest bookcase. Its shelves were also littered with an array of color, both from spines of books and small portraits filling the gaps between them. The portraits were of the family—Savannah, her husband, and their only child.

Savannah soaked in the details of the portraits for what must have been the thousandth time. The Spark had claimed her husband very suddenly after she announced she was with child, and ultimately it was arranged that the Aisling would go about his travels and support the family from afar. Despite their distance, Savannah smiled. Her husband's reluctance to leave her and the child was reflected in the many parcels she still received after so many Deochs. His letters described fabulous things unlike those seen in Mileth; somewhere out there waited creatures larger than buildings, strange foods, and earth so hot walking upon it caused burns. However, no matter how incredible the sights or events described in his letters seemed, each and every letter was signed the same way: Yours, Jibsley.

Their daughter was not kept from the knowledge of her father. The girl loved her father's letters but remained realistic due to the great responsibility of the farm's upkeep. Indeed, as Brittany grew older, her mother grew more and more ill. Savannah could no longer carry hefty buckets of milk, drive hay to the herd, or visit the town for supplies. So the duties fell to her daughter, whose young bones rose before dawn and returned to the farmhouse well after the sun had disappeared. Tonight had been no different. Brittany appeared in the darkness of the entrance and smiled at her mother, afterwards turning into her bedroom located adjacent. Savannah listened to the quiet rustling of her daughter's filthy garments as they dropped to the floor. Then the sound of water came from the open doorway—no doubt the girl was at her wash basin.

Suddenly, something was amiss. The air seemed heavier. Savannah's eyes leapt from her work and scanned the room's walls. Her eyes lingered over the single window across from her daughter's room for a moment. She was sure she heard something, but she reasoned that the sound must have been her imagination. The woman dropped her eyes back to her lap just in time to hear the sound again. The sound was a voice; louder than before, unintelligible; as if carried by the wind. It was clearly not her daughter's voice. Startled, Savannah flung her knitting to its basket and bolted from her chair. Her steps led her halfway across the room before she was blinded by an extraordinary light far brighter than any fire. Terrified, Savannah tip-toed her way forward with her arms outstretched until she finally felt her daughter's bedroom door frame.

Brittany was still hunched over her pail of browned water, staring wide-eyed at her bed. She suddenly became aware of herself and yanked her hands from the basin. A tingling sensation spread to her legs, her heart, and her crown. She was not sure how much time had passed but she snapped her head toward the door, terrified of a noise from outside it. Savannah was there, her brows furrowed in anguish. Brittany's mouth hung agape, and her trembling form undecidedly turned the basin over as she went to stand. The girl was unaware of what had just happened, unaware of the sworl of light that had temporarily illuminated the entire farmhouse, but her mother knew. Savannah had always known The Spark would come to take her daughter away.

Brittany stood on the porch's bottom step. She was dressed no differently than any other day, save for the laden pack strapped against her back. Her eyes flickered over her shoulder, eyeing the dark form looming in the Inn's doorway. The sale of the farm and her mother's relocation were complete. At first, Brittany did not believe her mother when she said that she would be fervent to leave her home soon. However, as the moons passed following her introduction to The Spark, the girl began to sense the growing need for freedom. She would return to Mileth as often as she could to ensure that her mother was being well cared for.

Shakily, she stepped onto the beaten dirt below the step. She drew in a breath, released it, and stepped again. She reached the Mileth fountain and plunked her hands against the fence guarding it as she passed. She reached the path beyond that and traveled it. And finally, when the sun again broke through the sighing trees, she reached a sign. The sign was a board gaudily nailed to a weather-worn post. On it, four letters were appropriately knifed: Abel. Brittany's heart fluttered, for this was the town her mother had told her about. Any talented Aisling could find a well-paying job here. She was still unsure of her skills, but she was sure that she would find something appropriate for her. Her booted feet swiftly trudged down the path.

The girl could see the buildings before she reached them. They were tall, new, glistening structures with pointed peaks and glowing windows. Dotted along the rooftops were chimneys, billowing with smoke. Taken in by the town's splendor, Brittany's toe snagged a bump in the road and she toppled, crashing onto her stomach with a resounding oof! She winced, but was quick to notice that the dirt road she had been traveling abruptly ended. It was now replaced with a very sleek—and very hard—cobblestone. She groaned and raised herself to a sit, but her rest was short-lived. A clattering wagon approached from behind and she wobbled to her feet. The wagon was loaded with goods that were firmly fastened behind two snorting horses. On top of the grand pile sat the driver, a long-haired and wiry man with an eye patch. He gently tipped his finger at his brow as he peered down at her. Was he greeting her? She walked alongside the sauntering caravan, and after a kind exchange, she found herself dangling from the caboose of the wagon as it moved into town.

When she dismounted, she had arrived at the center of Abel. The air was thick with the scent of cooking fires, sea salt, an array of different foods, and many scents she did not even recognize. The streets were also thick with people bustling to and fro. Merchants lined the cobblestone walkways for as far as she could see, and their wares glittered as the midday sun shone over them. The girl waded through the massive sea of people, overwhelmed by the cramped surroundings, but finally found a small clearing near what smelled like a restaurant. She wilted over an open barrel and splashed her face with the water therein. Meanwhile, a plump woman emerged from the nearby restaurant door and busied her hands in her apron. The woman, whose face gleamed sunset pink from her work over a stove, approached Brittany, who was already as exhausted as she. The girl thanked the woman for her concern; as she wiped the water from her brow, she queried the baker on where to find work. The baker had much to say, but finally insisted that The Girl would soon be traveling again if she wanted to work as anything but a merchant. Thanking her again, The girl propped herself against the barrel and considered her options. She crossed her arms and peered into the street. Judging from the smell of the salt, perhaps there was a ship nearby. The baker had mentioned Rucesion, a town across the sea. She would try her luck there. With the slightest glint of happiness upon her face, she was decided.

Before she could assimilate back into the sea of people, however, the sounds that once filled the area were exchanged by a tone of disruption. Ladies shrieked, the deep undertones of gentlemanly voices soon ceased, and the crowd parted in such a way as to allow some monstrous creature room to pass. But it was not any monster she had read about in her story books, or any other type of being that would elicit such a response. Instead, from the clearing came a sprinting boy, soon followed by an aggravated merchant. Surprised by the sight, she stood like a statue at the street side.

The boy came excruciatingly close in order to shake his pursuer. His satchel, a burlap sack tied gaudily to him by nothing more than a rope, hooked Brittany's arm as he flew past her. She was caught off guard and instinctively attempted to free herself, but was not able to do so before the boy's youthful strength managed to drag her straight into a merchant's stand. As she crashed into the wooden slats, emerald apples toppled over her and scattered into the street, collapsing the stand's frame and skittering the rose-faced merchant into an adjacent stand. Her face flushed, as well. Instead of the rosy complexion caused by fatigue, however, hers was elicited by a sudden, violent rage.

She sprang to her feet after the boy, scarcely noticing the apples rolling and squishing out of her way, and promptly set off down the cobblestone path. Though he was many paces ahead of her, her farm-borne legs pumped, unfazed by the strange looks she received from the merchants left behind. Finally, she reached the boy and dragged him to a stop by the very article that had dragged her before. He turned, shocked by the sudden halt, and glared at Brittany. She, too, became shocked. He was much like her, after all—his eyes were more narrow than her own, but of the same emerald hue. The two stood at nearly the same height, and were perhaps even the same age. A glint from his fan of hair, smoothly peeking out from under his bandanna and sheltering his right eye, captured her gaze. His hair was of a dark shade, as well. When their eyes met again, the two exploded into a flurry of combat. Fists flew, though neither of them could best the other, and many jabs and lunges followed. A crowd of now-entertained people gathered around, staring and causing immense clamor. Loud, too, was the gasp from many of the ladies when Brittany finally managed to grasp a fistful of the boy's tunic. The girl was even more enraged now, but she did not bury her fist into him. Instead, she grabbed the closest thing she could from the surrounding crowd—a round cake, nabbed from a baker woman's basket—and slammed it into his nose. The boy reeled back and bounced twice when his bony behind smacked the cobblestone. His face was covered in spongy cake fragments, but despite his embarrassment, he did not run. Instead, he rose to his feet and also acquired the closest object to him: a pie that smiled happily at them from the merchant stand behind him. Brittany had let her guard down too soon, to laugh with the crowd at his shame, and the pie soon smiled upon her face.

The battle continued for several more moments. The barrage of fists was made complete with crashing stands, flying pastries, and finally a rolling scuffle upon the cobblestone. However, soon the commotion alerted the nearby guards and the two were wrenched apart. A flailing body was heaved over each of the guards' plated shoulders, and the two dessert-laden children were carried away.

The sky had grown dark. The only source of light in the chamber was the three dying torches dotting the wall opposite of which Brittany was chained. She was tired now, seemingly exhausted from the earlier excitement. The boy reflected her mood; his glazed eyes gazed blankly through the leaden bars and he was quiet despite being in the very same cell. Occasionally the two of them would hear a metallic clang from a neighboring cell, but neither of them spared the effort enough to survey their surroundings or even rise from their corners. The girl had heard the guards conversing during her ride in the horse-drawn cell. This place was the Loures Dungeon, which apparently rested somewhere within the underground of the grand Loures Castle. Though she had never ventured this far from her home, much less by causing a ruckus, somehow she was not afraid. Rather, she was curious as to how long she would be caged and what her punishment would be.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a much different noise than the clang of tools nearby. The metallic shuffling came from the great mouth of an archway at the end of the dungeon. Through the mouth emerged the two guards from before, still clad in their silver-gray plates. They escorted a young woman, clad loosely in a pink dress, to the cell door. Brittany peered through the bars at the lady as she bent slightly to squint through the darkness. The Lady was top-heavy, but attractive; the pink dress was modest, how ever strained at the breasts. Her curiously-shaded red hair flowed from beneath a billowing hat to just to her shoulders. Her hazel eyes gazed innocently through the bars at them.

The Lady motioned to the guards to open the door and release the children, mentioning to the men that the prisoners were only babies. The elder of the two guards raised his metal key to the keyhole and swung the crying door open. The younger of the two guards entered the cell and freed Brittany and the boy from their chains. The children were then forced like rag dolls through several rooms, until finally they stood outside of the grand castle's ebony gates. Brittany looked to the boy, and then to the guard. She had many questions, about The Lady and about other things, but the guard was in no mood to chat with children. He suggested that she seek out Piet, a town that nearby that would shelter her, and instructed that both "little rogues" should behave. The girl turned and faced the darkness once again.

The boy had already disappeared, as speechless as had become habit that day. She still had no idea who he was, but at least she had learned two things from the day's events: that her occupation had been chosen for her, and that pie tasted delicious.