51 pages, comb bound, white cardstock cover
Art by Lyria Hall; Jaime Hathaway; Lorna Millen; Kiri Namtvedt. Cover by Marian Crane.

KEYSTONE by Jessica Lerbs
    "Rot!"
    Thorn slammed her fist down on the table as the blocks fell over with a stony clatter. She sat back in her chair, absently blowing a lock of hair, now golden-brown, from her angry green eyes.
    On the table before her stretched a gigantic stone castle, formed of the expensive carved blocks she'd purchased with all of her ranger's back-pay for the last five years. The one part remaining was the front gate, and Thorn had been fighting for a candlemark to fashion the great arched portal.
    "How do they do it? How?" Thorn glared at the blocks like they had just insulted her family back to its roots.
    They gave no answer.
    Sighing, she began to regather the pieces.
    The sudden knock on the door sent her instantly for her bow. She had an arrow trained on the entrance before the sound had stopped ringing in her ears. One could never be too careful.
    "Thorn? Thorn, dear, it's Souria!"
    Thorn lowered her weapon at the sweet, timid voice. Sighing, she went to open the door for her marriage-sister. She did not, however, put aside her bow. The only time her brother's wife came to see her was when she had a young man in tow, and Thorn wanted to show right off that she wanted no part of that nonsense.
    Small, plump Souria stepped through with a quick peck on the cheek for Thorn. "Thorn, dear, there's someone I want you to meet." She stepped aside to respectfully usher in her guest.
    Thorn's eyes got very, very wide as a young man with raven hair and matching, sparkling eyes entered her small, one room cabin. Dressed entirely in blinding white, he carried a sword at his right and at least one dagger.

MISTS OF BLUE by Jaime Hathaway
    I found myself surrounded by the familiar sapphire blue mists. They swirled around me and I realized that I was dreaming again. All my dreams started out this way, ever since I became able to See and Sense things differently than those around me. One of the teachers at the House where I lived, who took pity on me since I was a mere servant and not one of the master's children, told me that I was Gifted with a very important Gift. He called it the Mage Gift. I didn't know what that meant, but he showed me some basics on how to control it.
    I had to keep this quiet, because if the master found out that Teacher Anthol had taught me to read and write, and taught me things about my Gift, and how to shoot a bow, he would kill him and beat me more than usual, or perhaps kill me, too. I was beaten at least four times a week by the master. He was an evil person. He even looked evil, with his wild black hair and vicious eyes. I think he beat me so often because I refused to let him break my spirit.
    I used to take comfort and refuge by retreating into myself and my daydreams. That is, until my Gift opened up and the dreams of nighttime began. They always began with those mysterious blue swirling mists. And then, from those mists, a white horselike being would come to me. I bad never seen a horse like this before. Its--his--eyes were the same color as the mists that surrounded me, and he was the whitest horse I had ever seen--almost a glowing white.
    He spoke to me, too, in these dreams, and told me not to give up, that we would be together soon. I had long since given up on trying to understand who he was and what he was talking about. I merely enjoyed the friendship that he offered so freely, like no one else ever had. Even Teacher Anthol was reserved around me, but not Lancer--that was his name.

Haven by Tracy Patton and Royce Day
    Snowflakes lazily drifted to the ground. As far as the eye could see, there was snow. It covered the trees, the ground, glossing over the landscape in a shimmering white blanket. It seemed that mother nature was showing off, displaying all of her winter finery.
    Two figures could be seen making their way down the trade road. They rode steeds who were as white as the snow itself, and like the snow, they moved in absolute silence. One rider wore a light gray uniform and cloak. Had it not been for the bright beacon of his red hair, he might not have been seen against the overcast sky. The other rider was black haired and slender. He was clad warmly, with a heavy woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
    "I don't understand what we're doing out here at all," the black haired man, Kieth, wanted to remark aloud to the other. "Why did we leave your hold? I liked it there." The thoughts died unbidden on his lips. Healer Mikeal had been most explicit in his warnings.
    "If you ever want to regain your voice," he had told Kieth sharply, "you'll have to give it a rest. Don't talk at all. Not even a sound…and maybe, just maybe…" He had trailed off then, but his meaning had been clear enough. Talk, and he could bid his voice goodbye forever. Don't talk and everything would be fine.
    It was frustrating. Before all this had happened, Kieth had never been much of a talker. But now he realized just how much he really had been talking. A person never realized how often they used their voice until it was gone. Now he couldn't even air his frustrations to a sympathetic ear, which he didn't have at the moment anyway.