A Liar’s Twisted Tongue Chapter 1-3
Chapter 1
Sometimes I Think I Could Be a Killer
Desdemona
There is no crueler fate than being born a Fire Folk.
— RECOVERED WRITINGS FROM THE WELDERS’ VILLAGE
Blood soaks my palm, and I press Damien’s dagger deeper. My mom and I always agreed—I would be better off powerless. Even as Damien whistles from the trees above me, I don’t take my eyes off the torn skin of my palm. I watch as my self-inflicted wound sizzles and blisters before turning into one ugly, closed slit, knowing the dreams are more than I’d initially hoped.
The leaves above me rustle, and finally, I clutch the dagger, ignoring the sting in my palm. Damien’s job is to scare the catch down from the tree; mine is to deliver the killing blow. We’ve done it a million times before, only now, the pit in my stomach feels like it could swallow me whole.
I try to force away all thoughts of the dreams or the wound. But the wound is the very thing that tells me the dreams are more than dreams. They’re warnings, a sign that my powers are manifesting, that I will burn everyone down before inevitably burning myself.
Trees surround me now, tall, silhouetted oak and glowing sycamores reaching to the sky. I’ve set fire to them all in my sleep, and I can’t help but fear I’ll burn them all in my waking hours, too.
When the possum falls, my blade is already buried in its neck. Its dark, oily fur and too-long limbs twist in the wrong directions, the body small enough to carry in one hand. But even in death, its teeth remain bared. I understand it; it sucks to be the weakest in a group. I think I’d die the same way—snarling, relentless, angry at those who bested me.
Damien whistles again, startling me. This time, I look up. He’s high in the tree now, to the point where the branches don’t even look strong enough to hold him. “Come up.”
He asks almost every day, and I only climb when it’s of dire necessity. I’ve never told him I fear the height. A part of me is certain he knows. It grates at me; like skinning an animal, it feels like he’s pulled back a layer of me. Something he never needed to see.
When Damien finally jumps down, he’s holding a smoking gray bird by its feet. We don’t normally hunt birds; they’re harder to catch and don’t have as much meat as the possums. But they sure do taste better.
“You should’ve come up,” he says.
I push away my nerves as quickly as I can, opening the bag for him with a smile. “Why?” I ask. “‘Cause you burned it?”
Damien’s a Light Folk, and his ability to control electrical currents helps us hunt. But with too much power, he could turn the bird into ash.
“No way.” He holds up the bird like it’s a trophy and smiles at me like I’m a child. “It’s perfect, Red,” he says, using the nickname he gave me the day we met.
Then, I adamantly told him my hair was orange. Now, I refrain—he already knows.
Instead, I shove my shoulder into his bicep. While he throws the bird in the bag, I close my fist tighter, despite wanting Damien to see the cut, to notice my shaking hands and worried eyes. I want to see his concern before he shrugs it away, joking about how he couldn’t trust me to handle the daggers. But ultimately when he asks, “What happened?” I would tell him that my magic is manifesting, and I’m scared of what it means.
Of course, none of that will happen, because my hands aren’t shaking and my eyes… well, there may be a hint of worry that I’m unable to conceal, but nowhere near enough to make him wonder any more than usual.
“We’ll have to cut it to see,” I say, wiping the blood—mine and the possum’s—from the blade before I hold the dagger up, smiling, even though I don’t feel like smiling.
Damien tugs the bird away from me. “No way you’re mutilating today’s prize.”
I don’t mean to get quiet, but I do. “Mutilating” is a word that hits too close to home these days.
Five possums and a bird aren’t enough to feed my mom and his family for the day, not with the trading he’ll have to do. So Damien scales another tree, looking for another catch, and I follow suit, preparing the dagger. Hiding behind the hunt.
I used to think Damien only let me tag along with him to help my mom and me. It’s no secret that three years ago when we arrived in the Welders’ Village, we weren’t doing well. No belongings, nothing to trade, and starving. I hate pity, but even now, I think that if pity is the reason Damien and I became what we are to each other, maybe I could live with it.
We hunt until the late hours of the morning. I carry the bag into the septic, our home, but when he holds his arm out to me, I hand it over.
“Be careful,” I whisper. “There are more keepers around than usual—I saw a new shipment of Nepenthes huddling up this morning.” When he shakes his head, I grab his arm. “Someone could have reported that we’re hunters.”
Damien rolls his eyes. “Who would do that?”
Only a few people know we hunt, and they are the ones we trade with. But I don’t think that’s enough of a bond to protect me. They’ve known Damien his whole life—they’ve known me a few years. It shocks me that he doesn’t see it, he should understand the things that people are willing to do to survive.
“Anyone desperate enough to need a reward.” I say again, “Be careful.”
“Always am, Red.”
Damien heads to the Saul to trade our catch for necessities—clean water, since the nearest river is a four-hour hike; clothes for his younger siblings as the nights grow colder; and the most taxing luxury, salt. I head to school.
It’s the most worn-down building in the village. As one of the few buildings made from rotting wood, I can’t help but wonder if there’s no upkeep because everyone assumes it’s bound to burn.
Here, they teach us the “useful skills,” mainly how to use our powers to strengthen our odds of survival, which are never very good in the septic. Folk can live well into their hundreds, but most here don’t make it past seventy.
Fire Folk like me rarely live past thirty. This is my last year before I’m forced into welding—four years earlier than everyone else. In the septic, at least. They want a good decade out of us before we self-combust.
Today, Ms. O is teaching us how to paralyze a monster—not for hunting, for defense, which makes no sense. Monsters don’t attack anymore.
“How many times have you…?” Elliae whispers, her auburn hair falling around her face, just like Damien’s. She’s easily the prettiest girl in the village—pale skin, rounded jaw, bulbous cheekbones, every physical feature you could want. I always thought she’d do better in one of the kingdom’s villages.
Beauty doesn’t lead to pretty jobs here.
“More times than I can count,” I whisper back. But I’ve never paralyzed an animal, that’s always Damien. All I do is finish the job.
“Did he go to the Saul today?” she asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“Ma told him not to. Something about more Nepenthes.”
I knew I saw more keepers.
I’ve never been able to understand why the Royals let the Nepenthes stay after the war. But they’re still here, after killing us for sport.
“Tell Ms. O my mom’s sick if she asks,” I mutter, cursing Damien as I slip out of class to find him.
I stop when I pass a room that’s usually empty. Today the walls are littered with posters. Words spelling out sentences in color. Color on paper—something I’ve never seen before.
Paper is scarce here, and cutting down trees is illegal. So seeing all these pages with things like Hard work makes the worlds go round or Your sacrifices strengthen us all, and my personal favorite, The key to peace is compliance, filling the walls is rather surreal.
I’m sure it has something to do with the keepers.
My eyes catch on a small note, words spelled out in leaves and dirt, not fancy colors. YOU DESERVE TO BE SEEN.
Maybe that one’s my new favorite, for its comical attributes.
When I’m off school grounds, I walk straight to the Saul. The cobblestone is riddled with holes and decaying vines cover most of its surface. Word around town says it’s the oldest building in the village because the Nepenthes took it over during the war and it didn’t burn down with the rest of our world.
They call it the Serpencia War—named after the Nepenthes’ world—but it was us who died. It was our war.
I’m halfway there when I see Damien. I don’t change my pace out of fear of attracting a keeper’s attention, but I want to run. Maybe give him a good slap too. But the Nepenthes are fast. With super speed and agility, you never know when they’ll show up.
When I’m less than a foot from him, I say quietly, “What is wrong with you?”
Damien lazily rolls his eyes. “We needed water, Red. The little ones haven’t had anything to drink in a day.” I eye his pack. “Yes, I got you some.” He hands me a waterskin, and I’m sucking it dry.
Then I shove the waterskin back into his chest. “But the keepers—”
“Want to say that any louder?” He slips the water skin into his pack and grabs my arm. Instinctively, I look around, to my sides and behind me. “Stop,” Damien instructs. “Eyes ahead.”
I do as he says, walking straight forward as he whispers, “I still have four possums in the bag.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. If we’re caught, we’re screwed, and if we’re not, four isn’t enough to feed his family of five and mine of two.
We keep walking, eyes ahead of us, both hoping that they won’t stop us today. The smallest penalty for hunting is twenty lashes to the back. The highest is death. Four possums is a lot more than one. One could be forgivable—an honest mistake, your first time. Four means you know what you’re doing.
My heart drops to my stomach when a keeper calls, “What’s in the bag?”
I make a mental vow to not die today.
Or tomorrow, for that matter.
“Clothes for my little siblings,” Damien says. “It’s getting cold out.”
“From the Saul?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what’s a kid like you got to trade?” The Nepenthe’s hand reaches for the whip at his side. A display of power.
I grab Damien’s hand, telling him to stay quiet. “Bottles,” I answer quickly with a soft smile. “We hiked to the river and collected sand so I could make them.”
“A Fire Folk, are we?” the Nepenthe says lazily, stepping closer and gliding his disgusting gray eyes down my body. I bite my tongue and close my fist.
“Yes, sir.” Not that he deserves the title.
“Shame. By the looks of it, you’ll be in the welders’ quarters soon.” By that, he means dead. Damien tenses next to me.
“Yes, sir.”
He leans back a little, his hand still close to the whip but not on it. “Why aren’t you in class?”
I keep my face entirely blank. Unreadable. Nothing to show but what I want him to see. Nothing to use against me, should he find a reason.
“Mom’s sick. Wanted to get her something warm.”
He smiles, eyes still on my body, and from the look in them, I know he’s more than just surprised at my fuller frame. I’m stronger than the majority, Damien too, but no keeper ever looks at him the way this one is looking at me.
“She’s real sick, sir,” I say. “Freezing up and all.”
The Nepenthe grunts and then brings his eyes back to mine. “All you got in that bag is clothes and bottles?”
I tilt my head to the side, smile deceptively, and nod. “Yes, sir.”
He shoves his hand in his pocket, leaning to the left and looking around the space—which is just dirt, trees, and the Saul in the distance—before looking back at me. “Get out of here. Don’t forget I made your life easier.”
“Thank you, sir,” Damien says, and I can hear his anger. He shouldn’t have said a thing.
We walk a little quicker than we did before, and when we’re a good bit away from any keepers Damien says, “I hate those creeps.”
“At least we’re alive.”
He stops and pulls me behind a tree. “Which way did you walk to the Saul?”
“Through the barren. Why?” It’s the patch of land that never recovered after the war.
“Marice is dead. Same with a dozen others. Whipped.”
Marice. We give him the skins and leftover bones of the possums in return for the waterskins and the broth he would make of them. He made the catch bag Damien is holding right now.
He’s been caught with our livestock remnants dozens of times. Apparently one too many, because now he’s dead. Because of us, our hunting.
“Shit,” is all I can seem to say. Marice. I think of all the nights Mom, Damien’s family, and I sat around the fire with our broth listening to his stories of how he and Sevyn fell in love and survived the wars together. Every word that came out of his mouth demanded your attention.
“What about Sevyn? Is she okay?” I ask.
“I think she ran,” Damien says, looking over my shoulder. “Couldn’t find her anywhere. We should get moving.”
After a few minutes of walking in silence, I say, “Four?”
“Yeah, four.” He kicks a pebble.
My stomach grumbles, but there’s no way we could hunt again.
“The girls make it on one, easy,” Damien says quietly. His little sisters, who are probably waiting back home for Damien’s haul. Food and water they wouldn’t get if Damien was caught.
It’s different for him. If anything happens to me, my mom would be fine. His family relies on him.
“Mom and I can split one,” I say.
“No,” Damien says. “No. You get two.”
He takes me back to my dwelling, and we unload the water, two possums, and salt on the table, throwing a sheet over it all, just in case.
Before he leaves, I slip one possum back into the pack.
Night falls while I run my hand through the dirt, brushing away all the debris and filling the space with bark and twigs. I twist one against the wood, and when I see the glow of orange, I place it on my pile of kindling, blowing until fire catches. This used to feel silly, a Fire Folk using practical skills to start a fire. Now I worry I won’t have to do this much longer.
Mom holds the possum over the fire. I tuck my knees into my chest and watch the flame. I try to ignore what it reminds me of, what it means to me after ten nights of running from it in my dreams.
“You okay?” Mom asks, the fire turning her face orange. I force myself not to flinch. The dreams are only dreams, and I won’t become what I am in them.
A murderer, a destroyer.
I look up and answer, “Yeah.”
“You’re looking at that fire like it’s going to burn you.”
“It might.” I smile to lighten the mood.
“Only if you fall in,” she says. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
I wish I could—the dreams and the cut and the arson. All the things that occupy my brain when the distractions of the day die down. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“Your magic?”
I clench my fist tighter. “Still nothing.”
“Good,” she pauses, “I don’t think you should hunt tomorrow,” she whispers, making sure no prying ears nearby can hear—the Nepenthes and their super senses.
“We need to eat,” I whisper back.
“Janice can get us berries.”
“She has an entire family to feed if Damien doesn’t hunt,” I argue.
Mom turns the carcass over the fire. “It’ll be fine.”
“Won’t there be more work—”
“No woods tomorrow. Understand? Stay close to home.”
I push away the thought those words bring. It’s just anxiety. But staying close to home normally means leaving home, in the end.
“Okay.”
The next morning, I wake up before my mom and begin braiding my hair—but I promised not to hunt today. In that, I promised not to worry about our empty stomachs and to surrender to the role of the child despite my not feeling like one.
Despite being only a year away from adulthood in the eyes of the Fire Folk.
I’m a quarterway through the braid when I stop. Like old times, I climb into my mom’s bed. She mumbles something and turns to me, groggily wrapping her arm over me.
“I missed this, baby girl,” she mumbles.
“Me too.”
My grogginess overcomes me and I find myself falling asleep in her arms like I’m a kid again.
I wake once more, this time to the familiar feeling of Mom tugging my hair into a braid. I smile to myself when her fingers run along my scalp, sending shivers down my arm.
“You have the best hair to braid,” Mom whispers. She used to say this all the time.
I fiddle with my fingers while she fiddles with my hair, and when she finishes I turn to face her. Mom’s soft hand caresses my cheek.
“I love you,” she tells me. “It’s you and me against the worlds.”
It is. It really is. It always has been. Everything we do is for one another. It’s that love that makes me think I could tell her the truth—that we don’t have long until I die. Because that’s my magic. Whatever happens between that ending and now could be terrible, but she deserves to know that it will end.
I open my mouth to tell her. The only words that fall out are, “And I love you.”
Mom smiles. She wouldn’t have smiled if I told her the truth.
The next day, I take the long walk to school. I have to see the posts—make sure Marice is dead for myself, if they haven’t already hauled his body off.
The stench of long-dead corpses reaches me before I see it—thirteen bodies tied to posts by their bloodied wrists. Their backs barely resemble human bodies, more a mangled mess of muscle, blood, and bone.
But I see Marice’s face, his light brown hair and graying beard.
Damien was right. The thought twists in my stomach, but not long enough to elicit a response. I think I’d succumb to the stench before I allowed myself to fall victim to my emotions.
More than that, if Marice was caught with our catch, I could’ve been right. The keepers might know we’re hunting. I wouldn’t put it past anyone to report us, not when there’s such a hefty payout for their betrayal.
I try not to panic, but panic is what I do with every step to school. I keep my eyes down as I pass more Nepenthes, wondering if all these keepers are really here because of our hunting.
When I get to class, I sink into my seat. Time moves slowly, and for a moment, I wonder if this is a dream. If it is, who will I kill next? What will burn because of me? But I’ve never had a dream in the Welders’ Village, and Elliae is next to me, her auburn hair framing the soft features she shares with Damien. This has to be real, then.
Right?
Time resets itself with five taps from outside the glassless school window.
Elliae whispers, “I’ll cover for you.”
She always does, but this time it seems a little more dangerous.
I slip out of my usual hole in the wall, ignoring the influx of posters in the old room, and walk next to Damien. I’m prepared for him to tell me there’s a monster in the woods—that he needs my help defeating it—and I’m prepared to ask if he’s dense.
But those aren’t the words that come out of his mouth.
“Your mom wanted me to get you. Said it was urgent.”
No. I stop so abruptly that Damien almost loses his balance trying to match my pace. He’s looking at me, expecting an explanation, and I’m thinking of the homeless, wondering how long I could survive as one of them. Because that’s what I’m about to be, considering that I won’t leave another village. Not this time.
“What was she doing?” I ask with my eyes trained ahead of me.
“She seemed scattered.”
Packing.
My entire life has been one forced departure after another. It didn’t matter if I liked a place or hated it, we stayed until Mom said it was time to go. It’s a curse that’s followed me everywhere I’ve gone: the perpetual loss of everything I know. So when I look back at Damien, at his comforting brown eyes and shaggy auburn hair, I can’t help but grab his wrist and run, jerking him along with me into the woods.
“Hang on, Red,” he says with a laugh, but I can tell he’s concerned.
I think we could survive in the woods. If I could figure out how to use the Flame I could cook our meals, maybe even hunt on my own. We could do it. We wouldn’t be like the homeless. We’d be like animals. Sure, hunted, but also free.
This time, I’m not leaving with my mom. I won’t lose everything, again.
I stop running, only when we reach the woods. Damien turns to me, breathless, as he asks, “What is it?”
Maybe I could just tell him about the dreams. Right here, right now, say, Damien, I’ve been dreaming of starting fires and killing Folk. A lot of Folk. Do you still want to be my friend, or do you think I’m losing my mind?
“Will you stay here with me?” I say instead, looking down at the dirt. “Just for the night.”
He’s looking at me like I’ve asked the impossible, and I’m trying not to show my desperation.
“Yes,” he says, and I’m in awe. That’s it. I can show him how easy it would be to live here, and we can stay. I won’t have to lose anything. Not again.
Damien reaches into the bag, pulling out a handful of berries, a jug of nectar, and a bottle of rena.
A bottle of rena.
Rena is our world’s—Lorucille’s—makeshift alcohol for the poor, yet most of us in the septic could never afford it.
“I traded a dagger for it,” he says.
He only has two. Well, one now. One from his dad and the one he traded for. I always used the latter, not because he didn’t let me use his dad’s, but because it never felt right.
“Why would you do that? You aren’t a drunk in hiding, right?” I joke with him, but I’m kind of serious. I can’t imagine why he would trade any dagger for alcohol.
“No,” he laughs, “I noticed you’re on edge lately. I thought doing something fun could help.”
So much for hiding it.
The way he’s looking at me is scaring me. His lips are slightly parted, and his long, curled eyelashes make his eyes look almost romantic. If there were ever a time to tell the truth, this would be it. It’s funny because I could, it wouldn’t take much work to say the words.
But it’s not just the words, and it’s not just the dreams. It’s what lies underneath them. It’s the fear—not just about my powers materializing and the imminence of my death. But the murders, the endless murders. The proof on my palm that I am not regular. That I may be even more prone to death and destruction than anyone else.
It’s showing him the target and handing him the knife.
“I have fun hunting,” I say, and for a moment it feels like nothing in the world has changed. For a moment, it feels like yesterday.
“It’s good to enjoy it.” Damien pulls the cork out of the glass bottle. “Because you’re not very good.” I can see the line of his smile behind the bottle. I smile back at him when he hands it to me. I’ve never had rena before, but I’ve always wanted to try it. It’s an ugly color, like someone added dirt to water, and it tastes like it too.
“So, what’s going on, Red? You ever gonna tell me?”
There are times I want to tell him everything.
“What?” I smile, taking another sip of the burning liquid, closing my left hand so he doesn’t see the scar. “Nothing’s going on.”
Damien puts the bottle back in the leather bag before scaling up a tree. He looks down at me. “Coming?”
I shake my head. He pulls his dagger from his boot and throws it down to me. Our routine. Still, I feel guilty using his dad’s dagger after he traded his other for rena—for me—and I can’t even tell him why he thinks I need it. If I did, he’d likely be scared of me, even if he doesn’t say as much. Especially here, in a village composed of Fire Folk, where the majority of premature deaths are caused by us.
I run my thumb over the orange stone engraved at the tip of the handle. It looks like a memor, one of Lorucille’s precious stones. It doesn’t belong in my hands. But when a possum falls from the tree, squirming and unable to run, instinct drives my blade into its throat.
By the time Damien comes down, I’m starving, the bag is full, and the sun is setting. I shave a stick until it’s something sharp, then start a fire while Damien skins a possum. The sunset fades fast, and by the time we eat, the sky is black.
My mouth waters when Damien fills my palm with berries. I try to take my time but end up shoveling the whole handful into my mouth. And when the rena is in front of me, I feel excited for the first time since the dreams began.
We drink, and five sips later, I’m lying on the dirt with my head on Damien’s chest, watching the dancing stars. “That one looks like a soldier,” I say, pointing at a cluster of stars shaped like someone holding a sword.
“I’ve heard stories that they put the souls in the sky when they’re ready to rest,” Damien says, referring to the gods. Everyone knows the three of them: the lunar goddess Sulva, the solar god Ayan, and the goddess of balance, Zola. No one talks much about them here, besides my mom.
“That’s nice,” I say, but I don’t think it is.
“Des?” Damien asks. His voice is soft, and it worries me. I don’t want to do serious right now, but I flip on my stomach and look at him.
He doesn’t say anything; he just keeps staring. Until I finally lean in and press my lips to his.
I think I’ve thought about this a lot more than I’d care to admit.
I pull away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Damien shakes his head, then grabs the back of mine, pulling me into him again. My lips grow numb against his, from the rena or the kisses, I don’t know.
Damien holds the back of my head as he says, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”
Perfect.
“We can,” I say softly.
He smiles at me and pushes a piece of my orange hair behind my ear. “I wish we could,” he repeats.
“No, we really can.” I’m sitting up now. “We can hunt, I can cook. We could sleep under the stars. It would be easier than what we do now!”
“Okay,” he says, sitting up too. “What about Isa?” My mom, who is leaving, but I don’t say that. “Or my sisters? My mom? They’re probably worried beyond wit’s end. Just leaving for the night was a bad enough idea.”
I lean back, away from him. “You think this was a bad idea?”
“No, no, Des, that’s not what I mean.” I know he’s being honest—but it’s not enough.
I could tell him that the second we go back to the village I’ll be gone. My mom will drag me away to a new place, saying it’s for our safety, and he’ll never see me again. But I know how my mom likes leaving. Without a trace. Just because I’ve made my choice doesn’t mean I will disrespect hers.
So all I can do is convince him to stay here, with me.
“You’re never going to be anything there! A Light Folk in a welders’ land? Your magic will never be valued. You’ll never get ahead, always barely able to feed your family, having to choose between food and winter blankets. And me? I’ll become a welder and die just like the rest of them, burned alive for the elites! We’re both damned no matter what we choose, so why not choose something for ourselves?” I hope that mentioning the dead welders won’t anger him. I’ve never alluded to his dad like that before. But this is important.
“Are you kidding me?” he says, and I know instantly that I’ve angered him.
“Damien—”
“No, no. That’s not cool. None of that was called for. I just wanted to have a good night with you, get you feeling better, and you throw that at me?”
“It’s the truth!” I argue.
“I don’t care if it’s the truth! This wasn’t the time to be talking about the truth,” he spits.
“I can’t go back,” I say.
“Do you think I want to?” Damien points back toward the village. “That place is full of ghosts,” he says, meaning everyone he’s lost in the fires. “And you’re right, I never will be anything here, but that doesn’t mean I can leave. I was raised here, my family is here, and I’m sadly sure my future family will be stuck here too! What you’re asking me is ridiculous. You’re asking me to give up my life!”
I wish I could tell him that’s exactly what will happen to me if we go back. I’ll lose my life, I’ll lose him, I’ll lose everything. I want to grab his arm, pull him with me, and beg him to come.
“Damien, you don’t understand!”
“Then tell me. What am I not understanding?” His face grows flushed with every word. “I’ll be nothing, and you’ll be dead. Does that not sum it up enough?”
I swallow and wish it was enough to soothe my throat. “That’s not enough for you to want to run with me?”
He shakes his head, sucking on his bottom lip before saying, “I don’t think I could ever run.”
So, that’s it, isn’t it? I can’t convince him. If my imminent death isn’t enough, my leaving tonight wouldn’t be either. I drop his hand, which I hadn’t realized I was holding, and I don’t think about how close I was to begging. I think about kissing his cheek as a final goodbye, but instead, I turn back to the village and walk, leaving behind the rena, the nectar, and the leather bag Marice made.
I can’t bring it anyway.
“Des!” Damien shouts. I keep walking. “Desdemona!” I don’t turn back. I kick a rock and try not to focus on the hole in my chest, in my stomach. I have to do something. I have to do something. I run. I run back to the village—all the way to my dwelling—where my mom runs out and right into me.
“Let’s go,” she says, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me inside. I glance back, waiting for Damien to run out.
But he never does.
Inside, Mom rips her necklace—the one she always wears—from her chest and picks up my hand. “Wear it at all times, under your clothes. Let no one see it.” When she sets the necklace down, she asks, “What happened to your palm?”
“Hunting accident,” I say, but there’s a weary look in her eye.
It translates to a weary tone when she says, “You’re sure about that?”
I answer firmly, “Positive.”
She doesn’t push, just nods and pulls a piece of paper from her pocket. Something I didn’t know she could afford. “Read this as soon as you can. Burn it when you’re done. No one can see it.” She pushes me deeper into the dwelling.
“Burn it? Mom—”
“You can,” she interrupts, her voice steady. “I know you can.” She pulls me toward the back, to the only mirror we own.
The door bursts open behind us, and two figures step in.
“Mom?” I cry, watching them approach.
One of them speaks, “You’ve worn out our patience, Isa—”
The sound dies, but his lips continue to form silent words.
Mom rests her hand on the mirror’s surface. It turns pitch black, growing until it’s as tall as she is. I duck, ready to step through the portal.
But my mom doesn’t follow.
Lightning crackles between her fingers before she hurls it at the men, their bodies convulsing under its force. They’re paralyzed—but it will only last so long.
Mom still doesn’t move.
“Are you coming?” I shout, but she’s already shaking her head, eyes fixed on the figures just inches away.
“They’ll find me if I’m with you.”
I grab her wrist, yanking hard while I cry, “Please!” But the bodies begin to move again, and as they come closer, I catch a glimpse of their eyes.
Red—something I’ve only heard of in the ghost stories about Arcanes.
Mom pulls her hand from mine and turns, shoving me back.
The last thing I see is her, hands raised to fight, before I fall into the empty mirror.
Chapter 2
Before There Was Honesty, There Was a Lie
Lucian
Every magic-wielder holds a mental power, but like everything else, some are stronger than others. Take the Lucents, for example. For what could be more tremendous than subconscious manipulation?
— INTRO TO MENTALISM BY PRESCOTT STERVESELL
I glance at my sister, Lilac, her hands trembling against the armrest of her chair. The chandeliers above us cast shadows on her unusually pale face, discoloring her to the point of unease. I should say something—I should do anything. Not for my sake, nor for Kai or Calista, who sit equally stunned, but for hers.
Cynthia, the headmistress of Visnatus Academy, sits behind her desk. Her black hair is swept back, showcasing the streaks of gray that run throughout.
I should do something—but retaliating against Cynthia would do no good. These are not her orders. These come directly from the Queen and King of Soma. My parents.
Cynthia frowns as she says, “Your betrothals will take place in the coming months. The stability of the universe depends on it.” With heavy resignation in her tone, she adds, “As your parents reminded me.”
I think we all hoped this was a dream, a lie before the awakening.
Kai and Calista rise first, their matching blond hair turning silver under the harsh light. Lilac and I follow, stepping into the hallways of the academy.
Marriage. Lilac is to marry Kai and take the throne of Soma, while I am to wed Calista, becoming King of Lorucille, the Folks’ world. No doubt a union meant to bind the kingdoms before their alliance crumbles—but it’s far too late. The universe is on the brink of collapse—if not already falling apart—and it goes far beyond Soma and Lorucille.
I spent my life believing I would never get a crown, that I would someday be free of the throne and its politics. Yet, with the whispering of words that weren’t even their own, my parents have drawn me back in. Like a fish to the stream, there’s no way to swim against their tide.
Cynthia offers me a small, consoling nod as the heavy door to her office slams shut. We’re left in the hall with our royal guards—a reminder of the bad news we acquired today.
Immediately, Lilac looks to Calista. “Did you know about this?” she asks. “Is that why you—”
“No,” Calista answers immediately, their eyes meeting. The princesses have known one another their entire lives, always sharing more than a political alliance. “How was I to know?” Calista finishes defensively.
Lilac looks down, picking at the skin around her nails. I grab her trembling hands.
“This isn’t right,” I mutter, shaking my head. “It shouldn’t have come to this—”
A hand grasps the collar of my shirt, shoving me against the cold marble wall.
“Kai, stop it!” Lilac shouts as Calista grabs her arm, holding her back. Lilac puts up a small fight, ultimately sinking into Calista’s hold.
I shift my focus back to Kai. I’ve known the Prince of Lorucille my entire life, and he’s never been one to hold back his stronger emotions. Yet he’s a friend, and if I had something to hit right now, perhaps I would.
“Why didn’t you say something, Lucian?” Kai roars. “If it shouldn’t have come to this—why didn’t you stop it?”
I look down, meeting his gaze with a sigh. “The same reason you didn’t.”
“Says the prince of the most powerful kingdom,” Kai spits.
“The prince,” I argue. “Not the king—and certainly not the queen.” Shaking my head, I add, “It wasn’t my decision.”
Like every other, this choice was never mine. A prince never has a say.
“Oh, please,” Kai snarls, his grip around the collar of my shirt tightening. “Everyone knows you’re Lusia’s favorite!”
My mother—whom is far from my biggest fan, and I’m far from her favorite.
I grab his wrist, glancing at the guards as I whisper, “Compose yourself.” The guards avert their gazes, and I release Kai.
Petty gossip about the princes is worth a pretty coin—and as future kings, we cannot afford our names to be tainted.
Kai sneers as he says, “Do you want to make an enemy of me?”
I glance at the length of him, smirking. “Truthfully? I could use a new sparring partner.”
If he wants to make this a fight, I won’t stop him. I could use something to hit, too.
“We should get back,” Lilac says, pulling away from Calista. “Prepare for class.”
I step in line with my sister. “I’ll walk you.”
Lilac offers me a small nod, her gaze staying on the floor with every step. I know her well enough to know she isn’t looking at the ground. She’s caught somewhere in her mind.
“Li,” I whisper. “It’s going to be all right.”
Her shoulders hunch with every step, as if she’s trying to retreat into a shell she doesn’t have and never will—especially not when she’s queen.
“This isn’t fair,” she mutters, shaking her head. “If they think this will make us stronger rulers, they’re wrong.” She offers me a sidelong glance, as if daring me to argue.
I don’t. She’s right.
“We’ll make the best of it,” I whisper, trying to believe it myself. It’s no secret to either of us that I’m saying it for her sake. “We’ll make the necessary changes once we ascend to the throne.”
“We’re being put on the throne to uphold the status quo,” she argues. “There is no change to be made.” Her gaze meets mine, and I can tell she’s dangerously close to tears. “Neither of us will ever truly be loved, and we’ll end up repeating the same mistakes our parents made.”
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand, and trying to snap her out of the downward spiral. I’ve been there many times—yet I’ve never seen Lilac follow me down. It’s a mirror I’d prefer to do without. “That’s our choice to make,” I try to assure her.
Lilac frowns, her voice scratchy as she whispers, “But you don’t believe that.”
No, I don’t. There isn’t a single choice that’s mine to make. But I want Lilac to have more than I’ve gotten. When there’s nothing left to fight for, there’s still her.
“Do you think they love us?” she asks after a long bout of silence. Her voice is shaking. “I mean… could you do this to someone you love?”
There is no easy answer.
“Power tends to corrupt,” I say as I squeeze her hand. “So hold onto your heart.”
I glance at her, taking note of the scowl on her face as she mutters, “That’s the very thing I can’t let them take.”
I leave Lilac at her suite, walking to my own on the other side of the dormitory wing. I glare at my reflection, tired blue eyes and neat black hair, before collapsing on my bed.
The mattress sinks beneath me with a softness that feels undeserved.
Marriage, and to Kai’s sister. Kai to mine. Fear shakes me, and I cannot tell if it is for my sake, or Lilac’s.
I thought I’d given up on hope long ago. Through every treacherous task my parents forced upon me, I was certain I’d already forsaken my humanity. I believed my purpose was to shield the light of others—a wall of stone protecting a candle from the wind. But not wanting to do something is nearly as powerful as wanting to. And I do not want to marry Calista Contarini.
But these things are far beyond my control. I only wish I could save Lilac from such an unfortunate fate.
A knock sounds on the door, and I run a hand over my face, trying to shake the emotion out of me.
“Come in,” I call.
I should have known it was Azaire before he steps into the room, tugging at the sides of the blue beanie he always wears.
Closing the door behind him, he asks, “How did the meeting go?”
“You know how it is—talk of trade routes and how to settle tensions between borders.” I fall to my back, staring at the molded ceiling, gleaming faintly in the sunlight that shines through the tall windows.
I already know that Azaire will see through me.
“Lucian—”
I cut him off, saying, “I am to marry Calista.” I clasp my hands, resting them on my abdomen as I force a deep breath. “There will be a magically binding betrothal in the coming months.”
After that betrothal, there will be no choice but to marry Calista upon the agreed date. My very power and bones will bind to her—swearing me to her for the rest of my life.
Although I can’t see him, I know Azaire is shaking his head.
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispers.
I sit up and say, “We both know that’s not true.”
Yet when I turn to face him, his bright gray eyes lock on mine and his bushy black eyebrows rise with something akin to hope. “Don’t let them take more of you,” he whispers. “If you have to, find a way to do it for yourself.”
The optimism in his voice makes me wish it were the truth.
Azaire, always the wise. I envy his heart, even when I see it as a weakness—and false hope is a weakness. But it’s an honorable one.
“No surrender,” he says with more conviction than usual.
“No surrender.” I nod.
Someday I will show the worlds what he is—erase the idea that because he was born with venomous teeth he is a predator. For if a king can praise a Nepenthe, then the worlds can too.
After a moment, I add, “I’m thinking about throwing a party, blowing off some steam. Spread the news?”
Azaire shakes his head so subtly it’s nearly imperceptible. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No,” I answer. “But I need a distraction.”
A sense of control.
“I see,” Azaire whispers. Then, he adds, “Yuki would probably be the better option.”
I nod, heading to the door as I say, “Probably.”
Azaire and I cross the suite, weaving past the dark table and sapphire furniture. In the room they share, Yuki lounges in a large cushioned chair with one leg draped over the arm. His sharp eyes meet mine, dark hair falling into them as he smirks. With a swift movement, he snatches the long sword at his side and hurls it toward me.
I catch the weapon midair.
“Party,” I say. “End of week.” I shift the position of his sword in my hand as I say, “Spread the word for me?”
Yuki salutes me, smiling as he says, “You got it.”
I salute back to him and exit the suite, stepping into the halls bathed in the soft glow of early morning light. The squeak of my peers’ boots echo on the polished marble floor as I head toward class.
When I enter Lucent Studies, I meet Cynthia’s gaze. She’s the most powerful Lucent in Visnatus Academy, and as a result, this is the sole class she teaches. But her features quickly sullen, telling me what today brings.
A group of Nepenthes enter the classroom—falsely called volunteers. I stiffen, Lilac moving next to me as we both scan the group of gray eyes for Azaire, my fear hanging over me like a guillotine. It’s a breath of fresh air amidst a world of smoke every time I don’t see him.
These so-called volunteer groups emerged after the Serpencia War—the final, bloody battle between Lorucille, the world of the Folk, and Serpencia, the world of the Nepenthes. For centuries, the Folk dominated the Nepenthes, forcing them into servitude as soldiers against their own kind. Finally, the Nepenthes rebelled—three times, in fact—though it was their final attempt that nearly toppled the monarchy.
They’ve never been allowed to forget it, conditioned to despise their own kind while being forced into tasks no one else dares to endure.
A short girl with long silver hair is assigned to me. I softly offer my apologies when no one can hear me. The corners of her mouth tilt up, and she nods. Then I reach into her brain.
It’s a light feeling for the uninitiated, comparable to a soft tickle I’ve been told. However, I am not under the false impression that this is her first time being subconsciously manipulated by a Lucent. She can most likely feel the pull I have on her mind: the different ways I am moving her body as though it is nothing more than a marionette.
Physically, this is something I’m used to—I am comfortable in others’ minds. But beyond physicality, twisting someone’s actions to suit my own needs feels wrong. Perhaps because it’s been done to me my entire life.
I don’t know the other end of the stick exactly, yet I know it intimately. But there’s very little room for moral qualms in my life.
As a prince, power is all I’m good for.
So, I continue.
Every step feels like a betrayal as I walk the girl across the length of the room, pushing further into her mind until I can see through her eyes. Until her very essence has been taken from her entirely, stolen by me.
“Very good, Lucian,” Cynthia says to me. She, in particular, knows my disdain for the treatment of the Nepenthes. She even agrees with me. But this class is reserved for those destined for the highest positions in Soma’s kingdom. The use of subconscious manipulation is required learning for the job.
When Cynthia tells me to make my Nepenthe fight another, it’s entirely selfish of me to think of Kai.
But two fighting puppets is exactly what we are.
My Nepenthe steps toward Lilac’s. We fight with hands alone, my small girl landing punch after punch on her boy. Specks of light flood my vision the further I push the girl. My head spinning with every strike. I grow nauseous, and I am sure the Nepenthes do too.
Lilac doesn’t look at me; she never does when she feels guilty. By the way she carries herself, I can tell she’s nauseated as well.
When Cynthia finally says, “Enough,” I release the girl’s mind at once. Stepping back, I fall onto the first seat I find.
I easily make it through the rest of class in a state more numb than alert. Psychology and Combat Training don’t need my cunning. When the day is done, Yuki walks beside me, adjusting the strap of his bag. Grinning, he says, “The entire academy knows. I’ve taken it into my hands to make sure it’s the biggest party of the year.” He rubs his hands together while an impish smile spreads across his face, as if this is all some big game.
For a moment, the polished marble of the academy blurs. I’m plunged into a vision of Kai waiting for me in our suite, seething. With a blink, I return to the gleaming hall.
“How did Kai take it?” I ask, already knowing.
“Not well,” Yuki answers hesitantly, his pace slowing.
I give him a sidelong glance, asking, “What was on Kai’s mind when you told him?”
Yuki is one of the few Armanthines in the academy, here as my advisor. His kind are skilled mentalists, capable of reading minds—a talent that’s proven useful more than once.
He presses his lips together before saying, “Something along the lines of killing you.”
“All right,” I say. I already know as much—he wants to fight me. Whether I decided to throw a party or not, I’m certain he’d still want to. “Anything else?”
Yuki shrugs, smiling as he says, “Only that you’re an inconsiderate prick.”
“Hm,” I mutter, humor slipping into my tone. “I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up with a person.”
Yuki laughs as he opens the door to our suite. I’m already prepared for the inevitable. Kai sits on the couch, identical to my vision, and asks, “What’s this about a party?”
Always so predictable. Everyone is.
I take the three marble steps down to our suite before I answer, “On Friday in the woods. Bring your best engagement gift.”
My words are like pouring oil on a fire. Kai steps away from his door, purple bolts of lightning crackling between his fingers and snaking up his arms.
A part of me wonders if this is where our friendship finally dies. We’ve fought one another a hundred times before, yet this is different. Far more dire.
“What is it about the party that has you so worked up?” I ask as he steps closer.
Kai raises his hand, the energy sparking. “It’s not the party, it’s the principle. I get the worst news of my life, and you want to celebrate!”
I narrow my eyes at him, allowing more irritation than I should. “Because the news was such a delight for me?” I retort sharply.
Kai strikes, and I move quickly out of the way, his lightning crashing where I once stood. The bolt chars the wall, smoke curling through the room.
I don’t understand why he’s choosing to fight me, instead of the ones truly at fault. But if it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get.
Light Folk are tricky, second to a Fire Folk in brute power, and Kai could incapacitate even me. If he can land a blow, that is—which he won’t. Not when I can see them coming before he even lifts a finger.
He holds his hand out, sending five electrical currents in all directions around my body. Before they land, I wrap cold, black shadows around his legs.
I’m behind him when I say, “Would you like another shot?” He tries to turn and cannot. “I might even release you if we take the magic out of this encounter.”
Kai doesn’t answer my jabs. He squirms, trying to move his legs, but the shadows will not relent until I want them to. I take the moment to say, “It’s a party, Kai. Get over it. I don’t want to marry your sister, and you don’t want to marry mine.”
I turn from him and walk up the three steps to the exit, releasing him only when I’ve reached the door.
Then the wind is knocked from me. I seize up as pain courses through my body, and my heart throbs in my chest. It takes me shorter than most and longer than usual to regain my composure.
Kai’s getting stronger—the Folk always do with age.
“It’s always smart to take an open shot,” I say, not bothering to turn as I leave the suite.
Chapter 3
If You Can’t Run, Hide
Desdemona
There are five different types of magic-wielders: Lucents, Folk, Eunoia, Armanthines, and Nepenthes. Animals and monsters exist outside of this hierarchy, but some monsters carry magic, setting them apart from the ordinary.
— ENTRY TO THE UNIVERSE OF ELYSIA BY LUCAS FLAREY
A second before I can find my bearings, a deafening alarm fills my ears, and a flashing red light comes on with the pure purpose of making it difficult for me to read Mom’s note. The handwriting is sloppy and hard to follow. Of course it has to be difficult to read and impossible to destroy.
Desdemona
Tell them your father was Dalin Marquees and that your birthday is four months before your true one. If they ask you to prove this, do what they say. If they use your blood, do not let them see the wound cauterize. Do not take off the necklace, ever. Keep it hidden always. Do not talk about me, ever. To you, Isa Althenia is dead. You were raised by a kind family in the septic. They discovered your heritage and sent you to Visnatus before a fire took their lives. In a place like that, knowledge is your greatest weapon yet. You have a keen eye—use it. You mustn’t look for me nor let a soul see this note. If I can, I will find you.
Love you always,
Mom
She’s not coming.
I’m in a different world.
Alone.
The flashing red alarm finally dims to a steady yellow glow and two silhouettes come into view, walking toward me with agonizing ease. I force myself to swallow the paper, mourning my mom’s handwriting as it scratches my throat. The last link I have to another life I’ve lost.
A man and a woman approach, their gazes fixed on me. Dark hair frames the woman’s piercing blue eyes. Our universe is home to five kinds of magic-wielders, each marked by the color of their eyes. In my whole life, I’ve only ever seen two: the Nepenthes, with their cold, steely gray eyes, and the Folk, with brown.
But I’ve heard the stories of the Lucents—their shadows sneaking into your subconscious, stealing secrets best kept buried.
The man is pale—a telltale sign of the Folk and another physical attribute I wasn’t lucky enough to acquire. My skin is tan, no matter the time of year, and my face is always plagued with sun freckles. Something I haven’t ever seen in other Fire Folk.
The man’s short frame and brown eyes remind me of every old guy back home, but there’s no comfort in that. Not with the Lucent nearby, ready to unravel my mind with a glance.
It’s when both their mouths move without sound that I know not only is the man an Air Folk—Folk who control wind and sound currents—but that they’re discussing my life and death. I’m septic. I’m sure their fancy alarm and flashing lights made sure they knew that.
This is a school for the elites, and I am most certainly not an elite.
But I am a liar.
Another man walks in, with scruffy blond hair and a beard, one hand gripping a weapon sheathed to his waist. Then those gray eyes of his land on me. The same eyes as the Nepenthes that have killed so many of us.
So he’s going to be the deciding factor in my life. Well, I’m deciding not to die today.
I’m not very good at fighting; I’m more adept at running. I haven’t got a weapon, nor do I know how to use one very well. I can kill still or seizing animals, but I’ve never hurt another person, other than in my dreams.
I wonder if I have it in me—to kill, to be the monster my dreams say I am.
But Mom made sure I had enough information to survive, so survive I will.
Knowledge is your greatest weapon yet.
Their breaths bounce around the circular cobblestone walls, and I wait for them to address me. When the woman asks my name, I say, “Desdemona Althenia.”
The Nepenthe stiffens. “Bullshit,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?” I start.
The Lucent cuts me off, sharply saying, “Leiholan.” The Nepenthe shuts up—so that’s his name. Locking her gaze on me, the woman asks, “What are you doing in Visnatus?”
“My father was Dalin Marquees,” I tell her. “A family took me in as a baby and they put together my lineage. They sent me here during a welding accident.” I look at the floor and play with my fingers, keeping my eyes open until they dry out, forcing tears. When I look back up, I quiver my lip. “Said if one of us could live, they wouldn’t pass on the opportunity.”
The three of them don’t look convinced. I think back to my dreams; the murder wasn’t very hard then. Maybe I could win in a fight.
What a ridiculous line of thought. I pout some more.
“Marquees had no children,” the short, bald Folk says.
I shrug and say, “I’m right here.”
“Where does the name Althenia come from?” Leiholan asks me.
“My mother. Isa Althenia.” I blink to produce more tears from my already stinging eyes. “But I never knew her.”
The woman gives Leiholan a long glance, and he nods. Then, her and the Folk man head down the dimly lit hall.
I turn to Leiholan once they’ve disappeared. He’s already watching me, with his grip on his sword. I don’t let myself look defensive. I make myself appear defenseless. Small and weak, powerless at his hands, hoping for mercy. That’s how the Nepenthes like it. I expect him to ask me questions, interrogate and intimidate me, but he says nothing.
The other two come back into the room, holding a milky-clear crystal ball the size of my hand. “Hogan?” the woman says, and the bald Folk lifts his hand, his eyes shining indigo just like Damiens. The slight shimmer of an iridescent light flickers out between me and him. So a Light Folk, not an Air Folk.
I guess someone else concealed their voices from me before. The Light Folk have electrical power, none over sound.
The Lucent, the only one whose name I’m missing, walks toward me. Her eyes gleam with an unnatural light, the sign of magic being used. Lucents are known for their power to manipulate the subconscious—puppeteers of the mind—and I fear what she plans on doing to me now.
“Your hand,” she says. It’s not a question. I hold up the one that isn’t scarred. She takes out a dagger, much fancier than Damien’s fancy one, and pushes the tip of the blade into my pointer finger. After a drop of blood has fallen on the crystal, I yank my hand away and close my fist.
“Squeamish,” I say.
There’s the flash of a man’s face that I don’t recognize—must be Dalin’s—in the crystal ball, and then my mom. As the Lucent assesses me, I know she believes it.
I’ve heard of Dalin before; he was a war hero. A Fire Folk who fought in the second out of three battles between Lorucille and Serpencia—the Folk vs the Nepenthes—six years before the real war.
In that second battle, much credit for Lorucille’s swift victory went to Dalin and his ability to wield the Flame as a weapon. But his ending wasn’t happy, a Fire Folk’s rarely is. Despite being called a master of the Flame, he died at his own hands.
The Folk—Hogan—and the Lucent look at one another while Leiholan looks at me. “Get comfortable,” Leiholan says, and this time, all three of them disappear down the hall.
I step forward, almost reaching the exit when sharp tingles that feel like a hundred needles rush down my body. Then there’s nothing.
I snap awake to a haze. The world is a blur, but I feel a chair beneath me. Desperately, I try to stand, only to realize my body won’t move. My limbs are tied to the chair, but I don’t feel any rope. I pull again at the immaterial restraints.
They pull back harder.
As I struggle, my vision slowly returns. Revealing burgundy curtains, a mahogany desk, and the Lucent woman’s bright eyes and red lips.
I push again, and my stomach knots.
“Light Folk magic, dear,” the woman says. “It will wear off.”
They paralyzed me.
“Don’t glare,” she says slowly. “It could be much more painful.”
Between her fingers, a crystal glass of silver liquid rotates—an intoxicant, I assume—and I am instantly offended that she is the one acting inconvenienced by this.
I take a deep breath instead of screaming. To my left, there’s a fireplace, full of wood, and to the right, a bookshelf sits next to the tall windows behind her red seat. I could use a log or a book to knock her out, break the window, then make a run for it.
But run where? I don’t know my way around here—which is precisely why knowledge can be wielded.
“I’m Headmistress Constance.” She sets her glass down with a clunk. “I understand this situation has been shy of satisfactory. For that, I offer you my solace. As I am sure you know, Visnatus is an academy for the future leaders. It is for the best and most powerful of your generation to learn to wield their energy and their minds. I will not force this to go down sweetly. You do not belong here. Yet, you are a lesser legacy only because of a father you did not know.” She stops and takes a good look at me.
“I’m willing to give you a trial period here. If you can prove to be as,” she taps the desk, “noble as your peers, I will allow you to stay.”
This feels like a trick. I say, “Thank you.”
My whole body is starting to feel numb and prickly, like my foot when I sit on it for too long.
“I believe it goes without saying that you will be keeping your origins a secret.”
At the mention of my home, my heart aches. I know this place is fancy, can probably offer me three meals a day and snacks between, paper and books, and everything my life has lacked, but I don’t care. I don’t want it. I want my home.
“For the time being, you will adopt the surname Marquees.” She slides a jar across the table to me. “Go ahead, grab it.” I’m able to lift my arm, but the prickly sensation doesn’t subside. “It’s a glamour. It will hide your scars.”
Right. Who I am isn’t worthy here. It’s good for me that hiding is something I’ve been doing my entire life.
The headmistress rises, saying she will walk me to my suite. I grab a little blue-studded knife from her desk on the way out.
The academy is ridiculous. Marble walls gleam in the sunlight streaming through the arched windows. Grand staircases curve elegantly through the halls—but I’m more focused on the floor.
I recognize the stone immediately, seeing as it’s the same marble my village quarried when I was ten. Why would you use something so difficult to retrieve for something as silly as a fancy floor? All you do is walk on it.
It occurs to me that I’m stepping on someone’s wasted life.
The headmistress tells me that one of my suitemates is a Royal, and I do not make any gesture that would show her how taken aback I am by this. A girl from the septic, rooming with Royalty? Instantly, I am suspicious of the headmistress. There is no way her intentions are altruistic.
I don’t believe in altruism. And even if I did, the headmistress would be at the bottom of the list.
She tells me their names: Aralia, Wendy, and Calista. I’m not ready when I reach for the door, or when it opens, or when I walk down the three marble steps and past the two Corinthian columns that lead into the suite.
The room is bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived before—with a couch, a table and chairs, a cushioned seat in the corner, and four doors—and that’s not even considering the bedrooms.
A girl with short black hair dangling off the edge of the beige couch says, “I’m Aralia,” without looking up from her book.
“Desdemona,” I mumble, and the headmistress smiles and nods at me before leaving.
Another girl steps out from one of the four doors. Blonde hair, brown eyes, and a pastel-yellow dress that gives the illusion she is floating instead of walking. She looks me up and down and purses her lips.
This girl has never stabbed an animal for her supper.
She places a dainty hand on her chest and says, “Calista.”
The Royal—the princess of Lorucille. My world that I get the blunt end of while she gets the very narrow top.
Standing up straighter, I say again, “Desdemona.”
Her eyes fall back to my body, and my chin is where her gaze lands—the tip of her head barely reaching my eyes—but this feels like it’s meant to be intimidating. She’s even taller than my mom, and I still feel like a giant. Intimidation isn’t going to be her strong suit.
Aralia steps forward, grabbing my hand as she says, “Welcome to our wonderful suite.”
She pulls me into a room bigger than any one of my dwellings, with two big beds and a desk between them under a wide window. A stack of books is piled on the seat, and dozens of pictures line the windowsill.
“I’ll move my belongings to this half of the closet,” Aralia says.
I look at the dresser, directly across from the beds. Papers and pictures are scattered across its surface. This would be a precious mine back home.
“A drawer will be good enough.”
She clears the dresser, moving her papers and stuffing them into drawers and notebooks. The only thing I have is what the headmistress gave me. Glamour, I think she called it.
“Is there anywhere I can get food?” I ask when she’s finished.
“Of course,” Aralia says, like food is always a given—something waiting for you and not something you hunt—and heads to the door. “Coming?”
The kitchen’s unlike any I’ve seen, with its marble counters and gleaming silverware.
And the line of pies on the counter.
“Take one,” Aralia says. She must have meant a slice of one, but before I clarify, I remember where I am. I take the pie greedily and am pleasantly surprised when my first bite is sweet, not savory.
Pies aren’t a delicacy at home, just a way to stretch the meat when it’s meager.
Aralia offers to help me unpack my stuff, and I make up something about trying to let go of my past, telling her I’m going to buy everything I need here. As if I have a single pence to my name. Then I lie on the bed—which is softer than even the thickest patch of grass—and sleep for the rest of the day.
When I wake up, it’s night, and I carefully listen to Aralia’s breathing until I’m sure she’s asleep. I slip out of bed and stuff a pillow under the cover, in case she wakes.
I rub the glamour over my entire back, and to my surprise, the scars vanish. The raised skin is still there beneath my fingers, but I can’t see it.
On the dresser, she left sheets and a stack of clothes. There are dark blue plaid skirts, pants, ties, and jackets, each with a silver emblem on the chest: a sun and moon balanced on a scale with a sword behind them.
I throw on a jacket and walk the halls like I have somewhere to be. The busts lining the walls seem to watch my every step before I enter a garden.
The school walls are covered in glowing purple flowers, and the crisp air feels sharp in my lungs, awakening my senses like a blade piercing skin.
Nothing like the humid Welders’ Village.
My gaze catches a glowing beam in the sky—which I assume is a moon. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I decide I’ll miss it when I make it home to Lorucille.
The moon’s light cascades onto another faint blue glow. Curiosity consumes me, and I follow like it’s calling me until I reach a shimmering, iridescent lake—just like the stories Mom told me of her time at Visnatus. When she was considered fancy and rich. She told me she fell from grace when she fell for my father, but that was all the information she offered about him.
I stop when I notice someone sitting at the lake’s edge, their reflection rippling in the moonlit water. All I can make out is dark hair and pale skin. But, despite my distance, my reflection appears beside his—only I look different. My hair is shorter, and my eyes are darker. As he leans down, the water that casts our reflection turns to fire and the image disappears altogether.
Without turning around, he says, “Leaving so soon?”
The voice is like a song I used to know but can’t remember. Before logic kicks in, I ask, “Do I know you?”
He turns, wavy, dark hair falling over his forehead, but not into his eyes. Every angle of him is sharp enough to cut; his jaw and cheekbones are emphasized by the shadows the moonlight is casting over the planes of his face.
He’s perfection. The kind you could only attain by being pampered your entire life. Beautiful, yes, but I prefer the roguish beauty of Damien. It adds depth of character. This boy has none, I’m sure.
His eyes scan up and down my body. They’re so dark that at first, I think they’re brown or gray, but when they meet me again, I realize I am mistaken.
They’re a blue as dark as midnight.
A far cry from the headmistress’s bright, almost white, eerie eyes.
“I’d remember a Fire Folk.” He smirks. Slow and teasing, the kind that accompanies an enemy before they strike.
I sneer, only in an attempt to find some high ground. “Stay out of my head, Lucent.”
“On the contrary,” he stands, “your head seems like such a lovely place to be.”
I don’t allow my voice to fluctuate for a second. “Same with your memories.”
The boy scoffs with a smile, but I think I’ve made him nervous because he says, “Tell me, what do you see?”
“Nothing you’d want repeated.” Nothing, period. The Folk govern memories—seeing, rewriting, erasing them. But not all of us.
I’ve never been able to start so much as a measly fire.
Despite my still hoping that’s the case, I take the chance to walk in the opposite direction of him.
Then I think I might just survive here after all.