Mom told me that when we met again, after a little more than eight years apart. She said it like someone offering you a hot cup. As if just holding it were enough to stop your body from shaking.
At first I didn’t believe a word of it. I didn’t take her emotional lessons seriously. They sounded like those soft phrases people use to feel like good persons.
When I found her, I deserted my platoon. I didn’t hesitate for a second.
They declared me a traitor. They almost executed me point-blank when they caught me escaping the base with supplies.
I gutted them. Every single one. I burned them alive.
I can still see the skin on my captain’s face peeling away from the muscle, twisting on the ground, trying to put out the flames with mud and snow. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. His throat was pure pain.
I never told Mom.
There was no room for remorse in those days. There was hunger, cold, fear. You had to move. You had to survive. And if you stood still thinking about what you’d done, the cold would reach you, or the soldiers would. From either side.
One afternoon I came home early from school and found her crying alone in the living room.
I pretended I hadn’t seen anything. Because as soon as she heard the door open, she wiped her face, looked at me with a crooked smile, and said it was because she was cooking onions. That it was nothing. That I should go to my room and rest.
…
There were no onions in the kitchen.
I don’t understand many things in this life, but feelings are among the worst. They make me uncomfortable. Not like an unfair battle, which at least has clear rules: someone tries to kill you, you try not to die. This is something else. This is an enemy that doesn’t let itself be seen.
Adults smile as if the smile were a bandage. They stick it over the pain and think no one can smell the blood.
I do it too.
Not because I’m strong. Because it’s easier to lie than to explain why I tremble when someone speaks to me gently. Because it’s easier to act tough than to admit it breaks me inside when they look at me with pity.
I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t want them to see me and think I’m still broken. Bad. That the war never left me, that I only learned to hide it better.
When I’m with Annya, with my friends, I want to forget it. I want to believe, even if it’s a cheap illusion, that I’m strong. That I don’t cry at night thinking about Dad. That I don’t care when my classmates look at me out of the corner of their eyes like I’m something dangerous. The fire weirdo. The scary one. The one no one wants sitting too close because she smells like tobacco and danger.
I want to believe I’m not sick.
But when Annya gives me cookies, when we bake together, when she makes me smile… I feel like throwing up at night.
Because when I burned my platoon alive, I smiled while doing it.
Because when I look at myself in the mirror and that euphoria comes back, that heat in my blood that wants to hurt other people, I feel nauseous with myself.
As if there were something inside me that still itches for violence.
I feel like I don’t deserve her as a friend.
I feel like I don’t deserve to be alive most of the time.
I wish I could smile the way they do, without paying a price afterward.
Annya talks a lot about how she feels. She cries when she’s sad. She laughs when she’s happy. She asks me how I am, what I did last night, what manga I read, what I watched while having dinner. Simple questions. Normal questions.
She… is brave. Very much so. I couldn’t do it. Those questions are too much for me. They burn my tongue.
I communicate in another way.
I growl. I bite. I mock. I bark.
It’s my language because I don’t know how to say the other things. Because asking for help feels like lowering my guard. Because I don’t want to be a burden. Because I don’t want to be the useless one in the group. Because it terrifies me when someone looks at me with that softness that makes you feel naked.
That’s why, when I see you so refined, so polite, so firm even when someone dares to mock you, I envy you.
I envy you because you don’t need to frown or spit sarcasm to exist. You just… are. And the world rearranges itself in your favor.
They greet you in the hallways with smiles. Teachers nod at you with pride when you speak in class. You look so fine, so radiant without even trying that it annoys me. It makes me angry like it’s a personal injustice.
That’s why I bother you.
Because I don’t know how to get close any other way. Because I don’t know how to say "good morning." Because I don’t know how to ask "how are you?" without feeling like I’m tying a ridiculous bow of thorns in my throat.
I don’t want to do those stupid things.
I want to see you and I want to punch you.
I want you to see me and I want you to punch me.
Because you’re the only one in this whole damn school, in first year, who has the guts to face me without fear. I’m forbidden from confronting upperclassmen. I’m forbidden from entering school duels.
All because I almost killed you in cold blood.
I wish I hadn’t fought you that day. I curse it every time the mark hurts, because the pain doesn’t go away. It stays. Sometimes it rises, as if reminding me that I’m still capable of doing something like that.
But if I had hidden my past from the directors, from Romina… I could have murdered someone else.
Or several people.
Or Annya.
Or Mom...
Your mother died long ago, when you were little. You don’t get along with your father. And I’m sure more than one of your "friends" only sticks around because she wants to get into your luxury house and take photos with your things. As the cherry on top, your older brother is missing.
You haven’t talked to me much about him. Not really. You don't seem to like your family that much. Can't blame you, tho.
When I saw him on television I almost had a heart attack, because for a second I thought it was you on the screen. You must be sad, right? You must be hiding the pain, like my mom does.
Like I do.
Right?
A part of me misses the simplicity from before: kill, eat, sleep, repeat. No overthinking. No weighing words. No asking myself if I’m being rough or if I’m hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Now I have to deal with my best friend putting on makeup, with my grades, with the ridiculous effort of seeming like a normal girl, with the constant fear that someone will discover the blood on my hands. Guilty blood. Innocent blood.
And my nose itches.
Not only because of the blood from a few minutes ago, but because I’m on the bus, with Annya’s sweet vanilla perfume beside me, listening to her voice and to Jax and Rose talking about I-don’t-know-what.
Being normal kids. With no greater worry than getting good grades.
Today I won’t bother you. I won’t mock you.
Today I just want to go to class, come back, and sleep.
My head hurts from time to time. It must be the Nullwine. I had to take twenty drops last night. At least I’m grateful that in the nightmare I wasn’t killing anyone. There was just a golden eye and a purple one, strange, in a black abyss, chasing me.
I need to smoke right now.
I can’t stand thinking so much.
Sigh.
One day I’ll learn a miracle that lets me dodge lung cancer. Because if there’s one thing I don’t plan to change… it’s my addiction to nicotine.
…
…
…
TSS!
“Hey, don’t !”
“Move it, toad face!”
“Oh my god… I don’t know if I’ll do well today… I didn’t study that much.”
“Come on, relax, the professor said he’ll give us a chance for a retake.”
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt—
“Hello?! Hello! Yes, I’m on my way, I’m already downtown, tell them I already have the files printed for court!”
"Damn it, I’ll be late. If this keeps up they’ll fire me…”
All of them wore ties, just for different reasons.
Students and workers felt the blessed permission of the hiss of the bus doors, and poured out in a wave of dark blue and black.
Larion welcomed them once again.
Dealing with rush hour in the capital was a monumental task. It’s one of those moments where, without meaning to, you walk faster, check the time on your mirrorphone twice, and let your eyes drift to the advertisements and display windows of every store.
Between noise and horns, urban life dragged Feralynn out of her thoughts by force. She didn’t mind it; she preferred it that way.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
She stayed behind at the bus stop a little longer, letting her three friends move ahead. She stretched her arms and back hard, cracked her neck on both sides. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, feeling the mix of crisp winter air and smoke. She watched her breath form a cloud of vapor similar to car exhaust.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
You can do it, she thought as she caught up to them.
You can survive another school day on just three hours of sleep, two energy drinks, and an expired green-apple-flavored granola bar you ate in a rush because you almost woke up late. You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again.
“That’s why cats can’t taste sweet flavors, their palates just aren’t designed to detect sweetness in glycogens like ours are.”
Annya lowered her head as they walked, listening to Rose’s fun fact of the day (even if no one had asked).
“Oww… you mean my Mittens doesn’t feel anything when I give him the custard cream I have left over from my buns?”
The pink-haired elf girl nodded with unnecessary solemn seriousness. Annya bit the inside of her cheek, puffing it out in annoyance at the injustice of Mother Nature.
“That’s crazy! I can feel sweet flavors!” said Jax, losing his focus to the skateboard shop he’d been saving up to visit.
“That’s because you’re a hybrid.” Rose clarified, not catching that Jax’s comment was more casual than assertive. “Given your physiological composition, you have full capa–”
“It was a joke!” Jax cut in, laughing with a light smile. “Rosabelle, it’s not even first period. Give us a break.”
The elf girl’s cheeks flushed the same color as her hair.
“If you already knew that, then don’t say it.” she snapped with scalpel-like coldness, adjusting her rectangular glasses. “I told you not to call me by my full name, Jaxavier.”
It fell on him like a hex. That contained anger from the girl was chilling. Jax laughed nervously a little, but Annya noticed how the blond boy’s tail bristled, and it clearly wasn’t from the cold.
"H-Hey, I was joking!"
"Hmph!"
"Come on Rosy, don't give me that look!"
“They’re going to end up dating.” Annya thought, smiling to herself with a quiet giggle. “They remind me a bit of me and—”
Thud.
From the horizontal line, Feralynn joined them, pushing Jax aside without hurting him so she could walk between them. She yawned loudly, barely covering her mouth. The blond boy let her hook an arm around his shoulder, completely used to it.
At her unannounced arrival, Annya looked away for a brief second when their eyes met instinctively in a sideways glance they both made at the same time. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pretending the appliance store across the street was far more interesting.
Pretending she hadn’t seen Feralynn see her blush, even if only for a second.
Feralynn let Jax wrap an arm around her shoulders as well, shared camaraderie.
“I’m dying, and not just from lack of sleep.” Fer joked, half truth, half exaggeration. “Kowalski, analysis.”
At lightning speed, Rose pulled a small black card with a rune engraved in the middle from her pocket. It looked like a rigid card. She slipped her left hand into her coat pocket, and as she pulled it out already gloved, she cast a small pale-blue light onto the card.
Boop!
The black square violently transformed. Now it was her personal planner that she carried everywhere. She opened it without thinking, but not before clearing her throat. She had to prepare her voice, had to raise her gloved index finger.
“First! Algebra with Corbis!”
Way too much nerd-energy accumulated finally escaping for a bit.
Fer and Jax let out a groan in unison so loud that adults passing by shot them a glance. They hated that dwarf’s classes, and even more when he decided to make the two of them participate.
“Second. Alchemy exam with Beatrice.”
Annya gently tugged at the sleeve of Feralynn’s jacket.
“Today I want us to sit together.” she whispered, smiling at her with that made-up face that made Feralynn want to brew a potion that would give her the courage to ask her to the dance. “I’ll help you if it gets too complicated.”
Ba-dump!
That heartbeat from Feralynn came out deeper, resonating in her chest. She swallowed, nodding in silent gratitude with an impassive, apathetic expression.
“Third.” Rose cut in, adjusting her glasses. “Arcane Theory, with Bernt.” she closed the notebook, which returned to its original size. “After that, Romina, lunch hour, and our club activities.”
Done and said. Logbook recited for the daily mission: don’t fall asleep in class, take notes, and be normal. Easy, right?
They kept walking toward the entrance of the forest that connects the city with the Academy’s massive castle, joining the tide of other students.
Under no circumstances did they even mention what they had seen on television before getting on the bus. Either by a reflex of the mind, a finicky desire to avoid what we can’t control, or because they didn’t like thinking about the media scandal surrounding their white-haired, blue-blooded classmate.
At the entrance stood the stone knights, who, although petrified, still followed every face with white eyes behind their helmets. Feralynn lowered her gaze every morning as she entered, toward their sharp swords and thick battle axes. Pure medieval weapons, probably as old (yet durable) as the school itself. She wished to try one, just to know if she was strong enough to lift those instruments of war made of stone and eternal steel.
"Pretty sure I can handle one of those big toys."
“No snooping, none! Nothing, nothing! Shoosh!”
KICK!
Groans of pain. Confused looks, laughter at the absurdity.
Choppi, the green-wigged butler, delivered a kick to the reporters and paparazzi who had slipped through the dense forest of the front garden. He found them among the bushes like hunters, waiting (in case it happened) for the arrival of Lady Miria’s personal carriage so they could corner her the moment it landed with horrid questions about her older brother.
Luckily, he and his twin stopped them in time, saving the poor girl from having to deal with constant reminders of the tragedy.
“You’re lucky we’re not suing you for trespassing on private property…” said the orange-wigged twin, clapping the dust off his hands. "Scram!"
The latter walked out with an expression of disappointment and annoyance, dragging a couple of photographers by the collars of their coats, unconscious from the blow he’d given each of them.
They tossed them out like annoying drunks from a bar. Students pulled out their mirrorphones to take pictures and laugh at them.
“A vulture has more pride…” Feralynn muttered, arching a brow at one of them fleeing with his microphone from the well-earned humiliation. “They sure don’t waste anything, huh?”
“Reporters." Jax commented, sharing the sentiment with Fer. "That’s how they are.”
From the clouds, wings rose and fell, others circled, guarding invisible perimeters at first glance: the drakes. Distant cousins of dragons, but with scales coveted by illegal hunters, and with breaths of electrical lightning that could overload the city’s power plants with ease if they wanted to.
No one seemed disturbed, or at least they acted well enough.
Former students knew the armors, took them out for ceremonies or whenever Astera wanted to give things a professional touch; any propaganda was useful reputation.
Even so, Feralynn doubted her, doubted Smiley; and with the disappearance of the Frostweaver house’s firstborn heir, she could feel a more restless mana inside those armed statues.
The inside of her right nostril began to moisten with that familiar copper scent.
“Not again. Ugh, seriously. Today this isn’t…”
Her friends turned to see her, that crimson line falling like a tear. Jax immediately tore a piece off a disposable tissue he pulled from one of his coat pockets, rolled it into a small ball so Fer could use it as an improvised plug.
“That’s the second time.” Annya voiced her observation with a sad, worried tone. She noticed the dark circles under her best friend’s eyes. “I told you we could skip classes if you were really feeling bad…”
She wanted to take her by the arm, wanted to take her home and care for her until she knew if she was really okay.
Faced with the uneasy looks of the three of them, Feralynn sighed, lifting her shoulders.
“It’s nothing, just… allergies. The cold, I don’t know.”
Jax didn’t need a sharper sense of smell than the one he already had to know it was a lie, much less the other two girls. They didn’t push further, didn’t ask more questions because they knew it would be pointless.
Even if you tied her up and hung her upside down over a pit full of hungry crocodiles, Feralynn wouldn’t tell you if she was really okay, or if she needed your help. She’d give you a bitter look and call you a coward for not cutting the soy.
Near the titanic wooden doors of the castle, they heard the sound of a carriage: Miria. The four of them watched as, instead of landing near the doors as usual, it headed toward a deeper area of the forest.
They looked at each other, sad. They didn’t need to think about why. As it was, classmates and professors already treated her like an eminence; this would only put her under double constant stress.
They went in, but Feralynn stayed among the other students passing by her side, watching to see if she would come out from the leafless trees, if she would come out crying, or pretending nothing was happening.
“Today I won’t bother you.” she repeated like a mantra, looking at her boots sunk into the snow. “I won’t mock you.”
Because I don’t know how you’d react to a pain I’m so familiar with. Because I’ve hurt you before, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if I do it again.
…
…
…
Corbis showed them
That dwarf allergic to youthful joy hit them like a close-up with third-degree polynomials, seasoned it with logarithms, and for dessert gave them integrals.
He delighted in it, and his nose enjoyed smelling frustration. He only felt a quiet admiration for Rose, who among them all fought back without holding back against the assignments.
Feralynn only fantasized about breaking the window and jumping with a parachute. When her eyes weren’t on the numbers on the board, they slid by inertia toward her.
There she was, Miria.
She wrote mechanically, her face impassive, more than usual. The group of girls that followed her everywhere stayed the same way. There was no mention of Gerard, there were no grimaces of outside pity, or any questions from the hallway toward the classroom. Only an uncomfortable silence.
If it weren’t for the occasional cough, or the seasonal pseudo-cold sneeze, you could mistake the classroom for her older brother’s funeral.
Too perfect, even for her.
During recess, the four of them were together in one of the many internal plazas that connect the hallways, Rose and Annya chatting with their other class friends, all congratulating the orange-haired girl on her well-done makeup, and comparing lipstick and eyeliner brands.
Jax had his catalyst gloves on, back against a column, practicing his control over the snow, giving shape and life to the small creations he made. He formed a tiny human, and animated it, making it dance in the air; only to warp it and create another figure.
He felt a light elbow from Feralynn at his side, then her tobacco-scented voice whisper something so low only his dog ears caught it.
“Send it to Frosty.”
There was no please, no further explanation. She shoved a crumpled paper into his pocket, and walked off without saying anything else. The boy tilted his head at the paper, made sure Fer couldn’t see him, and unfolded it.
He couldn’t help but smile, softly. It was easy for him to understand why she reached out for him.
Feralynn didn’t want to ask Annya to deliver the paper, didn’t want to involve her, and asking Rose would mean everyone would know through the gossip she loves to share.
She couldn’t do those basic spells the other students could. And she had no one else to ask. Only Jax.
He raised his eyebrows at the gesture. His ears then caught voices he recognized: Miria’s group, at the other end of the plaza. All seated, and her in the middle. All smiling and talking about celebrity gossip, and her in the middle. In the middle of all the bad acting, of all the noise that was more silence.
With the paper folded neatly into an origami bird shape, he tapped it gently with his gloved index finger.
“Fly high, little one. Help them.”
A faint pale-blue spark formed, and the paper began to flap. He let it take flight, and wagging through the air it crossed the gentle falling snow until it landed on the table where the high-class girls were sitting.
They were all interrupted. Miria wasn’t surprised by the paper. Every emotion was suppressed to the maximum so she wouldn’t explode in public and stain her laborious reputation.
None of them dared to touch it, least of all her. Something inside her told her it was a message by the way it had fallen in front of her. She didn’t open it, she didn’t want to in front of prying eyes.
“It must be from a secret admirer.” she said with a polite voice and a practiced smile. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The girls nodded solemnly at their leader searching for solitude. Or rather, needing it either way.
She went up the stairs, she couldn’t even think about who it might be. She just wanted to get away from the world for a few seconds.
Lord Frostweaver had a horrible fit of rage and panic, taking out his anger and pain on the phone, calling every security force, begging the other noble families to deploy their private guards. Even calling the Spellborne units directly. Miria listened from the other side of the door. He screamed the same way he had with the doctors and clerics who couldn’t cure her. He yelled the same way, full of frustration and tears, at everyone who couldn’t cure Mother.
She went to the third-floor bathroom, the one that isn’t so crowded. Locked in the stall farthest from the entrance, she latched it. Took a deep breath before pulling out the paper.
It could be anything, mostly a letter from a worried classmate offering condolences. But if it were, the paper wouldn’t be so crumpled, nor with edges almost scorched.
Only an idiot would send a paper in that state. Slowly she opened it, and immediately recognized the sloppy, brutal handwriting.
I’ll be on the terrace at lunch. If you want to come.
It was an idiot. No, it was THE idiot she knows.
She didn’t blink, didn’t react. She stared at the badly written letters, until the almost scorched paper caught her tears. They fell in silence, one, two, five. Then her lips trembled, and finally the sobs came.
Uncontrolled, strangled. She hugged her knees, still sitting on the closed toilet.
She cried. She cried a lot.
Because when she wasn’t with Gloria, she only had her, the only one she knew who saw beyond her title.
Because she wanted to see her, and she wanted to punch her.
But most of all, she wanted to hug her.
…
…
…
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