“Get up.”
“Stanton.”
I sit up at the sound of my mother’s voice. She walks over, stopping next to him, her face pinched. I hate seeing her worrying about me, so I try again to get to my feet. It’s hard, and I’m a little dizzy, but I manage. I still can’t find my sword, though.
“He needs a break,” I hear her say.
Uncle Iberik shakes his head. “Ach, he’s fine.”
My mother’s black hair rustles a little in the breeze I can’t feel. I wish I could, because I feel like I’m a loaf of bread baking in Cook’s oven. “You’ve been out here for hours, and he’s tired.”
My father doesn’t even spare me a glance, but I see his eyes darken on her, and I start to sweat for an entirely different reason than the heat.
“He’s a fae,” Uncle Iberik tosses back. “We aren’t built like you Oreans. We’re stronger.”
I wonder if anyone else sees the way my mother’s hands fist at her sides.
“Yes, well, he’s half Orean. And he’s also only eight years old. Even fae boys can’t be expected to be out under the hot sun, practicing sword fighting for hours on end. He needs a break or he could become overheated and be too sick to practice again tomorrow. Most fae don’t even get their power until they’re fifteen. You’re pushing him too hard.” She says this all with a firm voice, her eyes focused on my father.
But I know what will happen. Later, when no one is around, my father will be mean to her. Maybe hurt her. I don’t want that.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been sticking to her side like glue. If my father comes around, I distract him from her. He’s been so excited about my power manifesting itself this early that it’s been easy so far. I don’t want his attention to go back to her.
I dreamt about that sound of him hitting her, woke up to my mattress shredded from the spikes on my back poking out, the sheets ripped from the ones on my arms. The lines in my skin spread to my bed, rotting the wood until it collapsed. Because that’s what it is—rot. I might not be a Breaker, but I still destroy.
“I’m okay,” I say, but my throat is scratchy, and it would be so nice to dunk my head in the pond right about now. I’d also like to throw this stupid sword right into the middle of it so that I won’t have to practice again.
Cado keeps silent as his eyes dart between all the adults, though it’s not with concern. He’d gladly train me into the ground if that’s what my father wanted.
“See?” my father says, arm gesturing to me. “The boy’s fine.”
“Stanton—”
“Get back inside, Elore,” he snaps. My mother looks just as angry as he does, but it just doesn’t fit on her face the way it does my father. She’s always smiling with me and Ryatt. Laughing with the Orean servants, kind and calm to the horses. She wears a different face with my father. It’s either shy or angry or scared or sad. They don’t fit. They don’t belong.
I want her to always wear the face that she wears for us.
“I’ll go inside with my son,” she says stubbornly.
My heartbeat goes crazy as I look between them.
Uncle Iberik gapes at her. “How dare you show such disrespect to your lord and husband! He’s a fae. He brought you to our world, let you live here, gave you long life and children and the ability to live in our world.”
My mother doesn’t even pay attention to him, but my father does. His temper always gets worse when Uncle Iberik is here. He doesn’t want any of us talking back or behaving poorly, especially when other people are around.
The anger in my father’s face makes me feel a surge of emotion. When he takes a step closer to her, the grass suddenly turns brown at my feet. Black lines flood down my arms. Spikes pierce through my skin, each one a different length.
My father’s head whips toward me as the rot spreads through the grass. Instead of being excited like the first time, his lips press together in a hard line. “Your power comes out now?” he growls. “You should’ve been able to bring it forward during training. This is proof that you’re not trying hard enough.”
“I promise I am,” I tell him. I try to reach down to my leg and wipe off the blood dribbling from the jagged gashes in my arms, but all I manage to do is tear a rip in my pants from one of the spikes.
“You need to learn,” he tells me, walking forward. His eyes skim over the way some of my spikes are longer than others, the messiness of my sliced skin. “You can’t be controlled by your magic or fall to foolish emotions,” he spits out. “You’re my son, and you will learn to make me proud.”