CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

SLADE

Age 8

I’m so tired. My body hurts all over, but it’s the worst on my arms and back where the spikes come out. Even now, they’re poking from under the skin, making it stretch and turning my skin gray.

“Again!”

My father’s command makes me flinch, but I raise the sword in my hand, even though it’s heavy and my whole arm shakes as I try to keep it up.

My sparring teacher is a fae named Cado, who’s bald like my father but with dark brown skin and no beard, and when he wants, he can bring blades from his fingertips. It’s never a good day when he brings those out.

I used to train with Cado three days a week for only an hour, but ever since my power came out a few weeks ago, Father has been making me do this every day for hours. He says that I have to get stronger physically so that I can learn how to wield my new magic. All my other lessons are on hold for now. But so far, I haven’t been able to bring my spikes or my power out on command.

I try. I really do. I’m tired of being out in this field day after day, while the sun burns and my sweat drips and my father makes me train with a real sword instead of the wooden practice ones. I hate it. But he says that pushing myself is the only way to make the magic come.

I barely get my sword up in time for Cado to slam his own blade into mine. I’m supposed to be practicing blocks, but he hits me so hard that the metal clang goes all the way up my arms and makes my teeth feel funny.

Staggering back, my feet dig into the crunchy grass as I sway.

“That wasn’t a block,” my father barks.

Glancing over, I see him standing several feet away with Uncle Iberik right next to him. I hate that they’re both watching me, calling out every single little thing I do wrong.

“I’m tired,” I pant. I have to wipe the sweat from my forehead because it’s dripping in my eyes and making them sting.

“You’re still weak,” he counters, his arms crossed in front of him, red shirt matching my own. It reminds me of blood. The same color of the split lip I got yesterday when I missed my block and Cado rammed the hilt of his sword into my mouth. The same shade that drips down my arms every time the spikes poke through.

“You need to push yourself, Slade. Push physically and call to your magic.”

Clamping my teeth together, I turn back around, barely ducking in time when I see Cado already whirling. I try to swing my sword, but I can’t get it up in time for the second advance. Cado pulls back at the last second so that it’s his arm that slams into my side, instead of his blade, but it still hurts.

I go sprawling, face mashed against the ground. I’m breathing so hard that the blades of dry grass move back and forth. The taste of copper in my mouth lets me know that my lip probably broke open again.

“Get up,” my father orders.

I try, but my whole body is shaky, and I dropped my sword, too. I’m not sure where it landed.

“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.”

Or else.

That’s the unspoken threat.

My head falls. “Yes, Father.”

His chin jerks up. “Get him inside.”

My mother wastes no time in hurrying forward. Her soft hand takes hold of my upper arm not riddled with spikes, and we start the long walk back to the estate.

We’re quiet all the way there, but my head is loud with my father’s words.

You will learn to make me proud.

Because I don’t make him proud. I just disappoint him, again and again, and he’s going to hate me forever.

My eyes burn, but I keep sniffing, trying not to cry. I’ve been doing it way too much lately. But I just keep hearing my father’s words in my head. I’ve always wanted him to stop being disappointed in me, and I thought once I started to show signs of magic, he would. But that’s not true at all.

Once I get back to my room, I’m quiet as I bathe and then quiet still after I dress for bed. My mother comes back in with food and some supplies to clean my sore, torn skin, and I don’t say anything through that either, even though the stuff she pours on it stings. At least the spikes went away again, so I don’t have to sleep with them.

When the last of the blood has been wiped away, my mother places her hands on my cheeks, forcing me to look at her.

“I want you to listen to me, Slade, and I want you to remember this, alright?”

My head nods slowly.

Her eyes are fierce and full of love. “You are my son, and you already make me proud. Every day.”

It feels like I’m going to bawl like a baby, but I swallow hard.

“But I’m weak. My magic only comes out when I’m feeling emotions, and Father says that’s wrong.”

“You are not weak,” she says firmly. When I start to argue, she goes on. “You don’t have to be cruel to be strong. You don’t have to be mean to seem brave. You don’t have to look down on others in order to stand tall. Having emotions does not mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart enough to let yourself feel.”

When my stinging eyes get too much to sniff away, her thumbs wipe along my cheeks. “I don’t want to be like him,” I whisper, and even though we’re shut away in my room, I still look to the door, afraid that he somehow will have heard me. “I don’t want to break or rot or hurt things. I want to be good.”

My mother’s face turns sad. “You are good, Slade. Every single day, I am proud of you. And it’s not because of these spikes on your arms or the magic in your veins. It’s not for the blood you are born from or the status you will one day have.” She drops a hand and places it on my chest, right over my racing heart. “I am proud of you for this. Not for what you can do, but for who I know you will be.”

“Who will I be?”

She leans forward and kisses my forehead, combing my damp hair away from my face. “You will be completely yourself. And you will be proud.”