“MAUVEN FANGERA,” his demanding voice booms, “GET YOUR LAZY ARSE OUT HERE, NOW!”
I bolt awake, scrambling out of my cot and into the sweltering air. It’s the end of August, and in Leiyetta that means it’s unbearable, the final hot snap of the dwindling summer days excruciating, almost inhumane. But I should enjoy it, while I can. I won’t be able to for much longer, perhaps never again.
Darting around my room, scraps of worn clothes fall in a storm, fluttering to the ground and shrouding my feet as I at last snatch a pair of fresh linens, and tear them over my frazzled hair. Concentrating hard, I squeeze my eyes shut, and force my hair to soothe itself. But my gift has not been strong in the last few years, least of all under pressure, so instead of falling sleek, it merely stays the same frizzy mess.
“MAUVEN! I SAID NOW.”
I fly down the hall, cursing myself with each thunk of my heart. I shouldn’t have been so stupid. How could I have woken so late? It must have been all of the worrying.
I find him in the living room, seated in his favorite, cushy armchair, the seams at last ripping from years of use. He is furious, I know this by the way his arms are crossed tight, and the frown on his unshaven face, which is somehow smothered with grime.
Keeping my face blank, I cross the threshold and bow at my waist, my eyes attentively glued to the scratched, wooden floor,
“I am sorry, Father,” I swallow heavily.
He grunts his dismissal, and I stand from my bow, instantly falling into routine as I snatch the rusted pail from the hearth of the ashen fireplace.
“You should be sorry,” he grumbles through cracked teeth, “You are nothing more than a waste of air. I do not need you, you do know this, do you not?”
“Yes, Father,” I agree, walking out of the squeaky kitchen door, and into the rising daylight, the sun just beginning to illuminate the sky.
I fill the pail with water from our old well, the bucket now heavy and full, and set it by my fathers side, his jagged voice still ringing through the dusty air.
“I do not ask much of you, Mauven.” He grunts as I retrieve the leather bound set of knives, “And yet, you are still unbearably pathetic. You do not deserve it, your second hand invitation. If I had it my way, you would not set a single foot inside the sacred halls of Etari.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Nodding silently, I soak a washcloth and approach his side, hesitant as I wipe caked dirt from scarred cheeks. He falls silent, but his teeth grind horribly, grating in my ears.
As I dip the cloth back into the pail, he bursts out, “Why does it have to be you, who will bring forth the Fangera name? It should have been Daxton. He would have made me proud.”
My heart throbs at my brother's name. It's been two years since he died, but the pain is no less than that day. It should be him, to take place at Etari, the traditional school of war. I know I will be no suitable replacement, hardly a fighting bone in my body. At least, that is what father says. And who am I to deny him? It is he who fought for Leiyetta, afterall.
My eyes flick to his blanketed thighs, shielding the truth of his demise.
“Why couldn’t it have been you?” He demands, as I bring a sharpened blade to his jaw, “It is not right that the rot stole him, leaving me alone. It is sickening, that it will be you.”
“Yes, Father,” I scrape off a thick section of hair.
As my hand drifts down, he snatches it, squeezing my fingers until they turn blue,
“You listen to me, Mauven. If you so much as breathe out of line, your punishment will be greater than you can possibly imagine. I will not be made a fool to my comrades. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father, I understand,” I say, almost reflexively.
He releases my hand and clucks his tongue, allowing me to continue to shorn the hair from his chin. I do not blame him for these comments, Dax was perfect. He was so ready to continue my father’s legacy, even willing to die for it. So of course father is furious, petrified I will turn his reputation to soot. It’s not like I have much to offer, unless those at Etari are looking for a clean shave.
Wiping his face clean, leaving only wrinkles behind, I prepare breakfast for the grumbling man. He will not sit at the table, he won’t leave his chair at all unless he has to, but I cannot blame him for that, either. His final battle stole more from him than his position.
I bring over a tray of eggs, saving the rest for the days that will follow. He will need to be careful in preserving his food. He will not be allowed more for a fortnight.
As he eats, his blanket falls, exposing mangled thighs. I move without hesitating, again draping it over the legs that will never again be. I have long wondered what life would be like, if Rakile had not gone so wrong. If father had been given the position of Leiyetta’s General, and not doomed to a dishonorable discharge.
It will be hard for him, without me here, even if he swears otherwise. For if the Kyne’s do not uphold their promise, and leave him to his own, I know there will not be a man to return to, perhaps just bone.
This is not how it was supposed to happen, with Dax deep below the earth. It was his destiny to attend Etari, to thrive and conquer the Shield's. For me, I can only hope to take a place amongst the White’s, and do my best to disappear.
