Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I spin around, nearly knocking a jar from the table. Father picks it up and motions toward Quin’s gift. “May I see it?”
Hesitant, I hand it over.
“You made this?” he asks, examining the intricate carvings.
“It’s a gift,” I say, my voice trembling.
“Ah. It’s for a woman.”
I shake my head furiously. “For someone who saved my life.”
He looks at me over the gift. “When did your life need saving?”
I’m quiet, but Father is insistent and soon I’m forcing the truth out. He spends most of my story squinting at Quin’s gift, jaw twitching. At the end, he lifts the carved wood with one hand and fiery magic plumes from his other—
I leap for the gift and he throws me a look that dares me to move.
“Don’t destroy it.”
Father’s expression softens. “I want to add power to it. The least I can do for saving my son’s life.”
My heart skips. “No. It’s my gift.”
He snaps his fingers and the plume fizzles. The gift falls into my palm.
“I’ll leave you then.”
He turns—
“Wait.”
He pauses, a large silhouette in the doorframe, moonlit purple sky framing him.
I swallow. “I don’t . . . understand. I have a legitimate chance to become a vitalian, and you’re unhappy. Angry, even.” I step towards him, squeezing Quin’s gift, and croak, “Why can’t you feel proud of me?”
He turns, and as he steps forward, I catch a tragic glint in his eye. His voice rumbles. “I’m ashamed.” He lets out an anguished breath. “When you strode back home, right to your mother’s side and healed her without a second’s hesitation . . . I wished that could have been me.”
Softly, I say, “It can be.”
His fists ball at his sides and loosen. “You think I’m cruel. Perhaps I am, but I want you all to live.”
“I understand—”
“You don’t!”
I stagger back as he takes a long breath.
“Do you remember the summer you ran away from Hinsard and came back here? You came into the household drowning under the weight of your grandfather’s books.”
I swallow. “You stayed behind with him, made us leave for Hinsard earlier than other years. I only figured out he was sick when I was with Veronica. I brought books from his cabin in case he needed me to treat him. I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Those books would not have helped.”
“They might have.”
“He wasn’t sick.”
“He was gone by the time I got here. If I’d been faster—”
“He was executed.”
I suck in a tight breath. “What?”
“For performing complex spells. I sent you away, but . . . I was made to watch.”
My heart races. “What? You told me he died in his sleep.”
“You were only nine. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Y-you could have told me later.”
“Every time I think of . . . I couldn’t. You have such fond memories of him.” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t.”
“Father . . .”
“You want so badly to be like him. And I’m afraid your fate will be the same.”
“Father, I have royal permission now,” I say softly. “You don’t have to fear for me.”
He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you’re set on this path . . . I want to help.”
I blink, unsure I’ve heard him right.
He clears his throat. “The way you pace yourself matters. Ten simplex spells can save more lives than one complex spell. Use your energy wisely.”
As he tells me things, the weight of what goes unspoken settles between us. I feel his mixture of sadness and resolve, and I hold Quin’s gift close as tenderness washes through me. Before Father leaves, I say quietly, “Could you show me Grandfather’s spells? The one he died for?”
He nods.
Akilah’s hug lingers, her warmth holding me steady as she steps back from the scholar prefecture’s towering gates. “You’ll do well,” she whispers, though her eyes flicker with worry.
Ahead, a snowy lawn stretches out, dissected by cleared walks and a canal winding its way beneath an ornate archway. It’s a smaller branch of the main waterway leading to the palace, though no less grand. Scholars bustle across the quad, some rowing through ice-kissed water with practised ease, others arriving in animated clusters, their breath puffing in laughter. The crunch of boots on snow, the sound of their familiarity. This is their world. Their domain.
A winter breeze tugs at my cloak. I pull up my hood.
Day one.
If I fail, there’s no second chance. No safety net.
I glance at the crowd gathering on the steps of the examination hall. Clutching my soldad—the gift of a chance to chase my dreams—I force myself to stride forward, though my stomach twists with nerves.
A voice, too close, drifts past.
“My brother has a par-linea friend. Apparently, they’re all lined up outside, hoping this half-blood interloper passes. Maybe one day they’ll get a chance.”
I’m not half-blooded. Not even a quarter. Just a mere one-eighth. Par-par-par-linea.
I wonder what they’d say if they knew.