"You're a drunken failure, that's what you are!" "And you're a woman who burns through our money like it's scrap paper!"
The screams pierce through the ceiling, drifting down like fine dust. I stare at the raw concrete walls of my room—or rather, my basement. My back throbs. The air mattress has leaked again, leaving me practically pressed against the hard floor. I don't need the old alarm clock I found in the attic. My parents' hatred is more reliable than any clockwork.
I stand up. It's actually fine down here. The space is larger than Victoria's room upstairs. She's my half-sister, but I don't care; I treat her like she's mine. I think briefly of my older sister. She vanished after the divorce—then completely after Mom died.
I creep up the basement stairs. The kitchen is a battlefield of unwashed dishes and cigarette smoke. As I reach for a slice of toast, the door slams open. Charlotte. Her eyes are bloodshot.
"What are you doing here?!" she shrieks.
I lift the slice of bread. "Eating."
SMACK.
She slaps the bread out of my hand. It lands in the dirt. "You think you've earned that?" she hisses. She grabs my wrist, her fingernails digging into my skin. "You're eating us out of house and home. You do nothing for this family!"
"That's not tr—"
She squeezes. In her other hand, a cigarette glows. The red ember inches toward the back of my hand. "I'll show you what real pain feels like, you little parasite." I don't flinch. I just stare at the glow.
The door bangs again. My father staggers in. "I wasn't finished with you!" he roars at Charlotte. She drops me like I'm trash. They turn on each other, spitting words like venom. I stop existing to them. I lean down, pick up the dirty bread, and sit at the table.
"Mommy? Daddy?" A quiet voice at the door. Victoria. She's rubbing her eyes, her teddy bear dragging across the floor.
Instant silence. My parents' faces smooth over. "Oh, it's nothing, sweetheart," Charlotte says. "Everything's fine, princess," my father grunts. "You still have an hour. Go back to sleep."
"Okay," she chirps and trots away.
Charlotte turns back to me, the sweetness evaporated. "Jordan is awake," she tells my father with disgust. He looks at me like I'm a stain on the wall. "What are you doing here? It's bedtime."
"I couldn't sleep. I'd have to get up in an hour anyway."
"I don't care," he barks. "Get to your room!"
I run back to the basement, get dressed, grab my battered backpack, and slip out the back door. I hop the garden fence and head for school. It's far too early, but they won't notice I'm gone. The school opens an hour before classes start—a fact I know well because I do this often.
I head straight for the library, the only place where things are quiet. I pull a book from the shelf: The Lonely Hero. It's about a boy who dies and is reborn in a world where his family actually loves him. I've read it twice already.
Maybe my wish will come true one day, I think. To be reborn among people who value me.
THUD.
A heavy blow strikes the back of my head. My face slams against the table, and everything goes dark for a second. "Haha! Bullseye, Brad!"
I struggle to sit up, my vision slowly clearing. Brad and his three gorillas are standing there. Brad is massive for his age—a mountain of muscle with zero brain.
"Here already, Jordan?" Brad grins, stepping closer. "The school is empty. We can do whatever we want. No one's going to snitch." He grabs me by the collar and hoists me out of my chair. "Understand, Jordan? You can't run to the teachers this time."
I take a shaky breath. "I don't have to," I say weakly, nodding toward the ceiling. "There are cameras everywhere. They'll tell the truth."
Brad freezes, looking around frantically. "Dammit... there really is one," he whispers. "Shit." He drops me, shoved hard against the floor. "Let's get out of here, guys."
They leave. I stay in the dust, staring at the book they threw at me. A wave of hot, boiling rage rises in my chest. I grip the book like a weapon. I want to stand up. I want to cave his skull in.
No, I can't do that, I think. It isn't right.
OH YES, YOU CAN.
The voice is loud, right in my ear. I flinch. "Who was that?" I turn around. Nothing. The library is empty. Brad stops at the exit and looks back, annoyed. "What are you staring at, psycho?"
I say nothing, but the air around me begins to shimmer.
I KNOW YOU WANT TO. The voice isn't mine. It's malicious, manipulative, tempting. No...KILL HIM.
The command echoes in my head like a hammer on a bell. I press my hands against my ears. "No... no!"
Brad laughs. "Dude, what is your problem?"
The volume in my head cranks up. I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN.
I stare at him with cold eyes. "What did you just say?" "Huh? I asked what your problem is," he says, confused. "Liar," I say. "You said it. The words Charlotte always says. The words my father thinks."
One of Brad's friends pulls at his sleeve. "Dude, let's go. This guy is losing it." They turn to leave.
HE WISHED YOU WERE DEAD. The voice is screaming now. ARE YOU JUST GOING TOTAKE THAT? This time, the scream doesn't hurt. It feels warm. Right. I'm on its side. KILL HIM.
Yes.
I charge. The book in my hand becomes a blade. I swing with everything I have, slamming the hard edge of the cover into the back of his head.
"AUUGHH!"
The world explodes into light. A weight presses against my chest. Someone is sitting on me.
"Wake up already!"
I snap my eyes open, my heart hammering against my ribs. There is no Brad. No library. Instead, I see a face with green eyes and a wide grin. Eamon. He's bouncing on my chest.
"Dammit, what are you doing?!" I yell, shoving him off. I'm gasping for air. My hands are still shaking from the strike in the dream.
Eamon lands perfectly on his feet. He's wearing training gear, a small wooden sword at his hip. "Training!" he shouts happily.
I exhale slowly and rub my face. Sweat is clinging to my forehead. "Fine," I mutter. "Go on ahead."
I pull on my boots and step out into the cool morning air. The training ground is already a battlefield. In the center stands Eamon. He is eight years old, but when he moves, you don't see a child. You see a whirlwind of violence.
His opponent is a grown guard—a massive man with broad shoulders and a practice sword as big as Eamon himself. The guard swings. It's a heavy, sluggish strike. Eamon dives under it—fluid, like water.
CRACK.
His wooden sword strikes the man's hamstring. The guard's leg buckles, and he hits the dust, cursing loudly. Over the last four years, Eamon has turned the promise he made to Daemon into his only reality. He isn't a kid anymore; he's a weapon being sharpened every single day.
"For god's sake!" the guard roars from the ground, rubbing his leg. His face is red with shame. "Did I seriously just lose to an eight-year-old?"
"Haha! I told you, Gohan!" Two other guards are leaning against the fence. One grins and holds out his hand. "Pay up."
The other guard, Gohan, mumbles a curse and digs into his pocket. Coins jingle. "How the hell did you lose?" he grumbles, handing over ten bronze coins. "I bet everything on you knocking him flat."
"Well," the winner laughs, sliding the coins into his pouch. "Nobody beats the little Lord. I've made fifty coins this week. Every new guy thinks they can take him."
I step out of the shadows. "Oh, Prince Kael!" the winner stammers, nearly dropping his purse as he tries to salute. "I didn't see you—"
"So, you're making a fortune," I interrupt quietly, staring him down. "On my brother's sweat."
The color drains from his face. "My Lord... we... it was just a joke... we didn't mean—"
"Get out." It's an order that leaves no room for debate. The guards stumble over each other to get away, practically running.
"Hey!" Eamon jogs over, wooden sword held loosely. "Why are my friends running away?"
"Forget them," I say, turning to him. "But they were always so nice! They always wanted to train!" Because they were betting on you, you idiot, I think, but I keep it to myself. He doesn't need to know that kindness often has a price tag. "Let's just start," I say.
Eamon's face lights up, determination replacing the confusion. His eyes sharpen. "Finally."
We take our positions.
"Ready?" I ask. "Always," he replies.
Then he explodes. He charges with zero restraint. A strike from the left—I parry. A blow from the right—I dodge. A thrust from below—I spin away. He's fast. Much faster than the guard. He gives me no room to breathe.
"Not bad," I comment, blocking a strike aimed at my head. "But keep this up and you'll be out of energy in minutes." "Not before I hit you!" he pants.
Suddenly, he takes a step back, winds up, and throws his wooden sword. It rotates through the air, aimed straight at my face. I tilt my head a few centimeters to the side. The rush of air grazes my cheek. I don't let my gaze drift from him for a second.
Eamon uses the distraction. He's already in the air, launching a kick at my face. I catch his foot with an open palm. He doesn't care. He uses my arm as a brace, pushes off, and aims his other foot at my chin.
I lean back. His foot misses by a hair. He uses the momentum to spin out of my grip and lands gracefully on his feet.
"Dammit!" he yells, stomping his foot. "I thought you'd look away! Like the guard! I would've had you!"
I cross my arms. "Clever move," I admit. "But it only works on amateurs. A real warrior never takes his eyes off the enemy, no matter what's flying through the air. Remember: distraction is a weapon that backfires if the enemy is more disciplined than you."
Eamon frowns. "So the guard isn't a real fighter?" "He's young and inexperienced." "He's older than you!" Eamon protests. "Sure he is," I say calmly, picking up my sword again. "Let's keep go—"
"KAEL!"
Mother's voice rings across the yard. She's standing at the entrance, hands on her hips. "What are you doing out here already? You haven't even had breakfast! Inside. Now!"
Eamon giggles. "Yes, Mother!" I call back. I look at Eamon. "After breakfast. We'll keep going. I promise."
Eamon nods. "I'm going to get you, Kael. One day." "Maybe," I say as we walk toward the castle. "But not today."