Page 65 of The First Scar
I heard the screams first. Then the clash of steel. My mother's voice, desperate, calling a name I couldn't—
He was just twelve years old and already taller than our father. He'd sworn he would protect me. Sworn it on the old gods, on the roots of the prayer tree, on everything sacred and secret we'd shared.
The night before, we'd sat with our backs against the trunk, and he'd hummed the old lullaby—the one our mother sang when the dark pressed close. "But pain too vast will crack the glass, and love can break the brave." I'd fallen asleep to it. The last time I ever would.
I heard him call out. Once. And then silence.
And me—eight years old with my nails already bloody from clawing at the first soldier who'd grabbed for us. I would've fought them all. Would've torn their throats out with my teeth if my mother hadn't —
The river. Her hands on my chest. The shove.
She chose for me. Threw me into that black water like I was something to be saved instead of something that could fight. The cold hit first—so brutal it locked my lungs before the current dragged me under.
I was screaming his name when the river filled my mouth, grit and ice and the taste of silted rock, and the last thing I saw was her turning back toward the blades—not running. Never running. Walking into it like she'd already made peace with what it would cost.
She got to die protecting us. She got to choose that.
I got the river. And the silence after.
My knees hit the stone and a cry tore out of me. The Shadowmark surged in response—feeding on the shame, drinking the memory I had starved it of for years. It snapped awake with a dark, panicked power that shattered my control.
"I can't." The words scraped past my lips like broken glass. "Not like this. Not yet."
I stumbled backward. One step. Two. Dreadscale watched me go, his primeval eyes reflecting the one truth I couldn't bear to see.
Myself.
"I can do this on my own," I lied. "I just need more time. I can figure it out—"
I was already turning. Already fleeing.
I made it ten steps before my legs remembered how to run, and then I was gone—bolting through the tunnels, past rebels who flattened against the walls to let me pass, past torchlight and the echoing drip of water on stone.
I didn't know where I was going. Anywhere. Everywhere. Away from the corner where Dreadscale sat like a mirror I couldn't stop looking into.
I'd barely slept. Every time I shut my eyes, I was back in that frigid corner of the cavern. The door in my chest swinging open. The memories flooding up like black water, drowning me before I could—
I'd run. Like a coward. Like a child.
I can do this on my own.The lie I'd told him. The lie I was still telling myself.
So I'd tried. Before dawn, alone in the empty ring—Light first, then Shadow, the way Dreadscale showed me. Three attempts. Three times I slammed the door shut before my body learned to flinch faster than my mind.
I threw myself into drills instead. Thrust. Parry. Reset. The rhythm my body knew when my mind had nothing left to give.
The hours bled past. The cavern filled around me—bodies trickling in with the light, voices and boot-scuffs and the clank of gear replacing the silence I'd been hiding in.
Serenya slipped in with the rest. She didn't interrupt—just caught my eye, held up an apple like a peace offering, and settled on a crate near the wall. She set a second apple beside her anddrew her ceremonial blade across her lap, working the edge with a cloth in long, unhurried strokes.
"Well, well." Maxx sauntered into the training room, twirling a practice sword between his fingers like a bored musician with a drumstick. "The Flameheart is still smoldering. How delightful."
"I'm not in the mood."
"You're never in the mood. That's what makes this fun." He stepped into the ring, that infuriating smirk already in place. "Drills are good for building muscle. But muscle won't save you when someone's messing with your head." The weapon stopped twirling. His eyes sharpened. "That's my department."
The air in front of merippled. A wall of fire erupted between us—roaring, crackling, heat searing my face. I stumbled back, steel coming up, every instinct screamingthreat threat threat—
The flames vanished. Maxx stood exactly where he'd been, grinning.
