Page 80 of Interion

“I'm fine, I'm coming out now.”

“The food is almost ready,” he called, walking away.

I brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, and tied my hair in a loose braid to tame the messy strands. I quickly chose a simple blue dress and made a mental note to get to the pharmacy as soon as possible—I hadn't started bleeding yet, but I knew I would soon and needed to buy pads.

I went downstairs following the smell of food. Not just any food, but the rich, enticing aroma of a fresh batch of cheese bread. I was like a fish being reeled in by my stomach, practically running toward the kitchen. Zion was at the stove, removing a baking sheet from the oven. He was wearing my pink unicorn apron, the ties in back shaped like a white tail. I held back my laughter as I approached. He didn't turn toward me, and I wasn't sure what to say.

“Take the medicine on the table,” he said, breaking the silence. “I just need to cut the fruit and make the omelet you like.”

On the glass tabletop sat a white capsule and a glass of water he'd left beside it. I swallowed it without complaining—it was a strong painkiller for hangovers.

“Thank you,” I said awkwardly as he set out the plates and silverware. “I can make the omelet, to speed things up.”

He gave me a serious look and raised an eyebrow as if considering what to say, but simply stayed quiet, working at the table.

I opened the refrigerator and took out eggs and milk to make an omelet. Since he didn't seem interested in talking, I stayed silent too while I cooked and he kept busy cutting fruit. Sometimes I glanced sideways at him and caught him looking back. Unlike me, Zion didn't look away—he just kept staring openly.

“So,” I began, tired of the awkward exchange of glances, “is the truce still on, or can we start tearing into each other?”

“Tearing into each other?” He frowned.

“I forget you’re old and not used to current slang. It means fighting, sending death images into your partner’s mind, lying about important things, running away, making the other person feel like shi...”

“Okay! I get it, Kyller,” he grumbled, cutting an apple with more force than necessary. “I can keep the truce going until your period ends, but I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand how this works. Usually both people need to cooperate for it to succeed.”

I bit my lower lip to keep from saying anything confrontational as I slid the omelet onto the plate. He kept staring at me and I pretended not to notice. When I finished with the eggs, I leaned against the counter and watched him work on the fruit. He seemed meticulous with his cuts.

“Is the pain better?” he asked, pointing at my abdomen.

“Yes, barely noticeable now. I’m just really hungry.”

“Go sit down. I’ll bring the food—it’s almost ready.”

I did as he asked. However, I heard a beep and my phone vibrated in my dress pocket. I grabbed it anxiously, thinking it was a message from Breno, but was disappointed to see it was the academy’s message icon, so I opened it.

Dear students,

This message is to inform you that next Tuesday we will conduct the Sonar test. Therefore, all activities until then will be canceled. To avoid distortion of results, we ask that you:

* Do not use your gifts for at least one day beforehand.

* Be well-rested.

* Avoid activities requiring significant physical effort.

We look forward to seeing you all at the academy.

Sincerely, the Administration.

My heart pounded with anxious excitement. The sonar test evaluated the level of our gifts. When a fae was born, their level was measured and converted into a number, but throughout life, this number increased as the gift was developed. Between the ages of 21 and 25, power growth plateaued, which was why the military academy operated until that age and conducted tests in the final semester. This score was the second most important at the academy since it went directly onto our résumés, and when employers looked for new hires, gift level was something that caught their attention—after all, it showed how strong our power was.

For women, this milestone was marked by menstruation. From now on, my level wouldn’t increase, just as my physical aging would decelerate. For men, it was more subtle and less painful; they simply stayed bedridden for three days, and when they woke up, they knew they had plateaued. Breno’s milestone had happened last year, and I spent three days sending silly messages so that when he woke up, he’d see that I’d missed him.

At the academy, the largest gift increase on record belonged to an electrokinetic. He had been born at level 600, and when he took the test at 24, he rose to 900—an increase of 300. Before, he could manipulate external electrical energy and create small lightning bolts in his hand. After his level increased, he could also generate lightning from his own body’s energy and launch it over long distances.

Serguei, the king’s psychic, still held the highest record within the walls. Like me, he was a descendant and had been born at level 1,000, but throughout his life, his power increased to 1,300. Because of him, the comparison chart, which only went up to 1,000, had to be reconsidered, and when someone surpassed that number, they were called “special.” There were other specials among the king’s inner circle, which included two more members, but no one knew their exact levels. All we knew was that they had passed 1,000 and that Serguei was the most powerful.

Thinking about this reminded me of Zion; no one had been able to tell me his level in all the years I’d spent searching for information. He didn’t even have a file at the hospital for me to uncover his past. Excited, I glanced in his direction and caught him and the shadows peeking at my phone screen. Both quickly pretended they hadn’t been looking.