Page 11 of A Rising Hope

“You are okay,” my cool voice soothed him. His entire body cramped, twisting his bones as if in some evil spell. “Here,” I called on his Destroyer fire, easing his pain as his powers, restricted since childhood, tore cruelly through him. He cried out once more before losing consciousness, his body becoming limp again.

“I fucking hate all of this,” Zora spat. His scream still rang in our ears as she bent over him, rapidly stitching his back. Grinding her teeth, she pushed the curved thin needle into him, cursing as it slipped from her bloodied fingers. “I swear to gods, Gideon, if this kid doesn’t make it, I will hate you for the rest of your miserable life.”

My pull on the boy’s powers held steady, calming his raging fire, and though my face was calm with just a hint of boredom, I was intrigued by the steady powerful protest of the newly freed powers as they fought against my restraint.

“Who is he?” Zora’s eyes narrowed on me finishing the last of the stitches.

“A stray I came across.”

“A strayDestroyerkid, with Basalt Glass buried deep near his heart, somehow magically rescued by you?” Her accusatory tone was not lost on me. I leaned back in my chair, meeting her daring glare, both of us aware of my blatant lie.

“Would you rather that I ditched him where I found him?” I severed the tense silence a moment later.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Zora took a long breath, letting it out slowly, as she contemplated how much she wanted to argue. Her steady hand paused, holding the needle and thread above the deep wound for a moment. She shook her head, silently having a conversation before switching her focus from the boy to me.

“Did you at least find what you were looking for?” she asked, her head motioning me to light the fire brighter. With a blink of my eye, a little fire sphere appeared, floating in the air right next to her hand as she added a few more stitches.

“Somewhat.” I scoffed at the minor findings I managed to discover on my trip to the Svitar Slums. The stale smell of moldy walls and old fabric that seeped through every room in the old orphanage was still buried deep in my lungs.

“So, she did have a sister?” Zora gave me a probing glance, before returning her eyes to the body, carefully examining her patchwork and the boy for any other wounds.

“Yes.”

“A Seer?”

“No, a Creator.”

“Hmm . . . ” Zora motioned with her chin to a deep bowl and a fresh towel in it. I stood up, walking towards the tall credenza. With a blink of an eye, I warmed the clean water in thecrystal pitcher before filling the bowl and passing it off to Zora. She dampened the towel, gently patting his back, washing him of the blood. Thunder roared through the city, lighting up the slumbering streets as Zora carefully wrapped the boy’s body in layers of bandages.

Finished with her work, she finally took a step back from the table where he rested, wiping her hands on the back of her pants. “Is he still fighting it?” Her brows furrowed as she watched the boy’s body shudder in small waves.

“Surprisingly, yes,” I replied, not easing my hold on his powers. “How was your visit?” I asked, aware of my cousin’s spoiled mood. Her frown turned bitter at the question.

“Oh, the usual. He refused to see me, blaming me for everything, and still thinks I am the bane of his existence,” Zora mumbled, but before I could reply, she quickly changed the subject. “Let’s move him,” she ordered. I picked the boy up, carrying the long, slender figure toward the leather-bound chaise in the adjoining study. Zora ran ahead of me into the room, fluffing up the burgundy velvet pillows with yellow tassels on them. She stepped aside, allowing me to put his shaking body down, carefully tucking in a few knitted blankets over him. We kept the oil lamps odd, letting the subtle light fall into the room from the open door.

Zora’s eyes were dull as she stared at the boy, lost in her thoughts. The wild fall wind wailed in the chimney. I lit the old fireplace with a gentle, small fire, letting the fire warm up the chilly room. “I thought he’d be proud, you know, his daughter, finally a commander. He was a commander too.”

I opened my mouth to say something. Her forehead wrinkled, and she folded her arms.

“I know it was stupid to think that. I knew that then. I know that now. But . . . I just hoped he would be . . . against any reason.” Her voice cracked, and her nails dug into her palmsas she clenched her fists tighter. She looked away from the trembling body of the boy, her heavy glance reflecting the soft glow of the quietly crackling flames.

“Zora, he?—”

“Why did we get such shitty fathers?” she interrupted, swallowing hard.

“Well, for me”—I motioned up and down my body, taking a seat on a puffed armchair next to the old fireplace, welcoming the heat for my cold and soaked body—“you see, this kind of beauty comes with a price. I guess a shitty dad was expected. Otherwise I’d be perfect. For you, on the other hand . . . ” I sent her a teasing look, then stretched my legs and folded my hands on my stomach.

“Oh, screw you.” She flipped me off, but her thin lips twitched with a hint of a smile, easing my distraught heart. “I will admit, seeing his servants grimace when I said your name was satisfying.” She took a seat near me in the matching regal chair.

“See, how could you miss out on that?” My lips stretched out in a half smile, both of us fighting to keep the grief at bay. Fighting and failing. Zora rested her elbows on the sides, her sorrowful eyes drawn to the flames. The silence felt dense and deep, and easy words were buried under heavy thoughts.

“I am going to take a bath,” Zora managed to say after a while. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of the hearth. “Try to keep him alive while I am gone,” she ordered in her commanding voice. A loud, tired yawn escaped her mouth as she disappeared up the curved stairs to her room.

I stayed awake, watching the sizzling fire. The storm outside finally quieted. Now only tiny drops lingered on the fogged windows, opening to the dark streets beyond. The sound of rushing water rumbled through the old copper pipes of my townhome. Once I was sure she was gone, I pulled out an oldstained and now wet envelope with a broken seal. I had already read its contents multiple times, yet my eyes scanned those few sentences again and again. Even with the ruined ink, the letters were imprinted in my mind. My thoughts drifted to the darkest corners, and I threw the letter into the fire, watching the only proof of my bloodline burn.

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