“Of course the libraries are empty. Hyrall would never willingly share information about Torhiel.”
Leya’s nose twitched. “So I’ve found out. If the library can’t help, I have to turn to you.”
“What could I possibly offer?”
“You know as well as I do that I can’t talk to anyone else about this,” Leya said, voice lowering. “I’ve never left this kingdom. Hyrall is all I’ve ever known. But you’re an outsider. You’ve seen life beyond these walls. You have devil blood in your veins.”
“For the gods’ sake,” I sighed, “my town is called Brier Len. I’m skirtsfolk, not a devil-worshiper. Since I arrived, you’ve done nothing but make my life miserable. And now you’ve come seeking my help. Why should I give it?”
“Because—” Leya started.
“It’s irrelevant.” I cut her off. “Truly, I don’t care how your journey to Torhiel goes. But I imagine you’ll make the most of reacquainting yourself with the prince.”
With that, I turned and left.
7
When I was younger,my anger was so overwhelming at times that I may have seemed more monster than mortal.
That anger never left me, it only deepened with time. When the skirtsfolk took notice, they began to question whether it might be the work of devilry.
My mother denied any claims of madness or witchcraft, but I knew there was something dark inside me. It wasn’t just passing anger, it was deep, twisted, and rooted in my very being. It took me years to understand that this fury was a part of me, as necessary as blood to my heart or air to my lungs.
Child of pain, woman of wrath.
I was only twelve when I first witnessed my father try to kill my mother.
I was wandering through the woods of Brier Len, my imagination leading each of my steps. With a crown of conifer branches upon my head, the slender trees and woodland creatures became my subjects, and I, their beloved queen. Chimes of ruling my fantasy kingdom passed,but hunger finally nudged me back to reality, and I set out to return home.
I jumped over stones and roots, making my way back to the rundown cottage I called home. It was the peak of summer and the air was hot and heavy. Sweat soaked my dress and stuck to my skin, but I couldn’t help smiling.
Just as I rounded the bushes marking the end of my walk, my smile faded at the sound of my mother’s cry coming from inside. I ran to the back door, bursting through to find her lying on the floor with Father standing over her.
He was ranting, incoherent and staggering, his voice a guttural snarl of broken words. My heart stopped as I watched my mother cower in a corner, trying to protect herself. In an instant, my father’s hand struck her across the cheek. My mother’s cry rang out again. I held my breath, my lungs aching as I fought to stay silent. Father raised another fist and brought it down on her back. She gasped and braced herself, her eyes widening in shock when she saw me standing at the back door.
Her eyes seemed to say one thing: Hide.
I bolted through the back door, sprinting for the side window.
From the pane, I watched helplessly as my mother tried to reason with him, her voice strained and trembling. But my father only sneered, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her toward the kitchen.
He hurled her against the supper table. The force toppled it with a crash, and she hit the floor with a sickening thud, lying still among the broken legs and scattered plates.
A scream tore from my throat. I clamped my hands over my mouth.
My father’s head snapped toward the sound. His eyes met the window, and I ducked, my back slamming against the outer wall. Inside, pots clattered and something heavy shattered.
Then I heard the door burst open.
His boots pounded the porch as he stumbled into the yard, his breath ragged, curses flying. I crouched low in the underbrush, heartthundering in my ears, barely daring to breathe as he staggered past, eyes wild. When he couldn’t find me, he started hurling bottles at the cottage, glass exploding against wood and stone.
I stayed curled in the brush until the only thing I could hear was the soft crackle of broken glass cooling in the dirt.
After the last bottle shattered, I saw that my father’s anger hadn’t faded, his eyes were still cold. He stilled when he saw the ax lodged in the firewood log. A wave of fear washed over me as he grabbed the handle and yanked it free. The wood splintered violently as the ax came loose, and as it swung from his right hand, he turned back toward the house.
Time seemed to slow as I watched him march to the door. My legs begged me to run, to vanish into the trees, but the image of my mother lying on the floor held me there. The memory filled me with a rage so intense it fogged my mind. With my father already inside, it was only a matter of time before his violence would start again.
A sharp, painful sound rang in my ears, causing me to drop to my knees, hands clutching my head. Something hidden deep within my mind suddenly surfaced, as though it had just woken. Fear hit me, but it faded quickly. Darkness clouded me and I felt my body move while my mind struggled to keep up. My vision turned black and what remained of me was a storm of emotions.
