They look so peaceful, so utterly content. Not like a couple who’s lost three of their children while living a life of forced poverty.
The moment she sees me, my mother’s fork falls from her hand, making a clickety-clack sound on the porcelain plate below.
My eyes drop to the carpet, but I know she’s already moving. The floorboards creak before the back of her hand gently strokes my cheek.
“Sera, what is it? What’s wrong?” She places her fingers beneath my chin, forcing me to look at her, and when I do, the tear I had forced away comes back with a vengeance.
She’s just so beautiful. So beautiful, so loving, so kind. There aren’t many similarities between the two of us. I have her darker skin tone, small frame, and brown hair, but that’s where the likeness ends.
The rest of me comes from my father. Strong nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, and dark eyes that nearly match my pupils incolor.
My mother looks just like Telfi. Telfi who I still miss so much. And now I’ll miss my mother just the same.
My father’s gaze locks on me as well. His brow furrows. I must look how I feel.
A mess.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, a violent sob erupts from somewhere deep inside me.
I don’t want to leave them.
I don’t want to.
My body feels heavy, and my mother clings to me as I drop to the ground. Both of my parents are at my side now, exchanging looks of concern.
I should show them. Show them what I am. Show them the danger that now exists for me in Village 28.
Holding out my hand, I try to replicate the emotions I felt earlier.
The heat and the rage.
Which isn’t very hard considering rage comes easy for me.
I focus all of my anger, all of my hatred of this dying world, of the royals and the Elites who never have to enter the trials, of the lack of food, lack of water, of the pain I see in my parents’ eyes when they think I’m not watching.
I focus all of it into my fingertips, and then they’re on fire.
Orange and red flames flicker out of my palm, crackling as they start to grow. I clench my hand into a fist, and they disappear. Gone in an instant, as if they were never even there to begin with. And if it wasn’t for the vicious ache in my arm, I’d think that maybe they weren’t.
I lift my gaze from my hand to my mother’s eyes. Then, my father’s.
But it’s not fear I see in them.
“Oh, Sera!” My mother opens her arms and squeezes me in a suffocating embrace. “Oh, Sera!” She starts to weep, but I know her tears aren’t rooted in sadness.
She sees this as a good thing.
She thinks it means I’ll survive the third trial.
That her remaining child will not die.
“This is wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” My father laughs, bringing his palm to his forehead, he shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. My child, my youngest.A Pyroflame.” But then he looks at me, really looks at me. His face now serious, the laughter gone. “But you aren’t happy about it, which means—”
“They saw me.” I finish for him, and he goes pale. “The others saw me. They’ll be coming for me soon.”
And with those words, my mother stands.
“Greerson, barricade the door,” she orders then moves to the small window, peering into the street three stories below. It’s already dark out, so I know she can’t see anything.
