“Are you afraid of your mother?” I asked.
She practically barked in response. “This is what you want me to answer truthfully?”
“Yes.”
Her aura swirled around me, nothing but a heavy shadow as her eyes narrowed. “What you’re asking me, Tristan,” she said, her voice now hushed, “is treason. Go take your shower.”
But I stood there, watching her, my heart pounding. “You change,” I said quietly. “When you’re around her.”
“So do you,” she sneered. “Around your grandmother.”
“I know.”
“Then you have your answer.” Naria shook her head. “Don’t ever ask me that again. And don’t pretend you care about me when you don’t. I’m not stupid. I know what this is. And I’m choosing to meet it my way.”
“I …” I frowned, exhaling sharply. “I don’t want to see you hurt. And whether you believe me or not, I do care about you. Though you don’t make it easy.”
“Like I said. My choice. Are you satisfied? The Bastardmaker’s waiting for you.”
“I’ll abide by your wishes. I won’t ask you again,” I said, releasing her from my hold. “I’ll see you at the capital.”
“Whatever.” She tightened the ties of her robe, and opened the balcony door. It was still too cold outside, but the sun’s warmth had returned.
“If you ever do want to talk to me though,” I said. “I’m here.”
Naria slammed the door in response. I grabbed my towels and headed into the shower.
Once I got the water running, the temperature to where I liked it, I stepped under the spray, and closed my eyes, trying to understand again what the fuck was going on. I evenwashed my hair twice, just trying to prolong the inevitable. But just as I was about to turn off the warm water, the temperature dropped. My guts twisted as the shower began to pour ice cold water on me.
I screamed in shock, and then I was gone.
No! No!I was in the shower. I was in Cresthaven. I was Lord Tristan Grey. I was an adult. I was a mage. I was not a child. This wasn’t happening. And I wasn’t … I wasn’t …
I stared down at tiny hands. My hands, the way they used to look when I was a boy. I was painting. Every picture was the same. Every color of the rainbow. Just me splashing the colors all over the paper. Again and again. I had a gallery of rainbow paintings hanging from the walls of my bedroom.
“Tristan?” my father walked in, twirling his stave. “What are you painting now, buddy?”
“Colors,” I said, my voice young and small. “Just colors.”
He chuckled. “Which one is your favorite color?”
“I don’t know.” But the different colors seemed to fade, until only yellow remained. Maybe that was the answer.
But before I could tell my father, two swords appeared. They were floating in the middle of the room, then growing and expanding until they were too large to fit the space. They sliced, cutting through the walls. The Villa was falling apart before they cut through my father, through my pictures.
I reached for him, but my father was gone.
That’s when I remembered. He was dead. He’d been torn apart. My mother, too.
I was in a box. Completely dark. I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out. To escape.
Suddenly the lid opened and light flooded me. I looked up, blinking rapidly as my eyes adjusted. And I saw myself. I was an adult, the same age I was now. And I was fuming, my neck turning red, something violent and angry firing through my aura.
I blinked again, and then I was myself, I was Tristan. I was standing outside the box. But as I looked inside I could see, it wasn’t me as a child who’d been trapped in there.
It was the vorakh. The mage who killed my parents.
She rose to her feet, laughing hysterically, long limbs climbing out.
