Page 5 of A Broken Ember
“And how is your friend?” she asked as she sipped the hot honeyed lemon water. I flinched, but Ercan held her eye, his purple irises not showing the sadness I knew he felt.
“De Vita has blessed her with another day, thank you.” He gave her a weak smile that said more than what he spoke. Mother hummed but shot another pointed glare at me. I rolled my eyes and scooped up some of the eggs to appease her. My stomach vocalized its gratitude, to which she lifted an eyebrow as if to say, See? I gave her a small smile in acquiescence.
“Enid is strong; she will pull through,” Mother observed, but I wasn’t sure anyone at the table believed her. She suffered, her cries akin to a prisoner fighting against the chains which bound them. Every day we prolonged it with our tinctures and tonics while Father could heal her entirely if he spared the magic. He didn't, despite my pleas.
We sat silently, eating our breakfast. The morning light brought in the heat from the Sand Eye along with the smell of strong spice. I forced the food down despite the taste of ashes in my mouth. When I had eaten enough to not raise questions from anyone, I pushed to my feet. Ercan immediately appeared at my side to help me with whatever I needed. I waved him off. “Finish eating, Ercan. I can dress myself.” He gave me an uncertain look, coaxing me to nudge him back toward his plate.
“Your father is expecting you on the platform, Anatasius,” my mother said as I searched my closet for comfortable clothing. I mumbled a curse under my breath. “He wants you to make your Selection.” I knew this. It was all we talked about. Well, that and Hen, whom he only ever referred to as the witch. As if that was all she amounted to—the power she had offered him. I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a long breath. “He just wants what is best for you.”
I snorted, picked out a light tunic the color of wet sand, and pulled it over my scarred chest. “If he wanted what is best for me, he would stop pestering me about this!” I shot back.
“Prince Anastasius,” she warned. “You know he is doing everything he can to accommodate you. You may Select a draconis of whichever sex pleases you.”
I huffed. As if sex were the only thing that mattered for attraction. If that were the case, I would have Selected Rohit a long time ago and been done with it, but we weren’t attracted to each other that way. While he was beautiful to look at with his angular jaw bone, chiseled frame, and short, flaming hair, he was more of a brother to me than anything.
“I know,” I replied. I sheathed a dagger and sword in the belt around my waist. “Was there anything else, or may I go?” I asked in a clipped tone. My hair wasn’t yet braided, but there was no time. Father would be angry if I kept him waiting. I walked out into the sun on the large balcony of my room.
“Your father has Selected the three maidens for the Choosing. His patience will not last much longer, Anastasius,” Mother warned. I held her eye before nodding curtly. There needed to be four, the last one of my heart’s choosing.
Ercan stood, head bowed low with respect I didn’t deserve.
I inhaled the healing scent of the Sand Eye’s spice before shifting. My transition into draconis was painless despite the reforming of my bones and complete removal of everything human from my form. My size grew substantially within an instant, but the balcony was long enough to accommodate me and there was no roof to limit height. I dove off the edge, letting the wind catch my wings and bring me up to the top of the mesa which was our home—where Father awaited me.
“Again!” Father called, urging me to pick up my sword. Sweat poured down my brow, and I was grateful for the thin tunic I wore. I preferred light clothing over the favored heavier armor. Pain was elusive to me, and many discomforts were slipping away, too. I wished they wouldn’t. The heat of the Sand Eye used to be unpleasant for me, but now I could dress in the heaviest armor and feel no such discomfort. The tunic allowed for easier mobility, though, which I used to my advantage. I was fast and nimble on my feet, making up for my lack of brute strength. Still, my father frequently overpowered me. He was built like our mesa—a rock, carved to perfection. His body bore scars but not near as many as mine. For every one of his, I had four. I wore my scars like armor. Most were from the progressive curse I was born into. I felt none of them anymore. Couldn’t remember what pain felt like.
I picked up the sword, which lie on the rocky surface of the top of the mesa. We ignored the draconis that had gathered to watch their De Vita fight the prince. Although we frequently sparred for practice, it always drew a crowd.
He let me make the first move again. I lunged for him, aiming low with my sword, while keeping my dagger close to my chest. He parried my attack easily, knocking me backwards. I regained my footing instantly, not granting him a moment of vulnerability. When he attacked, I was ready for it. Neither of us made any headway for several minutes, but both of our chests heaved as we panted. That was the only tangible sign of my body’s fatigue. Despite it, I could continue for ages.
I pressed forward with a series of blows, forcing him to go on the defensive. Again and again, I pushed, not relenting for a single moment. Neither of us took a chance to breathe. The way to end the fight was clear: In a way, I had an advantage, but I refused to use it. We both knew of its presence, but it came at a cost. I could fight longer than any other if I ignored my body's signs of exhaustion because I didn’t feel the primary consequence of pushing myself too far: pain. But if I abused the curse, I often suffered from festering wounds that sent me into a delirious sleep filled with fever dreams. Days, sometimes up to a quarter of a moon turn, I spent in bed when my father refused to heal me with magic. A lesson for my carelessness, he claimed. And before Hen arrived nearly a sun turn ago, everything had been even worse. I would spend many moon turns recovering from wounds and illnesses from any mistake. I couldn’t afford that. So, after an appropriate amount of time, I let him win. Submitted to my De Vita. Again.
I feigned a stumble, and the reaction was instant. His blade propped at my neck, I swallowed, dropping my sword in a sign of submission. My chest heaved, matching my father’s, but unlike him I felt none of the ache from our activity. I could have kept going, going, and going until my body collapsed from fatigue, crying for a relief I didn’t feel the need to give.
“You’ve failed again,” Odon grunted, plucking my weapon from where it was wedged in the rock.
“Yes,” I murmured. I kept my head held high. He wouldn’t shame me for refusing to use the curse to win. He claimed it was a gift I should be grateful for. And yet, every time I fell to the power of the curse, with a wound becoming infected or an incessant, putrid cough muddying my lungs, I didn’t feel gratitude. Only anger.
“The Circulus will not be so merciful,” he spat, his hatred plain on his face. His eyes were alight with a passion we didn’t share.
Every one of his enemies received the same treatment—a brutal practice of removing their wings. An open-eyed nightmare performed its haunting dance in my memories as I recalled the first and last time I had fought for a draconis’ wings. Ercan’s wings were only broken, but I would never forget the crunch of bone beneath my hands as I crippled him. His cries of pain had crafted a crater within my heart that would never heal. I closed my eyes, wishing the memory away, but I couldn’t brush away the words he had said as his wings shattered in my fists. My son, I forgive you. Do not let this mercy burden you. Ercan may have forgiven me, but I wasn’t that strong. I blinked, a strained breath forcing its way through my teeth.
“The Circulus have made no move to attack or recover their lost,'' I replied coolly. Ercan brought me a sleeve of water and a wet cloth, which I declined, not feeling the need to cleanse myself of perspiration or wet my dried throat. My father took the cloth and placed it against his forehead to relieve the discomfort from the sweat. In the past, the coolness of water had given me relief, but it was no longer needed. My gut twisted at the thought. The gift had been relentless in its progression. What if I lost all sensation, including pleasure? I shuddered at the thought that something I had taken for granted, something I hadn’t even shared with another, could be snatched away before I could fully appreciate its depths.
“Are you even listening to me?” My father’s rebuke jerked my attention back toward him. I blinked, helpless in the face of whatever questions he had asked of me.
“Apologies, Father. My mind is elsewhere.” I dipped my head in respect. He clucked his tongue.
“Hopefully considering who you would like to Select?” he prompted, and I nearly laughed at his attempts to pry an answer out of me. I shook my head. “I want an answer, son. If you do not make a selection before the Day of Breath, I will do so for you.” The Day of Breath was a celebration of life that occurred once every sun turn, and more importantly, was only a couple of moon turns away.
“But Father!” I protested, aware of how whiny my voice sounded even to my ear. He was being fair—-I knew that. I’d had many moon turns, more than usual because of the curse. But that excuse was stale. It was time for the Selection to take place, and it couldn’t without a draconis to represent my heart. I should be thrilled—I would finally get to break my chastity vow with whomever I Selected—and others after the Choosing—if I desired, but I didn’t crave sex like my father did. He took pleasure in males and females frequently, but I desired a more intimate relationship.
“As De Vita, I must see that tradition is upheld.” His tone was firm. I glared at him.
“You threaten my chance at happiness for convenience?” I growled, unsheathing my dagger. What I planned to do with it, I wasn’t certain. Father eyed my hands with a lazily raised eyebrow.
“Consider it motivation rather than a threat.” He shrugged before releasing his draconis form. I watched him take off into the sky with a deep scowl. There were many reasons I despised my father, and this was just one.
For a man who didn’t feel pain, being his son hurt like hell.