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All these years, I’ve done everything my father asked, everything I could to be the son he wanted. I told myself I could meet all his demands and still be myself. That I wasn’t him. That I would never be him.
But now, I wonder if I’m closer than I realized.
Who is this girl who makes me question everything I thought I knew? Who is she to treat my family status as something to be ashamed of? She knows nothing. Sheisnothing.
My lungs are on fire, but I refuse to let instinct take over. I consider how the pain laces out from my core like plant roots, forcing my entire body to convulse for air. When black begins to grip my vision, the reflex grows too much to fight. I drag in lungful after lungful of ash-scented oxygen.
I am no more capable of changing myself than I am to keep my body from breathing. Maybe there’s a part of me that will always thrill to be cruel.
More shouts echo from outside, followed by the tromping of feet. The door flings open. Ketra tumbles in, catching herself on the doorframe. Out of breath, hair disheveled. People race down the street behind her. It takes a moment for the adrenaline to clear her eyes and confusion to take its place.
“What are you doing here?”
My fists unfurl as I cast around for an answer. “I needed a place to have a conversation.”
She makes a face, still holding the doorpost like it’s the only solid thing in the room. “And you thought my home would be the appropriate place for this?”
When I say nothing, she clicks her tongue. Her eyebrows raise, and she closes her eyes, touching a hand to her forehead.
“By all means, do what you want,” she sighs, dropping her hand as she closes the door and gestures at the room. “Take what you want. I’m at your disposal.” The disdain is slick in her voice.
The tone grates on me, makes me want to respond in kind. “I’m doing as you do, Ketra. You always manage to get your way, no matter what it costs.”
For a moment, her face blanches, but color quickly returns. She comes right under my nose and scrutinizes my face with her arms folded.
“Was it a nice conversation, then?” She tilts her head. An eyebrow arcs in derision. “Catching up with your invisible friend?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her,” I say, unruffled.
Ketra’s eyelids flutter. Her nostrils flare slightly with a sharp intake of air. I’ve succeeded at inflicting pain, but it doesn’t sit right. Why is it so easy to lash out at her now, when we only ever shared amity before? I’m so tired of it.
I exhale and pace toward the entrance, running my fingers through my hair. “I’ll get out of your way now.”
“Don’t do that.”
My hand on the doorknob, I peer at her over my shoulder, waiting for an explanation.
In the homey kitchen, Ketra is an odd sight. Nothing about her dress and demeanor could ever recommend her to domestic life. The herbs hanging over the scene are almost certainly the work of the aging aunt who is, no doubt, tucked neatly into her bed on the upper level of the apartment, completely unaware of all that happens below. The aunt that indulges every simpering word with an adoring smile and a pouch full of arlum.
Ketra pulls her cashmere shawl close around her, mouth working at the bottom lip. I’m sure she’d rather do anything than help me out at this moment. A breath heaves her shoulders, and she gives in.
“Your father has called a gathering at the Reckoning Grounds.”
That makes me stand to attention. I let go of the handle. “What for?”
A reluctant grin dimples her cheeks.
“Another Hunt.”
The desperation in the air is palpable. It takes a great deal of effort to navigate the city streets when no one seems to have a care for anyone around them. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a frenzy before.
When I make it out, I find a weak circle of light at the north side of the ceremonial grounds. The Foremost perches on the back of a wagon wheeled to the tree line for the purpose. A select few men closest to him—his thugs—carry lanterns to illuminate him as much as possible. I approach the scene hesitantly, unwilling to be associated with them. Father nods approvingly at my presence and returns his attention to the scene unfolding before him.
People arrive from all directions, trickling out of the streets of Utsanek as if it is a dam on the verge of collapse. My father towers over it all, arms crossed. The tattoos ringing his bicep twitch when they flex. He is not a patient man, but he waits with remarkable calm. As the crowd thickens before him, his men step closer. They form an impassable wall of muscle, holding back a city at its boiling point.
A wiry man with a tunic in tatters approaches the Foremost, a manic expression dancing in his face. “Where is the beast? Let us have it.”
“You can’t keep it for yourself,” another chimes in, joining his comrade. All within earshot shout in agreement. I look at my father. He needs to get this under control quickly.
