It’s always the same. Just ash, where the flame once lived. In the darkness, my mind wanders.
It replays my worst moments, and that, truly, is the torture. Not the darkness. Everything that rises up because of it.
The attendant, Albert. I knew him for years. He was always kind to me and Enya. He would find us playing in parts of the castle we weren’t allowed in, and he never told my father. He just smiled and let us be.
And I killed him.
The shock of the day and the ones that followed had me burying those memories, those moments, but they rise to the surface now.
My parents and Enya’s mother were out of the castle, attending some important event in the agora. Egan was invited, of course.
I was left behind. My father didn’t even look at me as he strode past, hand on Egan’s shoulder. Like I was not even worthy of a second of his notice.
Enya found me in the armory. Smashing my father’s suit of armor against the ground, piece by piece. Beating it with every weapon I could find. Swords. Axes. Maces.
I’d never done anything like that before, but this emotion, this hurt, this fury was blinding. I had buried it all down, and now ... now it was a tidal wave, surging.
“Why so angry, Oro?” Enya casually asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
My teeth gritted. “I’m not.”
Bitterness.
She just laughed. “Oh, you’re right. What a wrong assumption to make, as you take an ax to your father’s famous armor.” It is famous. Famous for being unmarked, since he hasn’t lost a battle in decades. Some might say it’s because he avoids facing his greatest opponents. She pursed her lips. “You’re going to get in trouble.”
Of course I was. That thought wasn’t enough to make me stop. So, I kept going.
Finally, Enya asked, “Can I help?”
She’s watched my father treat me like dirt our entire lives. I felt the heat of her anger as she joined me. As we both beat our weapons against the gold until the smooth, spotless metal was scratched, marred, and dented all over. A smile crawled across my face, seeing the result of our work.
It only took moments for it to wither. For that anger to dissipate. For it all to be replaced by guilt and fear.
Not fear for myself. For Enya. Had anyone seen her come down to the armory? Would she be cast from the castle?
Fear for my mother. Would she be blamed for my insolence?
I shouldn’t have done this. This rage—this anger ... look what it caused.
“Go,” I told Enya. “Go now, before someone sees you down here.” How long would it take the attendants to come investigate the sounds someone must have heard?
“No. I’m not leaving you,” she said. And the conviction in her eyes had mine burning.
Everyone else might have left you here, but I never will, that look said.I will never leave you. You are not alone.
It was that look—that loyalty—that had me pressing my hand against the metal and unleashing a skill I had discovered in pieces. One that I wasn’t sure was real until the gold poured from my fingers.
One by one, every scratch was covered by a new wave of sparkling gold. Every dent was mended. Enya watched, mouth parted, as I gilded the entire set of armor, piece by piece, until it was glowing and spotless.
Only when I was done did she say, in a whisper, “Nice trick.”
I smiled up at her. She smiled back.
Then, of course, she got to her feet, grabbed a sword, and said, “Now that we know you can fix anything we break, let’s have some fun.” She threw another blade at me.
We ran through the halls of the armory, dueling, laughing, playing. Hiding behind ancient suits of armor. Brandishing swords my father would have never let me touch. Clashing them together, then switching rooms and weapons.
“Here, make this gold,” Enya said, as we passed rows and rows of priceless relics. She threw a chalice behind her.
