Chapter 1
“David, what’s happening out there?” Mama’s voice wakes me up. It’s early morning and her tone indicates something is very wrong. I get out of bed and lean my ear against the wooden door.
“Cal-léa is being raided!” Papa says in a panicked, rushed tone. “We need to get Havanna to safety!”
The way he says it makes my breath shake.
Mama bursts into my room and scoops me in her arms with haste. “We have to get you out of here, Warrioress.”
“What’s going on?” I ask with genuine fear in my voice.
“Backers are looking for you,” she answers as she grabs something out of my nightstand and rushes into the living area. “We need to send you to a safe place to hide.”
“I don’t want to go!” I scream, holding onto Mama for dear life.
“I know, but you need to be safe.” I can hear the tears in her voice.
Dread and nausea course through my entire body. I need my parents. I don’t want to go anywhere without them. Who will I live with?
I don’t want to leave my best friends, Foss and Dahlia, either. I want to stay and play with them in the city square. I want them to come over and play hide-and-seek out in the street. I want to climb up the tree in our backyard and tell stories until the sun goes down.
All of that is slipping away from me.
Bolt, my Bennaru that has served our family for centuries, follows closely behind Papa in the form of a white mouse. Mama holds me as we rush outside the house into the cobblestone street, dimly lit with lanterns from the other homes. At the end of the street, the bright light of lit torches illuminates the street, signaling their approach.
“We have to hurry,” Mama says, panicking. She sets me to my feet and hugs me so tight I could burst. I don’t care, though. I need to hold onto her as long as I can.
“We will come for you,” Mama promises. “Bolt will take you to Ketra and we will meet you there, okay?”
My face covered in tears, I nod. I’ve never heard of Ketra, which makes me even more afraid of leaving. I’m only ten years old. I’m not ready to go to a strange place without my parents.
Papa then holds me tightly, his metal knight’s armor pinching my delicate skin with his squeeze. I don’t care. He’s comforting me and I don’t want to leave him.
“We love you, Warrioress.” He kisses me on the head. “We will find you. I promise.”
Mama gives me one last hug, sobbing with all her might into my shoulder. Papa hugs me too, body shaking.
“Kora, they’re coming,” Papa warns her, grabbing her shoulder. “I have to ward them off.”
Papa unsheathes the sword he carries on his back and charges down the cobblestone street toward the chaos, his armor clamoring together as he picks up speed. The Backers are nearby with the glow of their torches reflected on the ground and shining through the darkness of night. This town, with only a couple thousand people, doesn’t take up a lot of space. Whatever damage occurs will appear as if it took up the entire area.
From a three-story stone building a few blocks away, smoke rises to the sky and fills my nostrils. The echoes of people screaming in terror and crackling noise of burning wood will no doubt be ingrained in my mind in the days to come. The clashing sounds of sword fighting is one I recognize very well, but it scares me to think that people are fighting for their lives and may end up losing them.
This is Cal-léa, the most peaceful place there is. Fights don’t ever happen. The word “fight” is never spoken.
Bolt’s mouse legs grow and extend into horse legs in jerky movements, hooves popping out at the end as he comes to standing, while his body balloons as if bulbous bumps are finding room under his skin to create a muscled torso and chest that is well-known on horses. Hair sprouts on his tail and his mane in one full burst. Mama picks me up and sets me on his back, but does so in a way that makes me think she will pull me back down on the ground and change her mind. But then I feel Bolt’s strong spine and mane on my face and I know I’m really leaving. My crying fits don’t change Mama’s mind.
“Take her to Ketra,” she tells Bolt. She then hands me a couple pieces of brownish parchment paper, one of which I’m guessing is the poem from my nightstand. “Don’t ever, ever lose these,” she commands. I put them in the pocket of my soft nightgown.
“I don’t want to go,” I cry.
“You have to,” Mama sobs. “I’m sorry, but you have to. Bolt, hurry! Go! Stay out of sight!”
Bolt takes off in a gallop while I cling weakly to his maned neck, my body limp from crying so much.
He exits the gates of the brick-walled city. I turn around to see Cal-léa one last time. Explosions send yellow-colored dust and ash billowing into the night air. Crumbling buildings and screams of terror are the last things I hear.
I sit straight up in bed, my heart racing and I’m sweating all over. I had that nightmare again. The one that will haunt me for the rest of my life. The fact that I never saw my parents again after the fall of my hometown still comes for me even ten years later.
It’s still nighttime; the tall torch in the front corner of my hut burns brightly, which means everyone else’s torches are burning outside too. I remind myself that I’m in the village of Ketra, not fleeing from Cal-léa. The white-inked olive branch tattoo on my right forearm reminds me where I’m really from.
Willing my heart and mind to slow down, I look around my hut. Everything is made of wood or straw, including the weapon rack next to my door that holds an emergency sword and shield. The only things that aren’t wood are the fireplace, hearth, and stove with a cast-iron pot next to the main door.
At the foot of the bed is a dresser and perched on top is a glass jar with Twinkle Fireflies. Immediately, I feel much calmer. They move so elegantly, floating dots of yellow light without a care in the world. The tension in my muscles dissipates, reminding me to be as at peace and carefree as they are. The Fireflies come from my secret hiding place in the village and it’s always a glorious sight to see them flying around.
I open the top drawer of the nightstand next to my bed and remove two folded parchment papers my mother told me never to lose—just to make sure they’re still there. They lie in the near-empty drawer, safely untouched.
This type of nightmare happens often and trying to fall back asleep will be pointless. There’s only one thing I like to do when I can’t sleep and it involves effort and sweat. A bottle of Sleeper’s Brew just isn’t going to cut it.
I rip the linen sheets and thick white-yarn blanket off my body and put on a pair of tight black stretchy pants, a black V-neck short-sleeved shirt, and leather combat boots. I tie my shoulder-length brown hair back and off my neck. The shorter the hair, the more it stays out of my face in a fight. I grab the jar off my dresser and step down from my loft to the front door. The view of my village stops me in my tracks and I take it all in.
Ketra is beautiful at night, all one hundred forty yards of it. Growing up, I was told stories that it was formed as a haven for refugees and escapees from war. It sits on the side of a tall mountain, Montanha Peak, three miles straight up from the village, far from other civilizations. The torches are lit and all is quiet, save a few faint sounds that are unique to Ketra, including chirping crickets and Clucks. The noise I love the most, though, is the rush of Ketra Falls and the flow of the Ketra River. A forest of tall trees borders the village where the obnoxious calls of Cawjays blend in with the sound of water. The entrance is hidden behind hanging vines within the trees, so hardly anyone ever comes across here. A short walk on beaten earth and grass leads to a sandy beach on the edge of the ocean.
If water didn’t kill me, I would enjoy the beach a lot more.
My mother once said if I completely submerge myself in water, it can put my whole body in shock from the electricity that runs through me. When my body tingles to the point where it cramps and burns, I know I have too much exposure to water. The only way to remedy that is to quickly dry myself off before the sensation gets worse.
I lift the lid off the glass jar and let the Fireflies escape, dotting the dark sky with their bright yellow light. They know where to go; they know I’ll come back for them.
With the empty jar in hand, I make my way to the training grounds. The grass is kept extremely short to mark the area, and off to the side are two rundown, open sheds with full weapon racks. We have plenty of guards to protect the village from intruders, but a lot of citizens enjoy having combat skills when it’s necessary. Jael, Ketra’s chief and my mentor, told me once, “I can’t be the only one in charge of protecting everyone.” As a trained warrior, I do what I can to help her in that effort.
There’s a plethora of weapons of all sizes to choose from: swords, axes, spears, bows and arrows, clubs, flails, even throwing knives. I grab the one I’m most proficient with—the sword.
It’s my favorite one. A golden crown at the tip of a brown handle. The hilt is gold with two tiny rubies on each side and the lightweight blade covered in engraved swirls can do a world of damage.
I methodically swing my sword around and enjoy the whooshing sounds the blade makes as I slice it through the air. I pretend to fight an enemy, particularly a Backer. Picturing them in front of me makes me swing and stab harder. They’re the reason I have to live my life in hiding. Something as simple as exploring the Dark Woods outside the village is forbidden for me. Coming out of a hiding place means more exposure for the Backers to hunt me down for my powers. Not to mention the fact that Dormants can spring from the ground at any point and hunt me down too.
Every single day, it saddens me that I have to hide myself in order to be safe. I want a sense of normalcy where I can live just like everyone else.
With the memory from ten years ago in my mind, I stop what I’m doing and open my right hand. An etching of a lightning bolt stares back at me—something I’ve had since I was born. Normally, I wear fingerless gloves to hide it, but with no one around, I can finally free my hands from such stifling captivity. Although I was born with the Strike ability, I was raised to never use it, as much as I desperately want to. Using Gridlock was out of the question until I came to Ketra, and even then, I had to limit it.
Along the side of the training area is a line of trebuchets with sandbags on the slings. This is normally used for archery practice, but I never use it for such. I launch one of the slings and the sandbag whips into the air. While it flies, I stretch my hand out and use Gridlock. I freeze the bag in its place, a soft vibration tickling my hand when doing so. The bag follows the motion of my hand as I move it back and forth in the air.
I concentrate as much as I can to maintain control of the bag. Before my head begins to hurt and the pressure builds behind my eyes, I break my gaze from the object and it plops on the ground.
I follow this routine when I release the slings on a couple more trebuchets. I freeze the bags in the air, then they plop on the grass. The next time, I refill the slings with more sandbags, then run and release multiple slings quickly. As the bags fly, I catch some of them with Gridlock just before they hit the ground, then aim my focus on the ones still high in the air. Then, before my head hurts too much again, break focus and let them fall.
The annual target competition is coming up in a couple days. The village’s most anticipated event helps warriors-in-training hone in their aiming skills. The rise of the morning sun slowly wakes up the world with the chirps of birds and a gentle breeze. Aria, my best friend, asked me yesterday if I wanted to practice sparring with her later in the morning. She wants to fine-tune her reflexes and become quicker with her movements in hand-to-hand combat. She decided to join the target competition, so she also wants to practice for that. Observing my own training over the years to improve my fighting skills, with or without weapons, motivated her to learn the same thing. She relies on me for help since I was raised by a trained military warrior and she has no one else to teach her.
After leaving everything the way I found it in the training area, I returned to my hut to try and sleep for a bit. That effort proved futile—as I knew it would—tossing and turning just to get comfortable. I once again threw on my black training outfit and met up with Aria.
The training grounds had already filled up with more people when I came back. The men dressed in breastplates, boots, and thick pants in preparation for practice and the women wore the same black attire I’m wearing now, but with the addition of chest armor.
After a couple hours of practice, Aria and I are sweaty and sore. She stands in front of me, her smooth, brown skin glistening with sweat and her black curly hair tied back behind her. She keeps her arms up, ready to keep going, her eyes fierce and determined. I’m exhausted from training early this morning, but I push onward. Pushing myself is ingrained in my blood.
From the corner of my eye, I see Victor, a young, new resident who started living in Ketra in the last couple months. Any new residents to Ketra are kept under strict watch by the guards and Jael to make sure they’re trustworthy and they prove they’re not here to harm anyone, and Victor passed with flying colors. He took on a job cleaning huts for a living, and he does a decent job. While he’s not working, he practices for the target competition. Right now, he’s stretching his arms across his muscled chest in preparation. My eyes rake him from handsome top to manly bottom.
“Hi, Havanna,” he greets me with that shy, dimpled smile that stops me in my tracks every time so I can admire it. I have to admit, his light brown skin and black hair swept to one side make him very attractive from my point of view.
“Hi, Victor,” I greet him back, my heart doing a weird flutter in my chest. I can’t figure him out. He’s a very handsome man who’s around my age, and he’s very kind and polite to me, but I’m not sure if I should let myself feel more for him and risk feeling like a fool when he tells me he doesn’t feel the same about me. There’s always a chance he could just be a nice man who doesn’t find me attractive. It’s a confusing limbo to be in.
My whole life is confusing.
Also in the corner of my eye is Darius, the object of every girl’s affection and the bane of my existence. He’s supposed to be practicing for the target competition, but he would rather flirt with three other girls who are pawing at him and giggling. He’s a player and he thinks he’s the best thing to ever have been born. Anyone with that attitude automatically lands on my “hate” list.
He soaks up the attention like a sponge, flipping his shaggy black hair back and forth in a way he knows makes girls swoon. To me, he will always be known as the boy who threw me in the ocean because he thought it would be funny. I remember that moment like it was yesterday.
It was the first time I met Aria.
I was still a new resident of the village. Darius and some other boys grabbed me by the arms, laughing in my ear while walking me out to a deep part of the water, and dropped me in. When I slapped my hands around seeking rescue, I saw Aria in the distance. My skin turning bright red caused her to take action. As I was fighting for my life, she ran at top speed through the sand toward Darius and shoved him over with such force that his breath was knocked out of him. The boys watched in awe as he thumped on the sand, then watched as she dragged me out of the water. I was afraid she would have figured out who I was and that I wasn’t like everyone else in the village; I was scared she would tell everyone. Later that night, though, when she came to my hut to check on me, she said, “I know you’re different, and that’s okay. I’ll still be your friend.” I knew at that moment that I could always count on her.
Aria becomes distracted in our training when she sees girls flirting with Claeron. Standing next to Darius, he smiles when they talk to him and he shines his boyish, charming smile, running a hand through his dark blonde hair that’s longer on top but shaved on the sides. He seems to enjoy the attention, but it’s agonizing for her to watch.
I want to empathize with her, but not while we’re in the middle of training. To teach Aria a lesson about distraction, I crouch and sweep a leg under her feet, causing her to fall straight on her back with a thud. Seeing her lying there, wincing and groaning in pain, I’m taken back to the injuries I’ve endured in my training, laying on the grass, drained of energy while Jael loomed over me and yelled, “Pain waits for no one!” In her mind, allowing exhaustion to take over wasn’t an option.
I’ve lived by those five words my whole life.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies with strain. “I deserved that.”
I extend my gloved hand and help her back to her feet. “No matter how much you like someone, they can’t be the ones to distract you from danger,” I advise her in a low voice, patting her shoulder encouragingly.
“I know. I’m sorry.” She turns back to Claeron while wiping her face with a towel and sighs. “I just . . . I thought he liked me . . .” she says despondently.
Thinking back to when we were children growing up in this village, Claeron seemed to always have a fondness for Aria’s no-nonsense attitude and loyalty. He may enjoy the attention from other girls, but it’s obvious that he’s always had eyes for her. He has yet to tell her that, though.
“Just tell him.” I flap my arms to emphasize. “You’ve waited long enough.”
“Hey, Havanna!” I hear Darius’s annoying, insufferable, arrogant voice call out to me. Without hiding how much I hate him, I slowly turn, glaring. “I see you’re being mean to your trainees again,” he comments with a smug grin. Why the girls in this village like him, I have no idea.
“I’ll see you at work, Havanna,” Aria says with a downhearted tone as she trots away. She started working with me a few years ago at an eatery I’ve worked in since I arrived in Ketra.
“Okay, see you there,” I call after her.
Aria passes Darius, but not without nudging him on the shoulder. I can’t help but smirk. To my surprise, Claeron notices her sad face, then turns to follow her. I’m a little envious of their romance. Instead of taking my own advice and admit my feelings, I stand here and wish I had the same attachment Aria and Claeron have.
“See, she’s running away from you because you’re an abusive teacher,” Darius says, breaking me out of my trance and pissing me off again. Victor lowers the axe in his hand to watch the debacle before him.
My face doesn’t lie when I give Darius a look of pure hatred. The lightning mark on my palm begs to show its electric power, buzzing with a vibration that I’ve come to know well over the years.
Then I remember the breathing techniques Jael taught me. Whenever I feel upset or angry, my hand warms up with the need to use electricity. She would stand in front of me, grab my hands with hers, and guide me through it, and it made all the difference in the world.
I do it on my own as I come up with a smart response to Darius. Breathe in. Hold for five. Breathe out. Then the words slip out before I can stop them. “At least I can fight better than you can act like a man.”
The girls surrounding him giggle and I hear Victor sputtering out laughter. Darius’s face falls in fury and it fills my heart with pride to know I’ve brought him down a few pegs. With that calm, resonant feeling, the vibration in my hand dissipates.
“You think you can do better?” Darius shouts. “Okay. How about a little friendly competition?”
He stomps onto the training grounds until a blonde girl loops her arms around his and stops him. “We’re still walking at the beach later, right?”
“Sure thing, gorgeous.” He winks at her and struts to the weapon rack with a macho expression plastered across his face. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. I don’t want to do this, but I know he won’t let it go until I comply.
Darius grabs an axe and readies himself in front of a target. My stomach plummets. I don’t have much experience in target practice. I’m screwed.
What makes this worse is that Victor has become utterly enamored with this scene. He stands next to Darius’s girl group to see how it will play out. The pressure to perform perfectly and not look like a fool makes me sweat. Losing this fight might make him stop showing interest in me because he’ll think I’m a wuss.
Hesitantly, I take a bow and an arrow from the weapon rack. I have some experience in archery, but not enough that I feel confident I will hit the bull’s-eye.
“Say goodbye to your dignity.” Darius sneers. He slowly lifts the axe above his head with both hands then throws it forward with all his might. Just as I expected, the blade cracks the bull’s-eye dead-on. His cheerleaders squeal in excitement, jumping up and down. Victor remains stoic with no reaction. He studies me closely, waiting to see what I can do.
Darius perks his eyebrows at me in the cockiest of manners. “Good luck.”
With my whole body shaking, I nock the arrow and pull back, sweaty palms affecting my grip. I make sure to keep the pulled arrow close to my face and do my best to aim at the target. Despair blurs my concentration when I release, and the arrow hits the ring just outside the bull’s-eye—just as I suspected it would.
“Ha! I knew it!” Darius shouts in victory.
Victor’s expression is one of pity—pursed lips and arms folded as he stares down at the grass. I know he thinks I’m a weakling, not a talented fighter.
I toss the bow to the ground as Darius creeps right up to my ear to say, “I knew you were a fraud.”
Those six words spike my anger to an all-time high. So much so that I could cry, and the electricity tingles in my hand again.
Breathe in. Hold for five. Breathe out.
That has been my biggest insecurity my whole life. Hiding who I really am because no one can see my abilities. I’m the only one who can’t leave the village because I have to stay in hiding from people that want to kill me. Not being able to find out the scope of my power because someone could be watching.
I feel like a fraud. Every single day. I’m tired of it.
I can’t let Darius win this one.
He struts back to the girls, flowing with overconfidence with his head held high and swinging arms. As quietly as my boots will let me, I sneak up behind him and jump onto his back, then climb onto his shoulders.
“What—” Darius shouts. “What are you doing? Get off!”
He spins around and grips my legs so that I will unwrap them from around his neck. I clutch my knees as hard as I can then twist my body in a way that causes him to fall straight to the ground, taking me down with him. I hop to my feet, my dignity back intact and unharmed.
“Darius!” The girls whine and run to his aid. Despite being covered in girls, he remains on the ground, shocked and unblinking. Victor is laughing so hard he’s on his knees. A confident smile spreads on my face and all the negative feelings melt into the grass below me.
“Well, that was fun. Off to work I go,” I remark casually as I step over Darius’s body and the girls shoot me dirty looks. I have zero tolerance for arrogance and anyone who has little regard for other people’s feelings. If I can show them up, I will. And I’m thankful I received enough training to pull off that move.
Victor steps onto the low-cut grass once his laughter dies off and looms over Darius’s body. He holds out his hand to help him get back on his feet. “You just got beat up by a girl,” he remarks.
“Shut up, Victor.” Darius pushes his shoulders and stomps away. Darius’s childish demeanor puts an even bigger smile on my face and makes Victor laugh harder, a hearty and happy sound that causes me to forget how to breathe.
“Good job putting him in his place,” Victor compliments with a chuckle. “That was fun to watch.”
“Glad I could provide some entertainment.” I lightly laugh and proceed to walk away from the training area. “I’ll see you later, Victor.”
He speeds up and keeps in step with me as I walk back to my hut. “Actually, I meant to ask you if you need your home cleaned by any chance.”
“No, it’s okay. Thank you, though.”
“For you, I’ll do it free of charge,” he offers with his beaming smile.
I give him a questioning look. “Are you bored or something?”
“Nonsense. Just want to help you out.”
These are the kinds of remarks that make me think Victor is attracted to me. Yet again, he hasn’t openly admitted it. I fail to understand why the young men in this village are afraid to admit their feelings.
“I mean, if you really want to, sure.” I shrug. “Just give me an hour or so and you can go in.”
“Thank you,” he replies excitedly and takes off in a dash. I watch him run away without another word, slightly offended that the conversation was seemingly cut off out of nowhere. It’s moments like this that force my emotions into a tailspin of overthinking and not having concrete answers.
When I arrive at the eatery, there are only two people in the dining area, both drinking Corn Whiskey. Otherwise, it’s empty and slow.
I remember when I started working at Ketra’s eatery. I had only been in the village for a couple days. Jael thought it would be a good distraction while I waited for my parents to come get me. I was mad at her for putting me to work so quickly, but that anger didn’t last long.
My parents never came for me and I had to learn to live with that.
Rose, the eatery’s owner and Aria’s mother, took me in and showed me everything there was to know about running the place. She taught me how to make Bakki, a pile of red rice with a thick, greenish gravy. It looked horrendous when I was young, but I made it anyway. I also learned how to make Loga, a chunky, white dish that reminds me of pudding with cubed meat. For dessert, people go crazy for Winterbulbs, a sweet, juicy, dark-blue fruit about the size of a melon found at the top of Montanha Peak, straight above the village. It tastes sweeter when cooked. I even added a dessert to the menu I used to eat in Cal-léa: Conna Mondaña. I didn’t remember the exact recipe, but I knew it was honey-sweetened goat-milk yogurt with banana and mango, or sometimes with strawberries. People absolutely love it, and that makes me happy. We sell out within hours any time I make it.
Rose was the reason I learned to cook so well and how I came to love cooking. She was the reason I warmed up so quickly to being in Ketra. I was nervous about living with Jael, and she knew it. “She doesn’t show it very well, but children are her soft spot,” Rose told me. That sentence alone helped me to view Jael in a different light.
When Rose died a few years ago, the business was handed to me. Aria wasn’t interested in owning it, but she knew enough about it to want to help me, so she volunteered. Rose wanted nothing more than for her “other daughter,” as she used to call me, to pick up where she left off. Losing her left a big hole in my life, and in Aria’s. During her funeral, when her body was covered in flowers and drifted into the ocean on a wooden plank, the only thing I could think about was how I didn’t ever want to go through this again, at least for a very long time.
Aria is stirring a cast-iron pot of Bakki in the kitchen over a flame when I walk in to grab a wet cloth. “Darius is so infuriating,” I announce, shaking my head. “After you nearly pushed him over, he challenged me to a target competition.”
She cringes, well aware that my target skills are not advanced. “Oh no. I’m sorry.”
“It worked out because I took him down with my favorite foolproof move.”
“The Twist and Drag? Good job!” Aria raises her hand and gives me a high five. “Leave it to us to show him who’s boss.”
I cackle as I step outside to the deck and wipe down the tables that are sprinkled with dead leaves and dirt. From here, one can get a good view of the potion shop run by the rainbow-haired Tetia and the training area on the other side of her. It’s early afternoon and people are still shooting arrows and throwing axes.
When I lived in Cal-léa, my father taught me the basics of using a sword, but that was all I was allowed to learn. My parents may never have come for me, and waited a long time to tell me why I couldn’t use my abilities, but I give them credit for getting me started on being a fighter.
“Okay, let’s do that one more time,” Papa says, holding a sword in one hand and a metal shield on the other, the imprint of Cal-léa’s olive branch neatly engraved on the front.
I focus on the blade in his hand. Bolt watches us from the branch of the thick, pale tree in our backyard. My best friends, Foss and Dahlia, sit at the base of the tree and watch us. Having Bolt in his enormous eagle form would raise a lot of questions, so it’s best if he stays a mouse when my friends are around.
Foss and Dahlia always loved that my father was a guard and owned a sword and shield. Whenever he wanted to show me the ways of the sword, they would come over and watch just because the action of it all is so mesmerizing.
“Go, Havanna!” Dahlia cheers me on. Her flower-patterned dress is dirty from sitting on the ground, but she doesn’t care. Her sleek, black hair complements and cups her light brown face. Foss takes on the appearance of a troublemaker with his shaggy dark hair and baby face, but he’s very much the opposite. My parents love them both as their own children.
“Shh.” Foss pats Dahlia’s shoulder and focuses intensely on me and Papa. “She needs to concentrate.”
Papa comes at me with his metal sword. I block it with my wooden one. He uses a different angle and swipes at me, which I block again.
“Okay, good,” he says. “Now, I’m going to go faster, so keep up with blocking me. And use whatever spots of time that come up to attack.”
His movements speed up, making my reactions and thoughts speed up too, increasing my focus and anxiety. His sword creates clunking sounds against the wood of my own, fencing back and forth for a lengthy amount of time. He recently began teaching me sword fighting because I wanted to be as good as him. Maybe one day I can be good enough to protect the town.
That is, until he pokes me in the stomach with his sword. He has a spot of time to attack and I miss it. I groan in frustration as my friends groan in supportive disappointment.
“It’s okay, Havanna.” Papa walks up to me and puts his hands on my shoulders, his face full of compassion. “You’re only ten years old. You still have time to figure this one out.”
“We practice all the time, though,” I complain. “I should be good at it by now.”
“Not necessarily,” he disagrees. “You’ll get older and it’ll get stronger. Trust me.”
Mama comes out the back door of our stone house and watches us regroup. A smile stretches on her face as she sees her husband train her daughter in the ways of the sword. I always loved seeing that warm smile on her. The one that says she is happy with this family of hers, and that she is proud of us.
“It’s almost time for supper,” she announces. “Foss, Dahlia, time to go home. You can come back tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Foss says, being the obedient boy he is. Dahlia stands with him, walking over the rocks that surround the tree, and exits from the side of our house. He takes Dahlia’s hand and holds it, making sure she doesn’t fall over. “See you later, Havanna.”
“Bye.” I wave sadly at them. I don’t want them to go. I don’t ever want them to leave when we’re all together. But we see each other every day.
Papa pokes me again, pretending to kill me. I have completely forgotten that we aren’t done with our session. “Distraction doesn’t look good on you,” he remarks with a devilish smirk.
Another frustrated groan emits from my throat and I angrily throw my sword and shield on the ground. “I want to practice using my powers, Mama,” I whine.
“Warrioress, we talked about this,” she tells me in a loving but admonishing way. “It’s not safe. I have the same abilities but I don’t use them for the same reason.”
“I just want to do it once,” I beg. “I want to know what it’s like. I want to tell Foss and Dahlia why I wear gloves! I hate telling them I have a skin condition!”
“You heard your mother,” Papa agrees. “It’s not safe.”
I take off my fingerless gloves and look at my palm. The mark of a thunderbolt on my skin greets me. In the clear sky above us, a small beam of light shows up, waiting for my call.
“No!” Mama shouts and closes my hand with both of hers. “You can’t use that. You’ll draw attention to yourself. Put your glove back on!”
“Why?” I whine again. “What’s the big deal?”
“You need to hide that power,” she demands. “And you need to learn to control it.” Mama twists to face the house and says under her breath, “The sparks have been showing up more often lately . . .”
“Why can’t I use lightning?” I shout at her. “What’s going to happen? Are we going to be eaten by snakes?” I wiggle my hands in the air in mock fear. “Will cats take over the backyard?”
“Havanna, enough,” Papa reprimands me.
“You’ll learn in time,” Mama adds, then grips my shoulders. “But you are not allowed to use your abilities and that’s final. Do you hear me?”
That was what she always said when I asked. I’m tired of hearing that same answer. She’s hiding something from me and I’m angry that she still won’t tell me.
Shaking my shoulders from her grasp, I huff in frustration and stomp angrily to the house, tears stinging my eyes. I deserve an answer. I can handle the truth.
“I’m beginning to think if you don’t tell her, she’s going to rebel,” I hear Papa mutter. Mama groans in equal frustration as I slam the door.
I release quick breaths to make myself not cry and instead punch my pillow over and over again. Once I spend all my energy doing that, I flop on the bed and sniff back the tears that want to fall.
I’m a warrior. Warriors don’t cry.
“Havanna,” Mama’s sweet and calm voice calls on the other side of the doorway.
She sits on the edge of the bed next to me. I scoot up and lean my back against the stone wall behind me. Part of me has no desire to hear what she has to say. All I will hear is more excuses as to why she can’t tell me everything.
“I think it’s time I tell you the truth,” she admits.
Her admission catches me off guard and I lean forward, ready to listen. “About my powers?”
Mama nods. “But you must promise me one thing.” She points her finger at me. “That you will never, ever repeat this story. Not even to Foss and Dahlia.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “Why?”
She sighs. “It’s very important that you keep this story to yourself because . . .” She pauses and turns her focus elsewhere as she holds back her own tears. “If you use your powers . . . If anyone finds out who you are, bad people will want to hunt you down and kill you.”
Mama sounds desperate and scared. She’s never told me that I could die if I use my powers. I remember her always telling me to hide my palm with gloves and never to call down lightning. I wanted to please her, so I did as she told me.
“I don’t believe that,” I scoff, dismissing her.
“I’m serious, Havanna,” Mama scolds. Her voice turns shaky. “There are people out there that want your powers and they’ve been looking for you and me for a long time.”
My eyes go wide. She’s not lying.
“And it’s not just you they’re after,” she continues. “They’re after three others with abilities too.”
My jaw drops in shock. Then I grow excited because this means I’m not alone. I prop myself on my knees and lean into her face. “There are other people out there just like me?!”
“Yes, but they’re hidden, just as we are,” Mama explains.
Disappointed, I sit back. “Why?”
She sits up further in my bed, stretching out her legs and crossing her feet. “Many, many years ago,” she begins, “when the kingdom of Petros came to be, five people were granted abilities and Bennarus by the entity Halivaara, called Ancestors. Each Ancestor represented the elements as a means of protecting the land: Fire, Water, Lightning, Land, and Power. The Fire Ancestor could manipulate fire, called Blaze. The Water Ancestor could shape water and ice into anything they pleased, called Upsurge. The Land Ancestor could turn nature and animals into anything, called Transform.”
I take my pillow and hug it as Mama weaves the tale.
“The Power Ancestor had Manipulation, the ability to control things with his mind. Then, there was the Lightning Ancestor, who could control thunder and lightning.”
I blink incessantly at her. I find the excitement rising again.
“I’m related to the Lightning Ancestor?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly, opening her right hand where she has the lightning bolt marked on her own right palm. “But there’s more to the story.”
I lean back to the wall, listening intently.
“It turns out the Power Ancestor didn’t just have Manipulation. In an argument with the Land Ancestor, he found he could copy powers and use them as his own, called Usurp. He copied Transform from the Land Ancestor. With that power, he took various creatures and created awful, ugly, scary monsters called Dormants.” Her tone turns soft and she reminisces about these monsters. “I have never seen one, but my parents told me what they look like. Four-legged black creatures with piercing red eyes. A mane of tentacles around their necks that throw fire and ice that could kill in one blow.” Mama sighs. “They lived underground until summoned by the Power Ancestor. He wanted to be in control of the kingdom while the other Ancestors wanted to protect it. But he wanted to do things his way. That’s how he became the Dormant King.”
I gulp down the fear building in my throat. I have so many questions, but I can’t think of what to ask first. My mouth is frozen.
“The Dormant King had summoned an army for anyone who supported him and dubbed them Backers. He promised them his abilities if they brought the other Ancestors to him. That way, he can copy their abilities and give them to the Backers. Because their lives were at stake, the Ancestors separated to different parts of the kingdom to hide. They have remained hidden since, and their powers were passed on generation to generation. Their Descendants.” Mama leans in and pokes me in the chest with her finger. “Because one day, those Descendants will have to reunite to finish off the Dormant King once and for all. But we don’t know when that will happen.” She then turns to face me.“And that is why no one can know who you are. Besides, most people believe the Descendants and Dormants are just legends. Which is good, because it means we’ve done well with staying in hiding.”
With so many questions now answered by her storytelling, there’s only one left to ask. And it’s one that scares me. “Are the Dormants still around, Mama?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Warrioress.”
A sense of relief clouds my chest. I’m afraid I could be attacked or killed by one someday. They haven’t been seen in many years; maybe I’ll never see one. Maybe I’m safe.
“What about the Dormant King? Where is he?”
“I don’t know that, either. He could be anywhere. Which is why you have to stay hidden from him and his power.”
My fear is back. The Dormant King could be roaming Petros now, looking for me. He could find me in the middle of the night and take me away from Mama and Papa.
“Don’t worry.” She takes my head and kisses me on the forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you. We just have to be careful and hide from anyone that supports him, that’s all. So promise me you will never use your abilities. It’s the only way to keep you safe. Please.”
All I want is to make her happy and not disappoint her. “I promise,” I agree, snuggling into her embrace. She holds me, combing my hair with her fingers. I let the quiet air and her soothing touch calm me down. The Dormants and Dormant King sound terrifying. I don’t know if I will ever be ready to fight them. Papa has taught me some sword skills, but not enough to take down a monster.
“Want me to read you that poem?” Mama asks.
With a dip of my head, I slip under the covers and get comfortable. Every night, Mama reads me a poem that she says her parents used to read to her. She tells me it might be about different gods from long ago or some legend that doesn’t exist. I don’t understand it, but I love the way she reads it. Her reading voice is so loving and comforting; I always feel safe when she recites it.
Mama pulls the looped knob on the top drawer of the nightstand and reaches for the piece of very old, brown, folded parchment paper. The light of the lantern in the room shows the poem’s paragraphs forming a circle. Mama doesn’t know why it was written that way, but she never thought anything of it.
She clears her throat to read.
“There is one who calls the storm,
Close to the ocean; a spark of hope is born.
There is one who disturbs the sea,
Who, near the hollow of a cliff, spares themselves to a degree.
There is one in mastery of nature,
Within the green, they blend in with great measure.
There is one who curbs the flame,
By a mound of stone, they dodge the eyes of fame.
Lastly, there is one with the greed of a thief,
Once gone, the world once again lived in relief.”
By the last line, I’m asleep.
