Ives’ screams were fresh in Mithra’s mind. She was thrown out of the training hall and told not to come back and justifiably so, she may have ruined his life, irreversibly. There was no healing spell to fix what she’d done, and even with Brutes healing better than most it didn’t bode well. The only hope for Ives was that his knee would heal up well on its own. It was a flimsy hope.

  Head held low, she tried ignoring the whispers of passersby. The news of what she did to Ives were spreading like wildfire, she could see it in people’s faces. Some looked at her with disgust, some looked horrified. But the worst were the sympathetic looks from those who undoubtedly heard about her emotion mark. Her reputation was tarnished forever.

  Gods, what was she gonna tell her father?

  She tried not to think about it. Just walk. Left foot. Right foot. Don’t think. Ignore them.

  Numb, Mithra made her way home. Standing at the edge of the property, she hesitated, replaying the disastrous day in her head and imagining her father's reactions. They weren't good. She walked through the yard, trying to come up with excuses, answers.

  The perfectly organized garden felt mocking. Her life was falling apart and it didn’t even have the decency to stop being perfect for a second.

  Mithra sat on the trimmed grass in the middle of a flower patch, crushing a few plants. It felt ecstatic, disrupting the perfection. Her father was going to kill her for that, but he was going to kill her anyway. She threw the bloody fabric stuffing her nose to the side and snorted out the dried blood onto the grass. Her nose stopped bleeding surprisingly fast, the punch must've been weaker than she thought.

  The orchids looked beautiful from up close. A dazzling array of colors, each one picked and placed precisely to compliment one another. She plucked a yellow one, silencing the voice in the back of her head telling her how expensive it was. It smelled nice. Like cinnamon, maybe with a hint of vanilla. She picked another one, a vibrant blue. That one smelled sweet.

  They were much better experienced like that. Not the sanitized, untouchable things, but something real. Mithra laid on her back, just taking in all the various smells and observing the insects living their tiny lives amidst the flowers. Maybe she’d become a botanist. Did the plants have emotions to be read with her mark? What about the insects?

  No. She was not giving up on her dream just because everything was going wrong. Her tunic stained green, she got up and braced herself for a conversation with her father, playing out the possibilities in her mind. Slowly, she opened the door.

  Stench of sweat and alcohol sent her reeling. Long repressed memories of the past rushed through her mind; the long hours spent watching her father sleep, worried he would choke on his own vomit, cleaning up after him and taking care of him when she was not even old enough to care for herself.

  Not again, please. Not now.

  Her father was sitting at the dinner table, empty bottles covering the burn marks left by Duncan.

  “Hello, daughter.”

  Daughter. He hasn’t called her that in years. Mithra’s heart fell even further and she instinctively changed her posture. Head low, back straight, hands in the front. Trying her best not to give him any attitude, to avoid any perceived slight that would make him even more mad. Making sure to—

  She wasn’t ten anymore. She looked him in the eyes.

  “Hello, father. You’re drinking again.”

  “Ha, finally growing a backbone, now that you’re a Mind Mage?” he asked, matching her gaze. “Congratulations on that, by the way. You’ve finally found a way to be free of old me. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  That was nonsensical. It was impossible to control what mark one got. Also, a Mind Mage? She had never heard of Emotion Shapers referred to that way, but it made sense. They affected the mind, after all.

  “I didn’t choose this.”

  “Maybe you didn’t but isn’t that what you wanted?” He was slurring his words slightly. “You’ve got yourself a great excuse to run away from the responsibility. So what now? Become a priest, or travel to the capital and sell ointments to old ladies?”

  “My plans didn’t change, father. I will become a Guardian.” That was the truth, so why did she feel wrong saying it?

  “And do what, make the enemy so sad they kill themselves? I’m sure it’ll work great on the abominations,” he laughed, before growing serious, his expression changing in a fraction of a second. He pointed a half-full bottle at her. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. You and Duncan won. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you waste your potential and become just another civilian. He’s been planting the idea in your head for a long time, hasn’t he?”

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “I will be the first Guardian with an emotion mark if I have to,” she kept her voice controlled, not giving her father any more weapons to hurt her with. “Besides, I have a second mark.”

  “You do?” He almost jumped out of the chair. “Show me.”

  Mithra presented her hand and he grabbed it. She flinched. He turned it over, inspecting her palm.

  “Are you really playing with me now, girl?!” he yelled. “I told you, you’ve won! Don’t lie to me on top of it all!”

  She pulled her hand out of his grip. The mark was there, the rust cleanly visible against her pale skin.

  “What do you mean? It’s there, don’t you—”

  "Is that how you repay me? Not only you ruin your dreams, but in the last moments you also give me false hope," he spat.

  "I know it's a different color, but it is a mark, I'm—"

  "What you are is a liar. Really? Drawing on your hand with a crayon, like the child you are." He slumped back in the chair. "What would your mother think?"

  Mithra wanted to answer. Wanted to say everything she imagined saying to her father during countless sleepless nights. But she couldn't find the words.

  Everything was going so well, not even a full day ago. The training, living in the city with Duncan, becoming a Guardian. All of it felt so far away now, just because of dumb luck. Her dreams were slipping through her fingers and instead of helping her through it, her father just drove the last nail in.

  She was done defending herself, as if he would listen. Done listening to him, as if he cared about what she wanted. Done taking the abuse.

  She simply walked away. He kept yelling something after her, but she didn't hear it.

  In her room she started packing for the road. Two sets of clothes and a thick winter coat was everything that fit inside her backpack, but she didn’t need much more. Tying a coin pouch to her belt, she gave her room one last look around. Her sight lingered on the shelf lined with childhood toys, from before her father started drinking. The sight of them brought unwanted memories. Memories of him teaching her how to carve wood. Hours spent on carvings of various animals. The scar she still had on her hand where her knife slipped. The memory of her father bandaging it with care.

  She picked one favorite, a Sky Terror, and stuffed it inside her pack between the clothes. Her mother's badge followed suit.

  Without even looking at her father, Mithra left the house. There was nothing left for her there. There was nothing left for her in this stifling town.

  Duncan mentioned old Bill letting her hitch a ride on his boat, so that's where she headed first. The friendly old man apologized profusely, saying he wouldn't be ready to depart for another week. Something about a trade dispute. Mithra didn't care, she wasn't staying for an extra week. Even if it added some time to her travel, she was leaving today.

  Change of plans then. She was going to walk. The capital was two weeks away on foot, at most.

  In the general store she bought the biggest waterskin she could comfortably carry, a sturdy hunting knife, and two weeks worth of dry rations. Ignoring the questions from Mike, an overeager teenager manning the counter, she wrapped everything except the knife into a bundle and tied it to the side of her backpack.

  All that was left were weapons. There was no way she was going to walk alone through the forest unarmed. Mithra didn't expect to be going back to the training hall so soon after being told not to come back, but getting into the storage area was easy when one knew where the instructors kept their spare keys. Most equipment there was for training only, but they kept a few real sets too, just in case.

  She found a good spear, the same length she used in training. The sharpness was acceptable. Strapping it to the side of her backpack, she picked out a small sword and a round wooden shield. The sword she kept at her waist, next to the knife, while the shield she attached to the pack as well. It was getting heavy with all the food and weapons, but it was still manageable.

  The heavy metal doors slammed hard as she closed them, but no one seemed to notice. Still, she felt as if someone was watching her. She hurriedly left the keys in the same flower pot she took them from and left.

  People tried stopping her on the way out of town. She ignored them, hyper-focused on her task. On getting away from this small, suffocating town. She was walking towards her dreams.

  The forest was bright, the sun shining through the canopy. Countless leaves covered the ground, forming a bright, red and yellow carpet. It was loud, birds singing their songs, telling each other stories in crowns of centuries-old trees. A squirrel ran up a tree, its bushy tail helping it keep balance.

  Alone on the endless road, Mithra let the cacophony of colors and sounds wash over her. The Veil gave everything a slightly blue hue, marking everything with its presence. The towering dome was easily seen through the leafless tree branches. It was close, the road to the capitol, to Veridia running parallel to it.

  The road itself was nothing more than a glorified forest path; a horse would have to slow down on it. If she walked through the night, maybe she'd catch up to Duncan. What would he say if she did? What would he think about what she did? What would he think about her marks?

  What did she think about her marks? She disliked the emotion one—she could easily see herself pretending it didn’t exist—but what about the second one? Her father didn’t recognize it, would others? Would Duncan?

  She'd been walking for a few hours, when she felt the first pangs of hunger. Everything happening made her forget she hadn't eaten in over a day.

  There was a small clearing close to the road. Sitting on the autumn forest floor was a wet, miserable experience, but Mithra didn't care much, too emotionally wrung out to care about her own comfort. She dropped her backpack and took out the rations. They tasted like nothing, but were filling.

  Rustle of leaves gave her a second to react as someone else entered the clearing. She hastily packed the half-eaten rations.

  A man stood at the edge of the trees, his unpleasant mildew smell clashing with the fresh scent of the forest around him. Mithra didn’t recognize him. He was wearing brown robes of a priest and wielded a simple unornamented staff. It wasn't the staff of a cripple or an old man, as he was not placing any weight on it. Her instincts told her it was a weapon.

  "Hello, Mithra," the priest said and sat down on the ground. "I hope I'm not interrupting”.