Words, according to my mother, were the most dangerous thing to a person. But I came to learn that dreams are far more dangerous—

  My father—his name now survives only in the memory of those closest to him—did not die an honorable or dignified death. A criminal, thief, and a liar, at the time, identified herself as Ashe and claimed the Northern Empire as her homeland, stabbed him with a silver dagger.

  Ashe had come upon our farm on that cursed day, asking for shelter and a meal, a reasonable request granted by my kind family, especially for a lost far-off traveler, as the liar treacherously claimed.

  The next morning, after she awoke, she spoke with my father about a topic I had no knowledge of. All I managed to hear was that Ashe the Deceiver hid something that my father did not approve of.

  Their words ended when she unsheathed her weapon.

  My dear father was unarmed. And even if—what use is a weapon to a simple farmer?

  What troubled me most then was that Ashe left her dagger lodged in my kind father’s body, as it was in fact a finely crafted blade, I’d wager it’s worth even to a deep-sea white whale as a trade-off.

  I can tell that it wasn’t located so deep within the chest cavity that it couldn’t be swiftly withdrawn, even at the moment of murder.

  If a child—as I was at the time, despite my protests to the contrary—could yank it free with a single tug… What stopped Ashe from retrieving it?

  This question still lingers on my tongue, and I mean to ask it when I find the treacherous, lying, despicable Ashe. But for now, it’ll remain a mystery—and I don’t intend to let it stay one for long.

  I have been blessed with six brothers, all of whom are older than me. That evening, when the funeral feast was over, they were all roaring at one another in fury, each scheming to avenge our good father. But after spending enough of my days watching them bicker over their bundles of sticks, I saw what lay plain—and what did not. It was a noble kind of threat, yet even so, they each understood the outcome before the final voice rose.

  Likely, Ashe of the Northern Empire was either a criminal on the run or spy who’d stumbled upon our farm. For what was there to hide that would warrant taking my good father’s life just to keep it hidden?

  I didn’t know the answer. And as our dear father proved, trying to uncover Ashe’s hides was the beginning of a quick journey to the grave.

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  It's better to bitch and buck on the farm than to leave and have your head spiked. So they “bitch and buck” as they ought. When they finished, all agreed that everything should be left to the Devine. They will stay here and take care of the farm.

  But she decided otherwise.

  And today was the day she’d depart. She didn’t have all she might need, so she settled for what she had: a sack stuffed with scavenged odds, a cloak to hide her features, a stick serving no purpose but the comfort of purpose, and lastly—the dagger that had unjustly slain her kind father, a witness to a future she never chose.

  She tucked the dagger away and crept from her room, careful not to wake any of her six siblings or her stern mother, whom she loved fiercely.

  Slipping from the small house wasn’t difficult, but she did have to close the front door carefully, thanks to the creaking it made whenever it moved, given its age.

  But she’d practiced for this, though, and it’s safe to say that for the first time, she succeeded in escaping late into the night.

  Or so she thought.

  As she closed the door, a voice as quiet as the night itself drifted from her right. “And might I ask where you’re going in the midst of the beautiful moonlight, Silora, my dearest one?”

  It was her mother's distinctive voice; she could recognize it anywhere. Silora wasn’t startled by this disruption. On the contrary, she’d have been startled if she hadn’t heard it.

  It is difficult to describe Silora’s mother as a person; She defied description. But to Silora, she was omniscience incarnate. If she hadn’t noticed Silora’s scheming these past weeks, Silora might’ve doubted she was really her one.

  Silora released the doorknob and turned to her mother, seated in the chair her father once occupied after a good day’s work. Her mother busied herself rolling one of the herbs from their humble farm. She didn’t even look at her. Unlike Silora, she couldn’t tear her gaze from her mother’s crimson eyes—eyes she’d grown to love, and it was something she inherited from her, unlike her brothers, who bore a resemblance to their father.

  Silora inhaled deeply and spoke softly, mimicking her mother’s cadence—something she grew up doing. “I didn’t expect to see you, Mother…”

  No reply came. Knowing her mother, this was because Silora hadn’t answered her question—and she wouldn’t, for she couldn’t bear to break her mother’s heart. Even though she knew her mother already knew. “Words are the most dangerous thing to a person”—her mother’s teaching.

  So Silora pressed on, evading. “I hope Father’s death hasn’t given you poor dreams.”

  Her mother glanced up briefly, then returned to rolling herbs. “Ten years have passed since your father died, and you are a little insect seeking through the world in the hope for blood…”

  Had so much time truly passed? All those years, and time has done nothing to calm the fire in her—only made it angrier.

  Her mother’s calm voice cut through her thoughts. “Perhaps you should heed your brothers and sit and wait for the regulations to come.”

  Silora didn’t bristle with her mother’s words. Though she’d grown up mirroring her every move, she came to the conclusion that she was different. Reaching that conclusion had been hard, for her mother was proof of her belonging. She resembled neither her father nor her brothers. She took her entire appearance from her mother, whether her crimson eyes or her fiery red hair, even her height, beauty, and elegance that set her apart from others.

  Silora was silent for a while, weighing her words. But in the end, she just said what simmered in her heart: “Mommy. If I were to sit and wait for the impossible, I’d sit and wait for my Daddy to rise from our good soil and embrace me again …” She paused, so as not to say anything that might hurt her mother further. “But I'm not leaning in that direction.”

  Silora awaited her mother’s response, wondering whether she would try to dissuade her? or scold her? like she had never done before. But she did neither.

  She just said, “Very well…”

  Her mother gestured to the barn with a tilt of her finger. “Take your late father’s horse. He’s a naughty one, and I don't feel like taking care of him. I have enough problems.”

  And just like that, Silora set out.

  Truthfully, Silora had never left her island’s borders. She’d imagined fear and caution would fill her when the day came. But all she felt within was rage. Rage at the cruel fate that let Ashe murder her father. And rage at herself for failing to meet her mother’s expectations of restraint.

  If your dream meant nothing. What meaning is left to cling to?—