Ch. 31

“Opal”

I am awakened by the soft shuffle of footsteps, the sound of something being set gently on the side table next to the bed. My eyes flutter open, the faint flicker of light making its way past my eyelids. When I finally manage to open them, I see Devlyn — Mother’s second, my friend — picking up the scattered candles I knocked down in my restless sleep. Light from under the door casts shadows through the small room.

“Sorry about that…” I mumble, stretching my legs out past the edge of this tiny bed. My knees remained tucked close to me all night, and as I stretch, every joint cracks in protest, a familiar but unwelcome reminder of how much strain I have been under lately.

“Geesh.” Devlyn glances my way before setting down the last candlestick. “Have you been doing your daily stretches? Don’t want all my hard work to go to waste, you know.”

I chuckle softly, the sound feeling like an apology, a cover for everything I can’t seem to fix. “I’m basically middle-aged for a mortal. But of course, Devlyn. How could I forget?” I manage a smile, but it feels fragile, like a mask. My eyes move between the candlestick in her hands and her face, wondering what else she is really thinking.

Her smile falters as she picks up her tunic from the small chair near the tub. “Keep your power usage to a minimum until we get to the castle.” She says it lightly, but there is something about the way her eyes fall that makes my chest tighten. “Not because I don’t trust you…”

I feel my face drop, the words echoing in my mind long after they’ve passed her lips. I try to hold my gaze steady, but I know it is pointless. I can’t look her in the eyes without feeling like I am about to betray her. Betray myself.

“I just don’t want you hurt.” Devlyn’s voice softens, but the words sting. It is not the concern that hurts — it is the weight behind it. The quiet warning in her tone, the fear that laces her gaze before quickly fading.

She walks over to the side table, the subtle click of metal against stone draws my attention. She pulled out a small bag, the same one that held the gold pieces she gave the innkeeper last night. She has something in her hands and as her finger move, sparks flash. Her movements are slower than usual, almost hesitant, as if she is afraid she’ll set off something she doesn’t fully understand. Something dangerous.

“I don’t want to see you lose control,” she says, her fingers brushing the surface of the small metal device she is holding. A flame flickers again at the end of it, casting a faint orange glow over her face. “Your mother would have my head if she found out I knew your powers were…” She hesitates, struggling to find the right word. The words she is avoiding linger in the air.

Out of control.

A threat to myself and others.

Dangerous.

“Confused,” she finally says, her smile forced, strained. Her eyes lock onto mine, that familiar warmth in her eyes, but there’s something else there too. Worry. A hint of doubt. “So, please,” she continues, her voice gentle but firm. “As a request of mine. Your friend. Keep the powers to a minimum until we get back home.”

The smile she offers me grows, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not completely.

And there it is again, the weight in my chest, sinking lower and lower. The guilt. The shame. I want to argue, to tell her that I can control it, that I can handle everything. But I know better.

I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, that knot of unease tightening each time I try to keep my powers in check. The surge that I can no longer suppress, no matter how hard I try. The fear that will burst forth when I least expect it, that I will lose myself in the process. The fear that it is already happening.

Devlyn doesn’t say it aloud, but I hear it between her words, in the way she hesitates. She is scared. She is scared of me, of what I am becoming. She is cautious with me now, as if she is afraid of what I could do, afraid that I am not the same Mihaela she once knew.

And how can I blame her?

How could I expect anyone to feel safe with someone whose powers are slipping from her grasp?

I nod, my lips pressing into a tight line, but it is more to convince myself than her. I can’t speak. My throat feels tight, as if the words are caught behind a wall that is about to break. I look away, swallowing down the lump of frustration and guilt lodged in my chest.

It’s just a request, she said. But it feels like a warning.

For the first time in a long time. I feel small. Helpless. And I hate it.

I want to tell her that I am still the same Mihaela, the one she trusted. But I can’t. Not when the truth is so much darker. I’m not sure who I am anymore, or how much longer I can keep pretending that I am in control.

“Now that I know you haven’t been doing your daily training stretches. Get dressed and then give me twenty pushups.” Devlyn looks my way with a small grin, more like the Devlyn I know.

I roll my eyes, a sharp exhale escaping my lips. “I see the real reason you don’t want me using my powers now…” I groan, slowly crawling out of the bed. The lighthearted sarcasm in my voice is a weak cover for the cold that still crawls under my skin. Another thing I can’t control.

The sting of Devlyn’s words — no powers — lingers with me, heavier than it should. I want to argue, tell her I can handle everything, but I know better than to dismiss the concern in her eyes. Her caution has always kept me grounded, even if right now it feels like it slowly suffocating me.

I push thoughts aside, focusing on the physical task at hand. Pushing my body helps calm my mind, or at least, that is what I tell myself. It is easier to focus on something tangible — on the burn of my muscles, the controlled rhythm of my breath — than to deal with the chaos inside me. It is the only way to suppress the overwhelming sense of guilt, to distract myself from the fear that I am slipping further and further away from myself.

As I stand, I feel every ache in my bones. Every crack and pop that reminds me I have been terrible to this husk the last couple of days. And yet, I most keep moving. I have to. If I stop, even for a moment, my mind starts running wild, and I can’t stop it.

I sway on my feet, glaring at the floor. I don’t let myself think about what Devlyn said or the way she looks at me now, restrained, like she fears what I might do if I lose control. Instead, I focus on the weight of my feet on the wooden floor, the steady rhythm of my pulse.

“Twenty pushups. Fine.” I mumble under my breath. The words are less about defiance and more about filling the silence that I am too afraid to confront… right now.

The burn starts almost immediately as I hit the ground, my arms protesting with each push. But I welcome it. It gives me something to hold on to — something that is still within my reach. My body, my strength… these are the only things I can trust fully anymore.

—

After about thirty minutes of Devlyn barking exercises at me, we finally make it outside the inn. The autumn breeze sweeps through the streets, carrying the faint scent of earth and drying the few drops of sweat that cling to my temples.

At the stalls where our horses were kept, the scouts shift slightly as we approach. Even though they try to hide it, I catch their uneasy glances, the quick flicker of their eyes when they think I am not looking. I am used to that look by now.

I manage to convince Devlyn to let me visit the blacksmith’s shop before we head out to the forest camp, promising her — shifter promise, scout promise, and finally a pinkie promise — that I won’t use my powers unless absolutely necessary.

My powers are unpredictable, a danger even I can’t fully control anymore. I almost laugh, but instead, all I feel is a hollow ache. Even Devlyn, who I have known for so long, now looks at me as I might accidentally tear her world apart.

As I walk down the street, the weight of other’s eyes — some curious, some wary, and a few outright hostile — seems to follow me. Faymore’s mornings are quieter than at dusk, but there are always a few early risers. My steps echo in the silence as I pass boarded-up market stalls and empty alleyways. Even when the streets are deserted, I feel the invisible threads of people’s mistrust winding around me. My scent, sharper, and somehow more potent than any human’s, drifts around me. It doesn’t matter if I am calm, silent or trying to blend in… I always stand out.

I catch sight of an older woman seeping near a spice stand I noticed yesterday, her long white hair braided and decorated with small flowers. She moves with an ease that almost makes me smile — a moment of beauty, quiet and simple, one I wish I could step into. I know better.

When I step past her, my boot splashes a stray puddle, and she glances up. I try to smile, hoping that maybe, for once, I might seem… ordinary. She doesn’t smile back. Her eyes trace over me, wary and withdrawn, and then she steps quickly behind the stall, her gaze fixed on the ground.

The hurt bites deeper than it should, but I swallow it down and quicken my pace. This is how is always is. I can pretend to be like everyone else, but I can’t erase what I am. I smell different. I look different. Even the marks on my skin — a power that frightens others — makes me stand out.

I pull at my sleeves, hoping to cover the tattoos, feeling the familiar urge to hide. But there is no hiding from what I am. They will still sense it, see it, in the way I walk or the faint hum of power that always seems to cling to me. I could be invisible, even so, they would feel my presence like a monster destroying their calm little world.

I shouldn’t care. I have spent my life being feared, being set apart, so why does one woman’s look still sting? I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, that I have bigger things to worry about, but the feeling haunts me, anyway. No matter where I go, I am a stranger, a threat.

But for once, I wish… I don’t even know what I wish. Just that it could all be different. I shake my thoughts from my head and push forward, the blacksmith’s shop finally in sight. I can’t afford to dwell on this. I’ll never be ordinary, and the sooner I accept that, the sooner I can focus on what really matters. I force myself to stand taller, but it is hard to ignore the ache in my chest as I reach the shop… constant and never ending.

Once I reach the storefront, the scent of fire and ash fills my nose, somehow feeling like a distant comfort. I glance back toward Devlyn, who is mounting her black stallion, eyeing me with that half-encouraging, half-worried expression. I don’t have much time.

I reach for the shop’s heavy wooden door and pull it open. A cloud of smoke catches me off guard, stinging my eyes. Warmth follows right after, pressing against my skin like a shield from the morning chill. It is a small comfort, one that reminds me of home and other places I don’t quite belong. But in here, wrapped in warmth and the evident hum of molten metal, it is easier to push aside my own unease, at least for a few moments.

Stepping inside, I survey the shop. The front display is packed with swords, shields, and armor — the kind of things that should feel like second nature to me. I was raised wielding weapons in and from my hands, with expectation sharper than any blade in this shop. But even here, I feel like a ghost passing through someone else’s world.

My eyes move to the back corner, a door is propped open, the pounding rhythm of a hammer against metal echoes through the space. The air here is thick, heavy with heat and the scent of forged steel. It is almost comforting in a way that I wish my powers were. I move around the shop, weaving between tables of swords and shields, the glint of polished metal catching the dim light. I trail my fingers down the length of a sword, tracing the blade’s edge until my hand rests on the hilt.

A snake spirals up the blade, carved in intricate detail, its scales almost shimmering as if alive. I let out a small, wry chuckle. Mother would love that. But as I run my fingers along the cold metal, I can’t help but feel a strange, hollow sensation in my chest. Mother would see strength in this blade, even it had something on that she hated the most, it was still something deadly, precise. And me? No matter how strong I become, people only see something erratic, something violent. Even with a sword in hand, I would still have been seen as a creature to be leery of.

I continue walking, reaching a table with a heavy metal helmet. Curiosity piqued, I life it, nearly toppling over under its weight as I try to fit it on. I can’t help but laugh at myself, feeling ridiculous for even trying. I set the helmet back down carefully when I spot the price tag, stifling my laugh to avoid drawing attention. Everything here feels so solid, so rooted. Tools of war, symbols of protection and honor — things that have purpose, a clear and defined role. But me, stronger than anything in this shop, yet somehow… unfixed, untamed, as I could shatter it all without meaning to.

I shake off the thought, trying to distract myself by looking over the items on display. But there is a part of me, deep down, that wonders if this is all I will ever be — a raging storm trying to fit into a world not meant for the rain.

I drift toward the back of the shop, near the open door that leads into the workshop itself. There is where is all happens — the noise, the sweat, the raw forging that transforms scraps of metal into something powerful, purposeful. For a moment, I am drawn to the sound of it, to the image of metal being shaped by fire and force, as if maybe I could be remade just as easily. But I shake the thought, letting my eyes settle on a small table beside the door, covered in daggers of every size and shape.

I let my fingers hover over each one, a habit by now. Some blades resemble the one tucked into my vest, sharp and practical, meant to be close to me at all times. But I stop when my eyes fall on a shorter dagger, its hilt catching the dim light with a subtle gleam. Unlike the others, this hilt is etched with a painted scene — a forest at dusk, moonlight casting purple shadows along the trees, blending into the soft indigo sky. It is quiet but beautiful, and as I study it, I feel a strange connection to the scene, to the darkness that hovers beyond the trees.

The blade itself, however, is what truly holds my attention. Not metal, but an opal crystal, its edge shine with an unnatural clarity. I reach out, picking it up and feeling the cool, almost glassy smoothness under my fingers. The hilt fits comfortably in my palms, ridged where my fingers press, as it was made just for me. I toss it lightly from one hand to the other, feeling the delicate weight of it, something rare yet sharp enough to wound. I imagine myself wielding it, a flash of moonlight in a hidden forest.

With a jab, I test its balance, caught in the motion of it. I nearly jump when a deep voice speaks up behind me, breaking the stillness.

“I see you know how to handle a blade,” the voice rumbles, half-amused.