He was transported in memory to his childhood home. It was picture-perfect, a small cottage by the coast, hours away from the capital, Sarthaven. Breathing in, he could practically remember how the salt-crusted air tasted on his lips, the roaring waves, the endlessness of the horizon. How the clouds consumed the sky or how they dissipated, and nestled far above, the stars winked down at him like gems. The comfort of the memory vanished, and Memphis saw himself at the age of six, curled in a ball in their living room, knives and dishware levitating around him in a flurry. His parents screamed at him to stop, to calm down. He remembered that day like it was yesterday, through the tears, the anger, the names.
Freak. Monster. Uncontrolled.
His emotions were unhinged, and he didn’t know, didn’t understand what was happening. His ability had been quietly building inside him until a fissure was exposed, and it overtook him. He cringed as he remembered the glint of steel, the cry of pain. The knife lodged in his mother’s shoulder and her blood trickling down her blouse, her shocked expression. The blame in her icy eyes. His parents were desolates, which had never bothered Memphis because he was told he was exactly like them. Unchosen and without ability but living a peaceful life without fear. Until everything changed. He remembered his apologies, his racking sobs as his father yelled at him to get out, to get help. That he wasn’t safe to be around, they didn’t want him to stay. How could they have a son like him? They couldn’t help him, wouldn’t help him.
The weight of the bag, the ushering of strong hands. The snap of the door. His panicked pleas wallowed up against the crashing waves. His fists beating, bloodied against the door. Then darkness. The memory stretched too thin, dissolving like smoke. He never saw his parents again after that day. He had wandered aimlessly for hours, young and helpless, trees bowing in his wake, pebbles floating after him in a trail as he walked. Memphis had vaguely remembered the cries, the strong hands, the rocking of the carriage beneath him. The whispers. The overpowering chaos exploding in his mind as he saw one blaring sign reading, Sarthaven. The rest was history to him, and the capital had brought him to the Academy.
He sat up straight, taking a deep breath. The pain of that memory always worked to ground him and to force the chaos of his mind to a quiet purr. That he was not just his ability. He could go back to his parents one day and show them that he had control. Memphis stood, angrily brushing away his tears. Right then, his door exploded open, and his best friend stalked in, his anger etched into his features.
“You look like you have had a similar day to me.”
Brokk opened his mouth then closed it tightly as he took in Memphis’s ashen complexion. Sighing, he ran a hand through his unruly golden hair. “How bad is it, Memph?”
“Bad,” he whispered, resuming his grounding walk.
Brokk was basically bouncing on his heels as he gushed, “Well guess who was taken in to see Roque, with the lingering threat of expulsion.”
Memphis felt the corners of his mouth pull upward. “Well that would make sense, seeing as you punched a teacher.”
He could practically hear the words before Brokk said them. “Memph, come on. You’re not telling me you agree with them?”
“Brokk, how many times have we already talked about this? The Academy and the teachers here aren’t the enemies. The people who abuse their gifts, the people who prey on the desolates, the people who threaten the peace of our country are the enemies.”
Brokk huffed, cutting off his course, forcing him to stop. “I’m telling you, Memph, something more is going on here. I can feel it. When I was brought in, Cesan was there, and I interrupted something big.”
“Did your heightened sense tell you as much?”
Brokk cuffed the back of his head, growling. “Can’t you be serious for once? There is tension between the Faes and the Strattons, and that doesn’t concern you one bit?”
“No, it doesn’t. Friends fight, Brokk. It doesn’t mean it’s a threat to us.”
Brokk poked him in the chest. “Well I’m going to find out exactly what is. I’m tired of being told what I should and shouldn’t know.” For the second time within a few short minutes, the door exploded open, making them both jump. Memphis whirled around, and instantly everything else was whisked away. Emory stood in the doorway, her face flushed as she supported Adair, who looked half dead, nails cracked and streaks of blood smearing his hands. Dread filled Memphis’s core as he saw dried blood smeared on her cheek as well.
“Emory.” He breathed her name, his heart practically jumping out of his chest.
“Can I get a little help here?” she snapped, focusing on them. He leapt forward, wrapping one arm around Adair’s waist, shifting his weight to him.
Adair looked up to him murmuring, “Thank you, Carter.”
“Let’s just get you to the bed, Stratton. You look like you’ve seen better days, too.”
Adair chuckled darkly as they shuffled to the bunker. Memphis swallowed hard as the edges of his mind pushed and pulled, and he shut down his wall hard. He would not slip, not when his friends needed him.
Brokk cut past them, his low voice rumbling. “What happened?”
Emory snapped the door shut behind her, her shaking hands lingering on the handle. “My grandfather is dead. The new King of the Shattered Isles is here.” Memphis lowered Adair onto the bed, his friend groaning as he covered his face with his hands. Brokk glared at Adair, mistrust filling his golden eyes.
Memphis stood between them and ignored Brokk’s glare as he whispered, “Em, I’m sorry.”
She faced them all.
