Curling into himself, Memphis did what he knew and turned the crippling pain into fuel, letting his anger guide him. Memories dropped into his mind like stones into a lake, disturbing the thick layer of assault that blanketed him.
His parents, his childhood home—Sarthaven. It was picture perfect, a small cottage by the coast, hours away from the capital. 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 churned and consumed the sky or how they dissipated and nestled far above the stars that 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 screaming at him to stop, to calm down. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. He remembered 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 of him until a fissure was exposed, and it overtook him.
Memphis 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 raking 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?
That they couldn’t help him, wouldn’t help him.
The weight of his backpack, his meager clothing sticking out from the top, was the indication of what his parents wanted: him gone. Memphis remembered, the ushering of strong hands, the snap of the door. His panicked pleas swallowed up against the crashing of waves. His fists beating, bloodied against the door, his raking sobs. Then darkness.
The memory stretched too thin, dissolving like smoke. But Memphis, despite his grief, would never forget that day. He had left his home, alone and scared. Traveling away from the coastline of the Black Sea and further into unknown woods, he had wandered aimlessly for hours, young and helpless, trees bowing in his wake, pebbles floating after him in a trail as he walked.
It was two men ferrying goods by carriage into Sarthaven that had found him, bringing him to the capital. The rest was history. Roque and Nei had eyes everywhere, looking for people who needed refuge, and he was brought to the Academy.
Memphis sat up straight, taking a deep breath. The pain of that memory had always worked to ground him; why he had come here forced the chaos of his mind to a quiet purr. He knew he wasn’t defined by his ability, and his dream was to go back to his parents and show them he wasn’t dangerous, that he had control.
He stood, brushing away his tears. Right then, his door exploded open, and his best friend stalked in, his anger etched into his features.
“Memph, you look like your day has gone like mine has.” Brokk smirked, but it faded fast as he took in Memphis’s ashen complexion. Sighing, Brokk ran a hand through his unruly golden hair. “How bad is it, Memph?”
“Bad,” Memphis whispered, resuming his grounding walk.
Brokk was basically bouncing at 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 Memphis’s speech, forcing him to stop. “I’m telling you, Memph, there is something more 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. “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, the door exploded open, making them both jump. Memphis turned around, and instantly, everything else was whisked away. Emory stood in the doorway, her face flushed as she supported Adair, who looked half dead, his nails cracked and dried blood smearing his hands. Dread filled Memphis’s core as he saw dried blood smeared on her cheek as well.
“Emory,” Memphis breathed her name, his heart practically jumping out of his chest.
“Can I get a little help here?” she snapped, focusing on them. Memphis leaped 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
