Page 7 of Empire of Flame and Thorns

The fact that I even have to knock on the door and then ask if I can come inside, into my own childhood home, makes a tiny fragile part of my heart crack. But it has always been like this. Ever since I moved out when I was eighteen. Or rather, ever since I was asked to leave the day I turned eighteen, I have always had to act as if I’m just an uninvited guest every time I want to come back and visit my parents.

After an extended moment, my father finally steps aside with a sigh.

I carefully walk inside. Fabric rustles from the kitchen. I move towards the sound and find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, mending a pair of pants.

She looks up when I walk into the room, and uneasiness flits across her face for a second before she too covers it up. But I’ve seen it so many times now that it’s impossible to miss it. Another piece of my heart still cracks at the sight of it.

“Selena,” she says.

“Hi, Mom,” I reply.

Footsteps come from behind me. I quickly move farther into the kitchen so that I’m not blocking the doorway. Dad arrives a few seconds later and takes up position in front of one of the wooden counters. I hover awkwardly by one of the sturdy kitchen chairs, wondering whether I should sit down or not.

Dad crosses his arms and remains standing, leaning back against the counter, while Mom is sitting down. Indecision flashes through me as I try to decide if they would feel better if I sat down or if that would just make them think that I was planning on staying long, which would just make them more uncomfortable.

In the end, I gently pull out a chair at the other end of the table and sit down. But I sit on the very edge of the seat, so thatthey will know that I’m just sitting down for a few minutes and will be leaving soon.

A small clock on the shelf behind me ticks loudly into the oppressive silence. My parents simply continue looking at me. Mom’s silver hair has been pulled back in a braid, and there is an impatient look in her lavender and yellow eyes.

I clear my throat. “I, uhm… I just wanted to tell you that… uhm… Yesterday, I did something exciting. Important, I mean.”

Dad furrows his pale brows. Mom just looks like she wants me to get to the point.

Dropping my gaze, I start wringing my hands before I remember myself. With a soft breath, I force my hands flat against my thighs and then look up to meet my parents’ eyes.

“I registered as a contestant for the Atonement Trials,” I blurt out before I can change my mind.

All of last night, and most of today while I was gutting fish, I was debating whether or not to tell my parents that I signed up. We have a complicated relationship, and I didn’t want to burden them with any upsetting news. But a small part of me, the desperate child still inside my heart, wanted them to be excited for me, or worried about my safety, or wish me luck, or all of the above. And that part of me won.

“Why?” is the first thing my dad says. He sounds angry.

Swallowing, I suppress the urge to wring my hands in my lap again. “Well, I just… If I win, I will be able to leave the city. Then I could go anywhere and do… things. I could make a change. Help make your lives better and?—”

“Do not say things like that in my house,” Dad cuts me off, his eyes flashing with both anger and panic. He flicks a quick glance towards the windows, as if to make sure that they are truly closed. “That kind of talk is dangerously close to treason.”

They don’t know that I’m actually an active member of the resistance, and I intend to keep it that way. Because I knew that this is how they would react.

“It’s notyourhouse,” my mother snaps before I can reply. Irritation pulses across her beautiful features as she locks eyes with her husband. “It’sourhouse.”

“You know what I mean,” he huffs. Then he throws his hands up and blows out a forceful sigh. “By Mabona, you always do this. You always twist my words into something else.”

“Twist your words? Thosewereyour exact words!”

“Please,” I interject, trying to mediate. “You have every right to feel upset, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. Right, Dad?”

“Don’t,” both of my parents growl, whipping around to lock hard eyes on me.

“Don’t meddle,” Dad warns.

Mom blows out an angry breath. “You’ve done far too much of that already.”

Pain pulses through my heart, and I shrink back on the chair. Not because of the harsh words, but because they’re right.

I know that my parents resent me. I can feel it every time they look at me. And the worst part of it all is that they have every right to.

When I first manifested my powers, my parents were excited. Neither of them was born with magical abilities, so to have a child with magic was supposed to bring them great benefits. Instead, I only brought them pain.

As a child, I couldn’t control my powers. Which is normal. It takes years for any magic user to gain full control of their powers. But because of the nature of my magic, it caused more destruction than usual.

---