Page 4 of A Broken Promise

“Is your blood red?” she questioned.

“What?” My brows bunched in confusion.

“Does your blood run red?” she repeated in between her sniffles.

“Yes,” I answered, raising my eyebrows in question.

“If it helps, you are not a Seer. Their blood runs blue,” she explained, adjusting her legs to let her knees rest against the wall.

“It does help.” I nodded. It really did. “Thank you,” I quickly added. Though Tuluma educated me well, being an Elf, she herselfknew very little of the mages and their magic and refused to educate me on the human world.

Well, not a Seer. I guess I knew that now. I highly doubted I was a Creator considering my looks. I was barely 5’3” with a starved, boyish-looking figure. My ashy blond hair was down to my waist, but it was heavily matted and unkempt. My face was round, covered in large, dark freckles that made me look diseased with some wicked kind of pox or sometimes, just outright dirty. My deep green eyes were paired up with dark brown, bushy brows. My lips weren’t plump and nice like hers, but instead were weirdly unmatched, with the bottom lip bigger than the top, and constantly cracked and crusty from my terrible habit of picking at them. The only feature I liked about myself was my small nose. Overall, I could barely pass as an average-looking human. In no way was I remotely stunning enough to pass as a Creator.

No beauty, no blue blood. A Healer perhaps?

“What about Healers? Do you know much about them?” I asked, raising my eyes to her.

“Healers are rare. Not as rare as Seers, but not as common as Creators. Unlike the other Magic Wielders, the gift of healing is passed on through generations. Did you know your parents?” Her voice shook less, I realized, though occasional sniffs still interrupted her sentences.

“No. Mother died in childbirth. Father unknown. At least, my mother’s maid didn’t know who he was.”

“Do you have thelight?” She continued after realizing my confusion. “It’s a gold-like, shimmery thread that contains the healing magic. Healers usually have it within their bodies and can tug on it to heal. The stronger the Healer, the thicker their thread. Some legends tell of the powerful Healers with Light so potent and thick that it would glow from underneath their skin, running through them thicker than their arteries.”

I couldn’t heal. I knew that.

“How did you know you were a Magic Wielder?” The carriage shook yet again, banging our heads against the harsh metal.

Maybe my questions were direct or intrusive.

Perhaps a little desperate.

But she softly replied.

“I grew up knowing. My aunts were human so they each took a kid as my parents ran. Separated, we had a better chance of survival after my dad was killed. I was the youngest. Each of my siblings were Creators but had different levels of magic in them. When puberty hit, I knew what to look for, I guess. Unlike my siblings, my powers never became stronger past the shifter stage.” She swallowed. “The less power you have, the less chance of getting discovered.” She paused again. This time, a heavy silence laid between us as she said, “None of my siblings made it past thirty.”

“I am sorry.” I couldn’t imagine what it’s like to have siblings, family, aunts. But I knew the pain and grief of losing one. I recognized the familiar flicker of anguish. An invisible scar that we both carried.

A small tear rolled over her cheek. “Somehow I foolishly hoped that with the smallest amount of magic and being the youngest, I would at least live until thirty, unlike my siblings.” I flinched as she broke into quiet sobs again.

I didn’t know how to reply. There was no hope I could give. No hope left.

We rode in silence well into the night.

Even my mind quieted.

The openings in the ceiling were too small to let in the bleak light of the moon, leaving us in familiar darkness.

The previously welcoming smell of the fresh pine trees was long gone, taken over by the acidic smell of stale urine.

My stomach grumbled with hunger, but I welcomed the feeling. We were fed in the Rock Quarries twice a day. Always the same porridge. Always the same size scoop.

But the cooks liked Viyak.

Everyoneliked him.

They would sometimes add salt just for him, and he would switch me plates, or share with me his slightly larger portions.

Abruptly, the wagon stopped. I widened my eyes, attempting to see anything in the pitch black. My ears were aware of each noise, eachbreath. Gravel rattled outside under heavy but slow steps. My heart paused.

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