Page 15 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“One war doesn’t give us the right to abuse their children—”
“Ms. Estridon,” she hisses, silencing me. “Threebattles, and against the Folk.”
“Perhaps they had a reason,” I press on.
“This is not the Eunoias’ universe. We are here because the Lyrians decided we areallowedto be.” Her gaze drills into mine, her voice dangerously quiet. “There is no space for revolution.”
I look down, breaking eye contact when I feel her conviction. She’s more emotionally grounded than me and could easily win a game of wills, despite her beingwrong.
“I don’t want a revolution,” I mutter as I tug at the fingers of my gloves. “I only want people to be treated fairly.”
The words hang between the four marble walls of Ms. Ferner’s classroom, until finally, she cuts them down. “You like history, don’t you?”
I lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Some of it.”
“Then you should know there isn’t space in the universe forfair.” She gestures to my seat. “Sit down.”
I consider not doing as she asks, to take a stand. But she doesn’t need to teach me magic. I’m here becauseIneed her to.
So, I sit, and in that seat, I put up my shields. I envision myself surrounded by a barrier—like a blanket of greensmothering me. It’s meant to hold my power in, trapping a piece of me behind a mental cage of my own making.
It doesn’t always work.
“Whenever you’re ready, Estridon.”
With her, I don’t hold back. The whole point is to try and fail—to look her in the eye, tell her to feel something, and have nothing happen.
But it always works. I can always bend her emotions.
I’ve spent years trying to control this. Yet every time I command someone, they obey.
One day, when I finally fail—when my power is no longer stronger than my will—we’ll move on to my hands and their deadly nature. I’ll find a way to get rid of the gloves.
“Shields up, Estridon,” she demands.
I visualize my shields, closed and locked around me. I feel my power pushing against them, clawing for freedom.
“Command me.”
“You will not look away from me.” I meet her gaze, my power pressing behind my words. Ms. Ferner fights, but the magic is too strong.
Even stronger than my own will.
It always works. I can always bend her emotions—anyone’s emotions—no matter how hard I fight.
A tree is stronger than a piece of paper.
“Shields up, Estridon—”
“Quiet,” I cut her off, and her lips seal shut.
Slowly, her pupils grow, nearly covering her entire eye.
I sigh. I failed. She is entirely under my control. A tear slides down my cheek, my bottom lip wobbling.
“You don’t care for my reaction,” I mutter, wiping the tear away. I don’t know why I thought it’d be different, this time.
I’m always waiting for it to be different.
