Chapter 28
Malia
They will come for me.
He will come for me.
They won’t leave me behind. I keep telling myself that, but I’ve been with the Dark Fraction for a week, and so far, not a single person of Arcane has been here. No one has tried to save me.
They are working on a plan.
Maybe they haven’t located the camp yet.
I just have to hang on a little longer.
My parents are furious.
They expected me to be a strong warrior by now, hoped I could at least give them intel on their enemies if nothing else.
Instead, I’m a stubborn little girl. That’s what they call me.
They’ve asked me about the number of students currently attending Arcane, the people on the guard, how Adira trains her students, and so on, but I haven’t told them anything.
In their bouts of anger, they’ve mostly left me alone.
Without food or water and locked in a dirty cell, sure, but unharmed, at least.
"Who are you trying to protect? My sister who lied to you? The people who abandoned you? Don’t you see, Malia, they don’t care about you.
We do.
We are your family, Malia, just tell us what we need to know." I mull over the last words my mother said to me before locking me in here hours ago.
They do care.
They didn’t abandon me.
I cling to that. I remember all the fun I had with Wystan and Dustin, and how Kaz took care of me. I think about Keahi.
"Of course, she means nothing!" He didn’t mean that.
I know he didn’t.
Even if Adira wouldn’t send people to save me, Keahi would come.
He will come.
With a temper like his, he’s probably glowing at the thought of fighting the Dark Fraction and getting bragging rights for having saved me. He’ll insist I’m forever indebted to him.
And I will be.
I want to be.
If only I can get out of here.
In a change of routine, my father unlocks the door and takes off my restraints before telling me to follow him.
I don’t talk or protest.
We walk off the trampled walkways in the grass leading towards the heart of the living quarters, past some overgrown ruins until I can no longer see my cell on the outskirts of the camp. I didn’t notice a lot when they brought me here other than that we’re in the same woods that surround the academy only miles away and hidden amongst ruins of old stone buildings. We stop in the middle of a small clearing, and without warning, he attacks me. I redirect the beam of water soaring through the air straight toward my head, and he praises me for it.
"That’s my girl,” he muses, and it makes my skin crawl.
I hate it when they remind me I’m their flesh and blood.
“You might think you know a lot about your powers, Malia. Let me tell you, you are wrong. What Adira teaches her students is only a fraction of what you can do. The tip of the iceberg. I will teach you the rest.
“Have you learned about manipulating another person?" he asks.
I don’t answer, only to feel my own hand slapping me across the face seconds later.
"Answer me," my father demands.
"I did," I bite out.
It’s been days since I heard my own voice, and it sounds unfamiliar to me, scratchy and bitter.
"What did you learn?" He keeps shooting attacks my way while talking.
"I know how to dehydrate someone until they pass out," I answer, making him laugh.
I clench my fists at my side.
"If you would have grown up here, you would have learned that right after your initiation.” He huffs.
“Where do you find water in the human body? Let’s hope you learned more in biology than you did during training."
"Everywhere?"
"More or less.
That means you can do a lot more than give someone a measly headache." My father leans his head to the side as if he was concentrating.
A moment later, I start coughing and it’s hard to breathe.
"Stop!" I wheeze out, my fingers grasping at my throat while he watches happily.
He enjoys hurting me for a moment longer before stopping the attack.
"Your lungs are about 83% water." He twists his finger, and my arm pops out at an odd angle.
I wail and clutch it desperately.
"Even your bones are 31% water,” he notes.
Then, seeing my posture, he adds, “Stand up straight, Malia, or I will leave your arm like this." I whimper but let go of the broken bone, straightening my back and taking a deep breath.
I’m a fighter.
My father looks at me as I try to even out my breathing.
Only when I show no sign of pain, does he bend my bone back with another painful flick of his hand.
"Your brain and heart both consist of water to 73%.
If you know just how, you can make others act however you want.
When I, for example, concentrate on the part of your brain which is responsible for your movement," his voice trails off.
I have a moment to brace myself for what might happen before my legs start walking without my permission.
I try to stop, but I’m too lightheaded.
I’m walking straight toward a steep cliff, unable to stop my body’s disobedience.
"Stop!" I say desperately.
"You are a water handler yourself.
Act like one!" he snaps at me.
I near the edge of the abyss and desperately try to get to the ground and cling to something, but my legs won’t bend.
"Tell me how!" My voice is no longer even.
"I told you everything you need to know."
I think back to what he said, but I can’t remember what might be helpful.
The right part of your brain.
The frontal lobe is responsible for movement, but even knowing that, I don’t want to mess with my brain. You’re a water handler yourself.
I remember what I can do.
With a twist of my hand, my legs stop misbehaving.
I look back to see my father passed-out on the grass. With my heart in my throat, I silently thank Kaz for making me train that move so often.
I scan my surroundings and it seems like I am alone.
With my father passed-out like this and no one else around, this is just my chance.
I take a deep breath and jump over the drop of the cliff, creating a compact wave of water beneath my feet to make it to the other side.
I’m not sure where I am or what direction to head in.
Going back the way I came from would mean walking through the whole camp, so I just have to improvise.
I run for a good 15 minutes, and it becomes painfully clear how my body’s condition has decreased in the short time I was at camp without proper meals, sleep or exercise.
When my limbs suddenly freeze, it has nothing to do with the stitch in my side, though.
It’s not me who orders them to do that.
I am forced to my knees and my father steps in front of me, his face unreadable.
"That was not a bad move," he says first.
"Incredibly stupid to try on me, nonetheless." A nasty grin spreads over his face, and I feel the urge to cough again, though not truly.
Next, the bone in my left leg starts to hurt, aching brutally but never snapping. He’s toying with me.
"My plan was to try this again tomorrow and every day after that until your skills weren’t lacking anymore, but I’m taking it you are not ready to learn from me yet.
No, whoever they made you believe you were in the last five years is too disobedient and stubborn.
None of the important values we taught you remain, so maybe it’s best if we give you some time to remember who you really are. Who you need to be."
I don’t answer, refusing to give him what he wants.
My stubbornness leads to a broken index finger.
This time, my father doesn’t heal the bone as he makes me follow him back to camp like a broken puppet on a string.
I’m strapped into a prickly seat in the same dark room where they recovered my memories, and my father makes some adjustments to my restraints and sets something up just out of sight behind me before he leaves me utterly alone in the dark.
The pain in my index finger gradually increases, and I have a feeling it’s twisted in some weird way, but I can neither touch nor see it.
On my other side, the first drop of some liquid touches the back of my hand, making my nerves stand to attention.
Okay.
I can handle this.
As long as they leave me alone, I can ignore the mounting discomfort of my broken finger or the dull spikes digging into my skin wherever I’m touching the chair.
I lose track of time, but after what can’t be that long, I realize I was mistaken.
I can’t handle this.
Not when the only thing for me to focus on is the single drop splattering onto my hand at an uneven pace.
It’s not water, I’ve tried to manipulate it.
After a while, it doesn’t feel like something liquid at all.
It feels like someone is repeatedly shooting my hand. I’ve tried to scream for someone to let me out, but they’re ignoring me.
I have to admit I wish I had answered his question this once.
Part 4
Age: 15-17