Siyala
“Mama, I don’t understand why I can’t come with you!
I do my schooling at home anyway!” Trailing behind my mother as she gathers clothing from my closet, my stomach flutters with nervous energy.
Magic curls around my spine, but I don’t want to shift right now.
Right now, I just don’t want to be left behind.
“This trip is not one for children, I’m afraid,” she counters, her dark brown braid swishing side to side as she carries an armful of clothing and stuffs it into a large satchel.
“Besides, you cannot miss a week of studies. When I agreed to let you do schooling at home, it was because you promised you would work just as hard as your peers.” I frown, as if I truly chose to do schooling from home.
Like I wasn’t driven there by the pitying looks and gossip whispered about my family—about Papa.
“Kenji promised that he would help you should you have any questions, and you can work on his farm to earn some money so that when I return, we can go shopping.”
“Mama, I don’t care—”
“Think of it as a little vacation, yes? I’m sure it can be boring being cooped up in this house all the time.
Alone, now that—” She pinches her lips shut, forcibly stopping herself from continuing.
For once, I wish she would. I wish she would say out loud what we both know to be true.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she folds the last of my clothing in silence, careful to avoid my stare.
It has been weeks since I’ve seen my father, since he and my mother had another fight in the kitchen before he stormed out, claiming he was going to Molsi early.
It had been over some tinctures he bought—Papa’s desperation to return to his animal driving him to spend money he did not have on potions that were nothing more than false hope in a bottle.
I was only a child when the blight first struck him, and for those first few years, it seemed that the rumors of how one could go mad after not being able to shift were just that, rumors.
My earliest memories of Papa are of him happy. Smiling.
People in town called us lucky. Friends said that if you were to be trapped in one form forever, to be thankful that it was a mortal one.
At least you can still talk with him, they would say to me.
At least you can still fuck, they would add towards my mother, though not nearly as quietly as they thought.
It has only been six years since I first shifted, and even in that short period of time, I crave my time as a fox.
Shifting into that form is like drawing new breath after holding mine for far too long.
Kenji said we were never meant to be just one or the other and that, while the blight strips us of the ability to shift, it’s the disconnect to our other form that does the killing. That it is life cut off at the source.
But, eventually, the madness did come, and watching Papa slowly lose himself to his inner turmoil didn’t feel lucky.
He became brash and conspiratorial, avoiding his job to hunt for clues that the blight was somehow created by the former king, Noa.
When he did work, the money he earned stopped making its way back to Mama.
She had to ask Tiare and Titus for help, though I could tell that it crushed her to do so.
Even so, they could only give small amounts, needing to fund their own lives too.
That is when Kenji stepped in. Money. Food.
Attention. He provides it all, and he does so without asking for anything in return.
The thought of him should make me feel safe, comforted. But all I can feel right now is panic.
“Please, Mama,” I plead as she closes the clasp on the bag. “I can help find him. I will study extra upon my return—”
“Siyala.” She finally looks up at me, her red-rimmed eyes glistening with tears.
Stepping closer, she cups the side of my face, her other hand tucking a strand of my pale, white hair behind my ear.
“I know you are nervous. I am too. But I will go to Molsi, and I will find your father. I’ll enlist the help of the king, if I have to.
After all, I did help raise the boy.” She manages a small smile at the mention of Kai.
His mother—her sister—died shortly after I was born.
I’m not supposed to know that they believe the circumstances surrounding her death were suspicious and that the former king was thought to be the cause.
It is surprising what adults will say around you when they think you are not listening.
When they assume that you do not care. When they’ve forgotten you exist. “I will return with your father, and then all will be well again. Now, come on, Kenji is expecting us.”
Nothing else is spoken as she leads us on the twenty minute walk to Kenji’s.
When we arrive, he and my mother chat in the main living quarters of his house, while I take my bag to where I assume the spare bedroom is.
Most of the houses built in Honna have the same layout, only those with significantly higher means build additions.
I find it with the door open, the thick scent of damp island dirt hitting me as I walk in, the humidity following.
Glass boxes line a long table against one wall, a bed with a simple floral spread set up across from it.
A window stands centered between the two, giving a distant view of the ocean.
Setting my bag down, I look at the different flowers and plants that Kenji has growing in the room, some of them appearing as common and simple as the monsterra leaves that can be found in the jungle right outside, while others look exotic.
Unknown. Shades of pink and orange I have never seen before. Yellow and blue too.
“Sorry for the temperature.” I startle at the sound of his voice behind me, turning to find him leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. He smiles in apology.
“It’s fine,” I manage to squeak out, turning back to look at a flower whose petals appear pointed, as if each one is meant to mimic the end of a thick dagger.
“Your mother just left.” I nod, pushing down the hurt that rises at the fact that she hadn’t given me one last goodbye.
Silly, considering she will be back in a week or so.
Hopefully with Papa, though a small part of me wonders if the madness of the blight has finally driven him far, far away.
Maybe even off the island. Worry then hits me that maybe he doesn’t care.
“The protea ruberia,” Kenji says, his voice behind me now. “Or the island’s dagger.”
“A fitting name.”
Kenji chuckles, waiting until I turn fully to look at him.
“I know this is a strange time, Little Kit. But don’t worry.
We will make the most of it, and hopefully, when your mother returns, your father will be with her.
Now, let me give you a tour of the rest of the house.
” I pretend that I don’t hear the uncertainty in his voice.
Pressing his hand against my lower back, he guides me back out into the hall.
We pass the laundry and dining room, and just as I suspected, the largest bedroom is set at the end.
Kenji opens the door, the scent of sandalwood and fresh-tilled earth spilling out of it.
It smells like him. “My room, of course.”
My gaze roams over the dark furniture and the deep green comforter on the bed, dancing over the doors that likely lead to a bathroom and closet and the windows letting in the afternoon sunlight.
Exposed beams cross over the ceiling, the light wood most common on the island, though my brows furrow at the strip of pink fabric tied to one of them.
I open my mouth to ask, but Kenji interrupts.
“Are you hungry?” I huff out a breath and nod, stepping back into the hall so that he can close the door.
“Let us see what kind of trouble we can get into.” He smiles broadly, something Kenji does often, and then leads us to the kitchen.
Walking behind him, I struggle to settle down my magic, the way it curls and coils up my spine.
Mama and Papa will be back soon. No need to panic.
Eight steps. That is how deep the cell is.
It goes six steps in the other direction.
This is what my life has been reduced to, an eight by six prison cell beneath the castle of a foul king.
Sitting at the back of the cot, I tilt my head back and blow out a frustrated breath.
With my fever broken and my wound healing, I have more mobility than before.
It is both a blessing and a curse. At least when I was succumbing to infection, the time passed more quickly in the haze of delirium.
Now I might as well count the seconds that pass.
It is disorienting, constantly being in the dark, never breathing in air not tainted with something foul.
Having never experienced a dungeon before, I almost expected it to be more…
lively. People begging for their lives, or perhaps, riotous prisoners shouting profanities as they await their inescapable fates.
Instead, I find it quiet. Uneventful. In the time I have been lucid, I can count on one hand the number of prisoners brought in, and all of them have already been taken out.
I thought I understood loneliness when I lived with Rhea in the tower.
When I was trapped within my animal form, unable to speak to her.
And it had been lonely, but not like this.
Since Xander’s last visit, two meals have been brought to my cell.
Tienne also visited briefly, waking me to drop off fresh gauze.
I barely had time to open my eyes and register that she was there before she was gone again, and in my daze, I swore she disappeared into the room with the weapons hanging on the wall. The torture room.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I sit up and run my hands through my hair, cringing at the knots and wishing for access to a true bath.
I had loathed having Rhea wash me in the tower, even if I knew that she had no clue who or what I really was.
Working through a tangle, I let myself imagine her safe and warm—perhaps curled up with a book, the pages spread open on her lap.
It’s a pretty image until the doubt begins to set in.
Flynn lied to her about being a guard, and she had trusted him enough to enter a new kingdom with him anyway.
But Rhea isn’t a child, and she certainly isn’t without weapons of her own.
Maybe time away from the tower is the exact thing she needs to realize just how powerful she is.
My fingers freeze in the strands of my hair as I tilt my head at a distant sound.
Footsteps. Pressing myself back towards the wall, I listen for the sound of heartbeats as the footsteps near.
I pick up two distinct rhythms, and then Xander and the king step in front of my cell, the former wearing his full armor, onyx hair creeping out past his helmet and brushing his shoulders.
Both men stand tall, though the king falls a few inches shorter.
He wears no crown, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is a royal.
It’s present in the precise tailoring of his clothing, the fabrics unmarred by any signs of labor or distress.
I see it in the impeccable coif of his hair and the manicured trim of his beard.
The straight slope of his nose and flawless cut of his jaw.
Inhaling deeply, he holds his breath like it might calm his racing heart.
It doesn’t appear to work. “You could free yourself from this torture.” His head tilts slightly, the move reminding me of the predatory cats on the island.
“You could once more taste fresh air and feel sunlight on your skin. All you have to do is answer my questions.”
Anger bubbles within me, hot and thick and volatile.
I lift my head to glare at him, my jaw clenching as I battle to silence the growl that demands to be released.
My magic tingles as warmth floods my chest, stretching invisible hands towards my neck.
“I would rather die a slow and painful death at your hands than tell you anything you want to know.” My control slips, and the growl tumbles out anyway, paired with a flashing of my teeth.
King Dolian’s lip curls in response, his disgust evident. “Be careful what you wish for, you vile creature. I will happily peel the flesh off of you bit by bit.”
I hear Rhea’s whimpers in my mind, feel her clinging to me after a visit from him, tears dripping into my fur. I level my gaze at him, disdain dripping from every word. “Do it, then.”
“You would do well to remember who you are talking to.” Xander’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I only spare him a scathing glance before I turn it back on the king. Goosebumps bloom along the back of my neck as he dares a step closer to the bars.
“How often did you watch from whatever corner you were hidden in? Yet you did nothing.” My nails dig into the flesh on my arms where they hug my knees to my chest, a tremor working its way through my muscles.
Kill him. The instinct is strong. “You want to paint me as the villain, and maybe I am, but you had the capability to help—to stop it—and you. Did. Nothing.” My chest heaves, imaginary claws flexing within me.
“Now you will die here, and whether you tell me what I want to know or not, it won’t matter. Not to her.”
Launching from the cot isn’t a conscious choice, just as running towards the vile man isn’t.
I don’t register the pain in my leg or the few steps it takes to cross the small space.
All I see is red as I reach for him, Xander’s arm extending as if in slow motion to stop me.
I clutch on to the king’s vest, yanking him towards me as if I might pull his body right through the bars.
“I will kill you.” I watch the first flicker of fear shine in his hazel eyes but don’t get to relish it before I am shoved back, my grip on the king lost when Xander pushes me. The king runs his hands over his chest, as if he can sweep my touch off of him, his eyes comically wide.
“Get the information out of her by whatever means necessary,” he growls, his shoulder hitting Xander’s as he backs away from the cell. “For every question she refuses to answer, cut off a finger.”