It’s not just fear in her voice, nor a healthy dose of pessimism. Few Crusaders live long once they’ve been inducted, and our family is unfortunate enough to know firsthand just how short their lives can be.
“He’ll die anyways if the Blight reaches us,” I argue softly, biting back the sting of tears in my own throat.
Our front door swings wide before she can respond with the same counterargument she’s thrown in my face a dozen times before. My mother believes that there is always an alternative choice, that no one has to choose death, which is what becoming a Crusader is. And though I’m no longer eager to join them myself like I was when I was younger, back when I believed in the glory of heroism and the optimistic outlook that we might stand a chance against the evil devouring our lands, I think my mother still doubts I’ve had a change of heart. I think she fears that the reality check of my brother’s untimely death is waning on me, no matter how many times I reassure her otherwise.
My father blows through the doorway like the winter wind. He stomps the snow from his boots at the entrance before throwing back his hood to frown at us both. “It’s too early in the day for morose talk of the Blight,” he says. “If it’s work you’re in need of, Halira, you can join me out at the shop. You can help me deliver more soup to the refugees we’re housing there. I’m sure they’d rather be served by a beautiful young woman than this ugly, old man.”
My mother and I both snort, for my father is anything but ugly and old. Though he’s not as roguishly handsome as his youngest brother—my uncle Adrien—his gentle heart is visible through his umber eyes. There’s no rigidity or coldness to him like most of those who live in the squalor of the Wallows, and despite the hardship he had to endure after his parents died during the Great Rift when he was still just a boy, he still managed to carry himself with kindness, benevolence, joy. The same can’t be said for his other brother, Esmond.
Before I can politely decline his entirely unappealing offer, my mother interjects for me.
“She’s headed to town with Dimitri to watch him sign his life away.”
I scowl at her as she walks by me to give my father a kiss on the cheek. He leans down into her lips, but his mind is at work behind those dark eyes. He props the door open for her so she can start her day, but instead she stops, spine straight, clearly waiting for him to agree with her and give her some vindication.
To my mother’s disapproval, my father shrugs at her before saying to me, “Then may bravery fill his heart and protect his soul.”
Rolling her eyes, my mother starts to walk out the doorway, but she’s stopped by a raven chittering in the window. As the three of us turn to it, it belts out a single deafening squawk that grinds at the back of my neck. Most animals, I adore. I’d spent much of my childhood wandering the forest and observing the many woodland creatures I came upon.
I have no love for this fowl though.
“Oh look, Kalli’s sent a raven.” My mother races back to the table to set aside her candle-making supplies before jogging over to the window. She unravels the twine around the bird’s ankle. “Do you think she’s coming home for a visit?”
“In the middle of winter? With the Blight so close?” My father barks a laugh, steam carrying it out into the cool open air by the doorway. He closes the door behind him and shrugs his cloak off. “I doubt it. Maybe she’s sending word of Esmond’s most recent heinous plans.”
“Oh stop,” my mother says, fanning him off. “You shouldn’t talk of the Magistrate that way, even if he is your brother. If anyone heard you—”
“What? They’d call me a traitor? Accuse me of treason? Bah!” my father bellows. “Would a traitor sacrifice his arrow shop just to house the refugees fortunate enough to have made it out of Ashenvale? Would a traitor have sent his only son to fight in the Shadow Crusade to protect all of Arcathain? Or”—he adds emphasis here, mischief hiking his thick eyebrows—“would a traitor, perhaps, anoint his son as a general just so he wouldn’t have to see battle, and then flee to the westernmost side of the continent, taking his elite army with him, and abandoning the people of Arcathain?”
“Oddo!” My mother’s voice is shrill, her eyes bulging. “You can’t say such things about the Magistrate—”
He throws his hands in the air with an exasperated sigh. “Piss on a mage, Evelyne. You’d think I was talking to one of his advisers about my plans of killing the bastard. I’m in our home, dear. I’m allowed to besmirch my selfish, greedy brother under the protection of my own roof. It’s not as if Halira is going to travel all the way to the Capital just to tell her dear old Uncle Esmond how I feel about his politics, are you, dear?”
Groaning, I flip my hood over my head, making sure to roll my eyes at them both before turning my back to them. “Dimitri is waiting for me. I have to go.”
“Be careful out there,” my mother warns when I open the door again, another gust of winter flurrying in. “Remember to keep as much distance as you can between you and the—”
“I know, Mum. I don’t have a death wish. I won’t be caught anywhere near the Shadowthorn—no nearer than we already are, anyway. I’ll be back in time for lunch.”
“Wonderful. You’ll be just in time to help me with dipping the wicks.”
I can hear the goading smile in her voice, so I say with a smirk of my own, “Maybe make that suppertime.”
Outside, the frigid morning air blows through the threads of my cloak, making me feel as if I’m not even wearing one. I tug the worn fabric closer and glance through the fog of my breath. Winter has sunk its teeth into Gravenburg, and it’s not even a week past solstice. It’s too cold and too early for most of my neighbors to be outside right now, not unless they have to be, but I’m not entirely alone.
Crusaders patrol the Shadowthorn border, clad in their black leather and shining, silver breastplates, shadowsteel weapons close at hand. They’re a new addition to the Wallows, one I still haven’t grown accustomed to. It’s an odd feeling to grow up knowing of the Blight’s existence but never having to confront it. It always seemed like some distant threat, one that I thought the Crusaders would’ve dealt with long before it ever reached Gravenburg. But with the increasing presence of the Shadow Crusade at our border, and having watched the black sickness claw its way through the forest that I used to frolic in as a child, it’s impossible not to face the hard truth that the Blight has arrived, and it’s unlikely anyone will stop it before my family loses everything here.
Ducking around the corner, once I’ve put some distance between me and the Shadowthorn, my gloomy disposition fades. It’s rare that I get a day off. Although I’m not as beholden to my work as most seem to be, my parents keep me fairly busy helping them with whatever they need. This past fall, my mother assigned me to harvesting her beehives, ensuring we had enough wax and honey to barter with for the year. My father, too, had his assignments around the shop—I think I fletched over a hundred arrows one week—but since last month after Ashenvale fell, we’ve been busy arranging the best accommodations that we can for their refugees who fled into our town. I suppose I should feel guilty for taking myself away from the hard work that there is to be done, but I relish every moment I can away from that shop, my mother’s beehives, and all the other responsibilities that feel more burdensome than fulfilling.