For months, it was like that. I'd come home battered, my pride as bruised as my body, and Mother would tend to me in silence, her movements efficient and clinical. I sat there, stewing in shame, unable to meet her eyes. I knew what I looked like to her—a helpless child, soft and weak in a world that chewed up the weak and spat them out.
But the day Warren and his gang cornered me again, it was different. This time, one of them held a knife. I didn't even see it flash before I felt the sting above my brow, the warm blood trickling down into my eye. When I stumbled home, clutching my face, I found her by the window, puffing on her pipe as if she'd been waiting. She didn't flinch. Didn't rush toward me with comforting arms, didn't ask if I was alright. She just set the pipe aside and cleaned the wound with the same matter-of-fact detachment she always did.
But this time, I didn't look away. I didn't cry.
"Mother," I said, my voice hoarse and burning with something darker than shame. "You have to kill them."
Her eyes didn't soften, didn't show a hint of sympathy. She shook her head, not even a flicker of hesitation. "I can't fight your battles for you, Llyris."
It felt like a betrayal—cold and bitter, lodged right next to the bruise over my eye. But I held on to that feeling, let it fester. It was better than the helplessness. "Then make me stronger," I growled, my voice raw. "Teach me. I want to be strong enough to kill them if I want to."
She stared at me for a long moment, her gaze hard and unreadable, like she was measuring something inside me. Then a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at her lips. "Good," she murmured. "About time."
And that was it, wasn't it? If I wanted power, I'd have to take it. No friends, no mercy, no one riding in to save me. Just strength, built from every scar, every bloody bruise. If that was the cost, then so be it. I'd pay it a thousand times over.
"I can teach you," she said, her voice cold and final, like she was passing judgment. "But it will hurt more than anything you've endured so far, and there'll be no going back once we begin. Are you certain this is what you want?"
I clenched my fists, feeling the sharp sting in my brow where Warren's knife had cut me. My teeth ground together so hard I thought I might crack them. "I don't care. If I'm the one dishing out the pain, it'll be worth it."
Her eyes turned steely, appraising me like a butcher sizing up meat. "We'll begin when you've healed. Llyris, don't regret this."
And so, that night, the privileged boy I'd been was gone, beaten out of me without ceremony. In his place was a raw, gnawing hunger for something else—something darker. Rage became my fuel, an ember in my gut that fanned into something hotter and more dangerous with every day of training.
The regimen she put me through was brutal. Worlds worse than anything Warren and his goons had ever done. She drilled me in combat until my muscles screamed, in survival until I could track a rat through mud, in herbology until I could identify every poison by taste. She was relentless, a taskmaster with no patience for weakness or hesitation. I absorbed it all—every lesson, every bruise, every ounce of skill she beat into me.
Gone were the days of bedtime stories and soft comforts. They'd been replaced by calloused hands and a voice that could freeze the blood in your veins. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wonder if she'd ever really loved me at all. But then I'd feel the ache of my bruises, the sting of my cuts, and I'd know this was her love. A brutal, tough love forged by our circumstances. Maybe she'd always been this way, and the soft mask of a gentle parent had just been for show.
And as far as I was concerned, it was the only kind of love that mattered.
Weeks bled into months, a never-ending cycle of sweat, pain, and grit. Each night I'd collapse, muscles on fire, and each morning I'd drag myself back to start again. With every drill, every bruise, I could feel the difference—strength replacing my former softness, and the rage inside me never once fading. It was an inferno that fueled every step, every punch, every bruise I endured. And every night, I went to bed with a single thought echoing in my mind: One day, Warren and his gang would pay.
That day came sooner than I expected.
I was on my way back from one of Mother's errands, arms loaded with supplies, when Warren and two of his goons cornered me in an alley. A flicker of amusement passed through me. Really? Here? This was practically a gift.
I didn't wait. Didn't think. Just moved.
My fist collided with the nearest face, the sickening crunch of bone like music—a symphony of pain. His scream filled the alley, the coppery scent of blood mingling with the acrid stench of fear. For once, it wasn't my blood. For once, I was the one toying with them. I'd waited so long to see that look on their faces—fear, disbelief, the dawning realization that they'd bitten off more than they could chew.
Before his brain could catch up, my knee came up hard, shattering what was left of his dignity—and his nose. His scream turned into a choked gurgle, the tough-guy sneer replaced by soft, broken groans.
Warren's eyes widened as he fumbled for a knife, desperation twisting his face. "You bastard!" he snarled, but his words were more of a plea than a threat. I could see the tremble in his hands. His last friend, panicked, tried to back him up, drawing his own blade. But there was no courage left in either of them—just two dogs, their pride the last thing they had to hold on to.
"Come on, then," I taunted, my voice laced with dark amusement, adrenaline thrumming through my veins, sharper than any blade they could pull. "You don't scare me."
They hesitated, but the friend finally found enough courage to lunge. Clumsy, predictable. A child's move. He aimed straight for my chest. Amateurs.
I sidestepped, grabbing his wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply to yank him off balance. He crashed to the ground, dazed and gasping. Before he could even scream, I had his knife in my hand.
"Let's make sure you won't be trying that again," I muttered, my voice low and cold. I sliced across his wrist, severing the tendons with surgical precision. He howled, his knife clattering uselessly on the stone ground, and his blood spilled like a dark river, staining the alley with the price of his mistake.
I leaned close, my breath a hiss of malice. Let him see the sneer on my face as I towered over him. "Now you'll never use that hand to hit anyone again." Satisfaction filled my voice, thick and sharp like the blade I'd just wielded. For the first time in this rotten, stinking city, I felt powerful. I felt like I had control.
Warren's gaze flickered from his fallen friend to me, panic spreading across his face. The knife slipped from his shaking hands, and his arms shot up in a pitiful gesture of surrender. "Please, stop!" he stammered, his voice no more than a whimper. "We didn't want to do this. We were…we were paid to bully you. My mother…she… she has the pox! We needed the money!"
Stunned, a fresh layer of betrayal settled over me, each stab sharper than the last. Paid? By whom? The question twisted in my gut like a knife, carving deeper into the wounds she'd already inflicted.
"Who paid you?" My voice was calm, too calm. It was the calm of someone who had already made up their mind.
"A woman," Warren stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "Tall, bronze skin, with a burn scar on her hand. She paid us to pick on you… to bully you. Gave us more if we used weapons."
The cold, sick weight of his words hit me like a punch to the gut. Mother. She'd set this in motion. Planned it all. Fury and confusion roiled together in my chest, a storm I couldn't quiet. Part of me wanted to deny it, but after everything she'd put me through—every lesson in cruelty, every callous command—I knew her too well. I felt the cruelty in my bones.
Warren's voice faltered, trembling now, his face a mask of desperation. "This is over between us. We'll never bother you again."
Forgiveness? That was the last thing on my mind. I didn't waste a second. I strode up to him, reversed the knife in my hand, and slammed the hilt down against his nose with a brutal crack. His body crumpled instantly, hands clutching his face as a strangled cry escaped him.
But I didn't stop there. The rage had only begun. I kicked him—once, twice, again—each blow harder, each kick sending his body jolting. His screams turned into pitiful, shuddering gasps, but I didn't care.
When I finally stepped back, my breath ragged and uneven, a hollow ache spread through me. Something had shifted—soured inside, like a dark seed sprouting in my chest. Too fast. Too violent. It was like the last of my innocence had been crushed beneath my boots, lost forever in the dirt, just like Warren's bloodied face.
And in that moment, the thought came unbidden, cold as the grave: Just like a maiden's blood stains white sheets on her wedding night—a necessary stain. A permanent one.