But no matter which direction he turned, no matter how many steps he took, Cedric found himself facing the cottage again.
The door opened wider, beckoning him. Calling him.
“You cannot run from this, my child,” Alouette said, her voice cold as winter frost. “Face what broke you. Face your truth.”
Truth.The words cut through Cedric’s fear.
“Shed your shields, that you may reveal your truth.”
This was still a trial. The Trial of Spirit, the Arbiter called it. A test of truth, a challenge of will.
He had not survived this long—he had not survived thisnight—to fail now.
His heartbeat was a war drum in his ears as he moved toward the house. He glanced into an ivy-framed windowpane as he passed. The face of a boy stared at Cedric from inside—scared, tear-stricken. Fear radiated from wide, golden brown eyes.
And then, with a sickening lurch, Cedric wasn’t looking in through the window anymore. He was staringoutof it.
A warm glow washed over the room. Fire crackled in the hearth, two worn, comfortable chairs propped in front. The scent of roasted meat and yeasty bread filled Cedric’s nostrils, and his little belly rumbled.
“Cedric!” called his mother, her voice light, musical. It wrapped around Cedric’s lungs, squeezing all the air from his chest. “Come, my love. We’re just about to start supper.”
He turned. Saw those bright, beaming sea-blue eyes. Just like Cedric, a slim golden ring bordered her irises. And for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know whether to run again, to try to carve himself out of this living memory—before it became a nightmare—or whether to embrace it. Embraceher.
His footsteps pitter-pattered against the wooden floor as Cedric flung himself into his mother’s arms.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, grabbing the kitchen table for support as Cedric barrelled into her, nearly knocking her back. “What’s gotten into you, my little phoenix?”
He mumbled something unintelligible into her stomach. Several moments passed before he finally lifted his head. His mother shone down at him with a kind, knowing smile on her lips—the one she always seemed to have reserved just for him.
She was exactly as he remembered. The straw-colored hair that flowed loosely over her shoulders. The golden locket she never took off hanging from her neck. Her faint lavender scent. The way she tied her apron—crisscrossing her frock, the bow tied in front.
But then, there were some things he didn’t remember too. Or, perhaps, they were things that he had simply never noticed as a child. That didn’t mean anything to him at the time. Like the dark circles under her ocean eyes. Like the dagger she wore at her hip—that shealwayswore, he realized.
Cedric didn’t know what it all meant.
What he did know was that his mother’s arms were warm as they wrapped around his small body. She was warm. She wasalive.
And she was clearly concerned as to why Cedric still clung to her.
“What’s wrong, my darling?” she asked, her smile turning downat the corners.
He wanted to shake his head. He didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize this moment, that would cause his mother to pull back or pull away. He wanted to stay in her arms, here and now—past, present, or whatever this was—forever.
But his small head nodded, tears lining his eyes, and Cedric realized he wasn’t in control of his body like this. “I was frightened,” he said, his voice high, young. “I thought I saw someone outside.”
Every muscle in his mother’s body tightened in response to his words. Her gaze fell somewhere behind Cedric’s head, all vestiges of that smile flattened. But then she brushed a lock of hair from his face and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure there’s nothing there. But if there were, surely, they got one glimpse of my brave, strong boy standing watch at the window and took off running.”
Boots thudded softly behind him and a large, strong hand clapped down on Cedric’s shoulder. “Why don’t I go take a look, just to be sure?” His father shot him a wink as Cedric caught his eye—the richest, warmest brown. The mirror of Cedric’s own.
The surge of emotion welling in Cedric’s chest threatened to break him. He wanted to shout. Wanted to scream, “No! Don’t go out there!”
But he couldn’t.
Instead, the boy sniffled. Nodded. And watched his father walk out the door for the final time—again.
Cedric’s mother cleared her throat. “Now, about that supper,” she said, gently unwrapping his arms from around her waist. “I hope you’re hungry. Alouette prepared your favorite.”
Something pounded against the door, and it was like all the warmth was suddenly sucked from the room. Shouts sounded from outside. Cedric’s mother froze mid-step.
