Page 68 of Wings of Destruction

I push up on my hands, arching my back, before shifting into a low pushup.

The stretches clear my mind before I hop up and widen my legs. The anger which is always present drops to a low simmer, Mom’s necklace heavy around my neck.

The sapphire is a constant reminder.

And the second I tune into its presence, the second I recognize the weight, my eyes burn.

If Elspeth caught me crying, she’d laugh, which only made me angrier than when I started.

She’d say something like “little Morgi has no way to control her emotions. She might be furious, but she’ll end up sobbing instead.”

I hear her voice in my head, and the tears let loose, dripping onto the mat. Her voice is clear as day in my head, which is the only place I’ll ever hear it again, until eventually even the memories fade.

I’ll have a hard time recalling the specific contours of her taunts or the gleam of manic energy in her eyes.

I force my way through the movements, through the languid arm circles and stances designed to test my balance.

I’d give everything for Elspeth to be here. For her and Mother to have brought me to DragonSpear themselves and the three of us engage in one of those awfully embarrassing goodbyes where no one wants to admit they’ll miss the other.

They’d have the proverbial stiff upper lip, and I’d make some off color joke about how Elspeth wishes she were accepted, too.

Then she’d tell me I’m ridiculous.

My newfound determination to train flickers, ebbs, and leaves me carved out. I drop to my knees, and the sobs erupt, heavier and louder than safety dictates. There’s no stopping them. There’s no more holding out against a mountain of grief. I’ve done my best for as long as I can.

“I should have been there with you.” My voice is wet, my throat clogged.

I sniff and wipe the tears away, but new ones take their place. “I should have died with you.”

Survivor’s guilt is just as awful as grief. If I’d been chosen by a unicorn, then I’d be dead, and none of this would matter. I wouldn’t have to sneak out in the middle of the night to train myself. I wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that I’m alone.

There is no one left.

There’s only me, in this terrible place, where I’m forbidden from reading.

Where I have to force myself into a state of exhaustion every night to do something, to stop being so blasted helpless. I miss my sister. I miss my mother, more than I ever thought I would.

Mother’s face flickers in my head and a fresh wave of tears scalds me inside and out.

The training channels my grief into purpose. Into power.

Get up and become someone they’ll regret underestimating.

It’s my own voice screaming at me to stop being helpless. There’s a time and a place for everything in this world and right now, breaking down doesn’t get me closer to my end goal.

Sniffling, I draw the sobs back into my body and rise.

I’ll lose my cool when I’ve brought down the general and made him pay for every inch of pain he’s inflicted on me. For what he did to my family and my village.

When it’s done, I’ll sink into a sorrow so deep I may never recover. Unable to breathe through my clogged nose, I resume my movements, slower than before.

Until that day, I’ll forge myself into a weapon they never saw coming.

Willpower and rage are the only two things capable of drying the tears.

The following night, I force my body through another series of warm up exercises, from my stomach to the tips of my toes, before moving through combat forms. I work through combinations my mother taught me, then flow into the sequences Elspeth drilled into me. Each punch, each block, each pivot, muscle memory fights against the tremor in my hands.

The stronger I get, the less of a chance I’ll fall to my enemies.