The tale of Aurelia Hawthorne is anything but simple. Faced with the horrors and reality of living in a nation that hides secrets and punishes children for the sins of their parents, she is forced to make difficult choices.
Especially ones that str...
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My daughter is strong, our daughter is the turning point we needed. Fire bends to no one the way her tides rush to you.
—Governor Hawthorne to his wife after the birth of Aurelia Hawthorne
When did it all go wrong?
Those would be the worlds that continued to haunt Aurelia Hawthorne for the rest of her existence. These same words would plague her mind for years to come, building up to the moment when everything in her life would just...dissipate.
In a few short weeks, nothing would be the same. In a few long years, those who she thought she knew would be long gone, before she could so much as ask what was wrong. Friends turn foes. Comrades turn mere acquaintances.
But for now, none of that mattered.
Aurelia watched the gold clock tick around its complexly designed face, waiting until there were only a few milliseconds before the next minute. She unhooked her jacket from the metal poles Xaden and Garrick had helped her set up last year. She smiled wistfully, her hands coming up to steady the crooked line of poles as they wobbled dangerously to the side. If Aurelia pushed her fingers further behind the plate that held the hooks together, she would be able to see the rather large mark left by Garrick punching the wall in his frustration to read the instructions.
Three steps. One sentence each.
In his native language.
"Note to self," Aurelia muttered, taking a step back from the metal holding device. "Never rely on men for decorating."
She nodded at the photograph of her late mother on the mantle. Its frame was gold, intricately carved with images of dragons and mysterious folk tales that seemed to glow whenever she moved too close. Aurelia stepped away from the coat hooks, towards the sunlight that seemed to be magnifying the photograph even further. She bent her pinky finger back against the flat of her palm, bringing her thumb up to meet it. Raising three fingers, she kissed the pads of her fingers and pressed them to the top corner of the photograph.
A soldier's salute.
"May Malek treat you well," She muttered.
Aurelia's mother deserved more than what she got. She deserved to be alive, gracing all who had the pleasure of meeting the woman with her presence.
Aurelia felt that pang in her heart, the same feeling as pouring melted metal into one's core.
Except, this time, she wasn't alone in her grief.
She whipped her head to the left, swearing that she had seen a shadow pass by. The curtains hadn't moved, but there was gold—almost shimmering condensation on the window.
After a quick check on the functioning lock of her window door, she pulled back the curtain slightly to reveal the text. The material was hot—warm in her hands. Strange, considering her father didn't believe in keeping the temperature of the house at least tolerably warm.
