Where were you?
The moment I stepped inside the house, my father was already looking at me. That look full of anger—like a man who had already decided something before even hearing the answer.
"I-I was outside," I mumbled.
Then came the slap.
Laughter. Not mine. Not his. Theirs. Echoes of it from the day, rattling inside his skull, stinging his pride. "Do you know how much they laughed at me today?" he said. "Your uncle, that bastard. He thinks he's better than me. Just because he got rich."
That wasn't even the worst part.
"I have an idea," he said. "Since his son rejected the fight, how about you say you'll fight him? Beat my brother's most prized possession. Do that for me. Shame him, like he shames me."
He grabbed my shoulders and looked into my eyes.
You will, right?
He smiled—but it was the kind of smile that wasn't really one. Twisted, bitter. Nothing like my cousin's smile. That one... that one was soft. Warm. The kind of smile I wish I remembered better.
"I-I d-don't w-want to fight," I said. The words came out broken. Weak. Just like I was.
I think that was the moment his hatred solidified.
His expression darkened, the lines on his face clearer now, more monstrous than before. Why couldn't I remember their faces before? Why had I blocked it all out?
SLAP.
Another hit. Then more. My wrists were tied behind my back, tightly, so I couldn't "accidentally" hurt him using my clarion. After first few kicks. My body folded over itself, collapsing inward, as if I could disappear if I just curled up enough.
I cried. Loud. Screaming for someone. For anyone.
No one came.
Even my mother just stood in the hallway. Watching. Like she was observing a stranger being punished. No flicker of pain in her eyes. Only... hate. Quiet, patient hate.
Why? Why do you hate me?
"I'm sorry," I had screamed. "I'll fight. Please stop. It hurts. Please stop. Please."
But the beatings didn't stop. Not until night fell and dinner was served. He ate without looking at me. And I wasn't allowed to touch the food. I waited. Quiet. Hidden. In the middle of the night, while they slept, I crept out and found scraps. Ate them with trembling hands, crying through every bite like it was both salvation and shame.
The next morning, they took me to the relatives.
Their voices sounded concerned, but I knew they were only pretending. They weren't worried about me. Just curious. Just watching.
My cousin was called. The one who rejected the fight. The one I couldn't remember clearly. He looked at me. I saw his eyes. But his face—gone. Blurred. Like my mind refused to hold onto it.
He fought everyone that day.
He screamed. Raged. At my parents. At the elders. At the whole family. He was so loud, so angry. No one listened.
My father didn't care. He turned me toward my cousin.
His eyes told me what to do.
Fight.
I was crying. Trembling. I loved my cousin. I saw him as a brother. His smile, his care—those were real to me. But I couldn't stand being beaten again.
"Sorry," I whispered, and I ran at him.
He wasn't ready. My hand touched, and he groaned in pain. Then he reacted. Reflex or guilt—I don't know. But his hand flew. I was thrown back. Darkness took over.
I remember his voice. Apologizing. Over and over. Saying it was an accident.
I didn't blame him.
He was the only one who ever made me smile. I thought maybe, one day, I could run away with him. Just me, him, and his friend. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm.
But that dream died when I opened my eyes again.
The temple.
They had taken me there. My father screaming. My mother wailing. Not in grief—just shock.
"Why did she lose?" they shouted. "Why?"
The priest looked at them, disbelief in his eyes. "She fought an adult. She's a child."
"You said she had a gifted Clarion," my father yelled. "No one else has it. I was humiliated."
"She will grow strong," the priest said. "But there is a way."
"A way?"
"Amputation."
The word meant nothing to me then. But my parents' eyes lit up—not with horror, but with hunger.
"Do it," my father said.
They held me down.
Hands. So many hands. And the knife. That horrible, jagged knife. I screamed. I begged. Promised I'd win. That I'd fight anyone, do anything.
Please stop. Please.
They didn't stop.
They weren't strong enough. They couldn't make a clean cut. So they kept trying. Again. And again. And again. My voice broke before they were done.
When they finally stopped, my right leg was gone.
A week passed. They monitored me. Nursed me, not out of love, but utility. I was their pawn again.
They handed me two sticks to walk with.
My father held my hand with pride when we returned home, like I was a medal he'd earned. Everyone stared. My brother—my cousin—his face finally clear. I cried. I remember crying when I saw him.
The rest... the rest is only blood.
I walked into a room in the evening. He was standing there. Everyone else—gone. Bodies piled behind him like discarded dolls.
And he stood in silence.
My brother.
My only warmth.
Standing on everyone's dead body.