I don't know why, but sometimes my mind drags me back to places I thought I had forgotten.
Maybe it was the fear in the air now.
Maybe it was the way the crowd had gone silent, waiting for the sword to decide. Or maybe it was because deep inside, I already knew the truth.
I was seven years old again. Sitting on my parents' bed.
The room smelled faintly of sandalwood, and lavender, the windows open just enough to let a weak morning light slip through the curtains.
The walls were painted off-white, peeling slightly at the corners. My father's jacket lay crumpled on the chair near the door, and a half-open book sat on the desk like it had been waiting for me to open it.
But I wasn't looking at any of that. I was holding a book in my small hands, its cover rough beneath my fingers.
On the front of it was a man, or at least something shaped like one.
Pale skin, dark empty eyes, and two sharp horns piercing out of his forehead like they belonged there.
