Kael's POV
It took three weeks after the Ceremony to realize that to have no destiny at all was worse than having a bad one.
At least evil folk had a cause. At least animals had a role to play in the grand plan of the world. I had nothing, less than nothing. I was a blank page in a book where all the other characters had been written with godly ink, and the world was about to erase me entirely.
Thornwick village, where I'd spent my entire short life, turned against me with appalling speed. Mrs. Clearwater, who'd provided me with honey cakes for birthday snacks each year, now darted across the street when she saw me. The rest of the children, who'd played with me just weeks earlier, hurled rocks and shouted curses they'd picked up from their parents. Even Father Mikhail, the kind priest who'd taught me the alphabet, would not glance at me when we passed by his chapel.
My father's forge suffered the worst of it. Orders stopped coming in. People claimed his items had been cursed, that tools forged by the father of a Flaw would break at the most inconvenient time or malfunction. It didn't make any difference that he was the finest blacksmith in three towns for twenty years. Fear is not sensible.
I watched from outside our small house while he toiled alone in his workshop, hammer striking anvil in the empty courtyard where apprentices had once gathered. He never blamed me, never reproached me, but I could see how his shoulders had begun to sag under the weight of our shared affliction.
"I'm sorry," I told him one evening as we ate a skimpy stew, all we could provide anymore. "This is my fault."
He put down his spoon and gazed at me with those calm brown eyes that had always made me feel secure. "Kael, you did nothing wrong. You were born. That's all. The world is in error to punish you for being alive."
"But I don't exist, not really," I replied. The words were bitter on my tongue. "I have no Script, no fate. The gods themselves told me I shouldn't be here."
"The gods don't know everything." There was a sharpness in his tone I'd never detected before, something near anger. "They're not here raising you, feeding you, educating you. I am. And I say you exist, you count, and anyone who tells you otherwise can go to hell."
I'd never actually heard my father swear out loud before. Somehow that reassured me more than any words could have.
But words could not prevail over facts. As spring turned into summer, matters got worse.
The monsters materialized first.
I was outside collecting firewood in the forest when I heard the growling. A Scriptbeast, a wolf that had been corrupted by broken fate magic, emerged from the underbrush. Its eyes glowed with that yellowish purple hue that betrayed creatures devoured by unspooling destiny. Scriptbeasts avoided human settlements, being repelled by instinct to where Scripts had been broken or defiled.
It came straight for me.
I ran, tripping over the firewood, my seven-year-old legs thrashing wildly between the trees. The beast was faster, its hunger and its lunacy giving it dreadful speed. Its jaws snapped mere inches from my ankle as I tumbled over a log.
I was going to be killed. I was certain of it. And then I heard the roar.
My father charged through the bushes like a storm made flesh, his hammer of forging held high. He brought it crashing down on the Scriptbeast's head with a roar of thunder. The beast yowled and spun around at him, but my father swung once more, protecting me with the same dogged purpose that he used in working steel.
When finally the beast bolted, my father stood before me, panting, a line of blood from a shallow claw wound trickling down his arm. He grasped me in a tight hug.
"It jumped on me," I breathed into his shoulder. "Because I have no Script. I'm summoning them. I'm bringing them to me."
He did not reply. We both understood the truth. My existence was an annoyance to the fabric of reality, and corrupted things would always be drawn to it.
The council came to our residence the next day.
Elder Morrison, never a man to be loath to speak his mind, stood before our door with five other members of the council. Both his countenance and his expression were apologetic but firm.
"The Scriptbeast attack confirms our fears," he said. "The boy is not safe. Not by choice, but by nature. We're requesting that you take him away, Marcus. For everyone's safety."
"This is our home," my father had replied brusquely. "We have rights."
"You had rights. But an Error has no remedy under the Law of Scripts. The Church has said so." Elder Morrison's voice changed, a softer note creeping into it. "Please, Marcus. I don't want to have to do this. You're a good man. But if you stay, we'll have no choice but to summon the Script Enforcers."
The title sent chills down my spine. Script Enforcers were the Church's holy warriors, blessed with divine permission to slay anyone who threatened the divine order. And I, an Error of Fate, was the ultimate danger.
My father's hand gripped mine and squeezed. "Give us three days to prepare."
I slept little that night in my small bed and stared up at the ceiling. Seven years old, and I'd already destroyed everything I'd ever touched. My father, the only one who still loved me, would have to sacrifice his life due to what I was.
Or wasn't.
The bitter thought squirmed in my chest.
Outside my window, the stars shone bright and indifferent, outlined into shapes the gods had ordained from the beginning of time. Somewhere above, the same gods who'd written Scripts for everyone else had looked at me and written nothing at all.
I made a decision then, one that would be reckless and futile and utterly sensible for a kid my age.
I would show the world that I was of value no matter what. I would become powerful, valuable, important, Script or no Script. I would compel the world to recognize that Kael Ardent should be.
It took years before I found out that I had made my greatest mistake in not being born without a purpose. It was in believing that I could win the world over if I became what it wanted me to be.
Some learn only through betrayal.