Elliot lied for the first time when he was five.
It wasn't dramatic.
No raised voices. No accusations. No stolen objects hidden in his pockets.
That was why it frightened him.
Michael had left early that morning to meet with a local administrator—something about border patrol funding and monster sightings further east. Victoria was busy with household affairs. Paige had gone into town with friends.
Elliot was alone in the yard, practicing his forms.
Slow. Controlled. Exactly as Michael had taught him.
Halfway through his routine, he felt it again—that subtle pressure in the air, like the world leaning closer to watch. His grip tightened. He adjusted his stance.
The wooden sword hummed.
Not audibly. Internally.
Elliot froze.
The hum wasn't coming from the weapon.
It was coming from him.
His chest warmed, a steady heat spreading outward. The air around his arms felt heavier, denser, as if resistance itself had increased.
Instinct took over.
He swung.
The practice dummy across the yard split.
Not cracked.
Split cleanly down the center, wood fibers screaming as they tore apart. The top half slid off and collapsed into the dirt.
Elliot stared.
His breath came fast.
I didn't mean to, he thought—not in fear, but in shock.
He hadn't taken anything.
He hadn't pushed.
The power had come anyway.
Footsteps sounded.
Panic surged.
Elliot dropped the wooden sword and stepped back just as Victoria rounded the corner of the house.
She stopped short when she saw the ruined dummy.
"Oh," she said softly. "Michael will be upset."
Elliot's mouth opened.
He could tell the truth.
He could say I don't know how this happened.
He could say something is wrong with me.
Instead, he said, "I swung too hard."
Victoria knelt beside him, brushing dirt from his sleeve.
"You should be more careful," she said gently. "You're still growing."
She didn't ask questions.
She trusted him.
That was the worst part.
Michael noticed the replacement dummy that evening.
"This one was reinforced," he said, frowning. "What happened to it?"
Elliot kept his eyes on the ground.
"I messed up my stance," he said. "I'll do better."
Michael studied him.
For a moment, Elliot thought he might see through it.
But Michael only nodded.
"Strength without control is dangerous," he said. "Remember that."
"I will," Elliot said.
That night, Elliot lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't stolen.
He hadn't been caught.
And yet—
The same sickness twisted in his gut.
I didn't take anything, he told himself.
I just didn't give the truth.
The realization hit him slowly, cruelly.
Stealing wasn't just about objects.
It was about withholding what was owed.
And he had just done it again.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere beyond the town's walls, something listened—something that understood lies far better than honesty.
Elliot clenched his fists.
"I won't do it again," he whispered into the dark.
The dark did not answer.
End of Chapter 11