The history of the monster

It was ugly. The thing breathing and living inside of him. It seemed to swallow him whole, chanting spells that wavered his resolve, blinding him with insidious rage. With wretched claws, a twisted gaze and a snarl so wide it threatened to shatter the disguise of indifference. No, this was a beast of its own that lacked discipline. 

His gaze slid from the river banks to the bridge. The rocks skimmed the water, droplets of rain fading away, sinking into the murky depths. It seemed to be a wonderful afternoon, the kind of weather that others prayed for on a Saturday afternoon. Perched on the shore, he could witness life in all its glory. The children playing make believe on the swing sets, chasing each other with paint and glitter that they would never shake out of their hair. The couple on the wooden bench, with dandelions at their feet and a blanket of food between them, their past, present and future all mapped out in one glorious, interlinked route. He knew instantly that they wouldn't last. The monster would swallow them whole too and they would sooner resent each other and succumb to the allure of abandonment than be wed tomorrow and live a long marriage. That, he could tell and feel from the depth of his bones. Some had the gift of knowing exactly what another was feeling, others could tell if it would rain the next day based on the height of the trees. This, he knew intimately.

His feet swung on the cold pavement, wandering into the local bakery. He scrounged for pennies, ripping into his worn pockets of his old, brown coat. His feet shuddered against the warm floors of the shop and his overbearing figure towered over the next customer as they quietly side stepped away from him. The old man at the counter had switched his boots, he noticed. Winter is coming, the server said haughtily when asked. The monster threatened to snarl at him but was tempered quickly. He was careful not to slam the door too loudly. 

He hated the people of this small town. They ran like clockwork, petite and golden. They loved to smile, were always open and kind but held you at arms length. The leash was tight enough that you never wanted to leave but loose enough that it felt wrong to stay. He only stayed because his father, a generous man had paid to keep a roof over his head and felt it was rude to abandon that. But one fateful day in May, his old man went fishing and never returned. His body was found in the morning. And so he went into the casket and they did the song and dance. He didn't cry. The monster sniffed at the sight of death and pledged indifference. It shrugged at grief. 

Sickened at the sight of the freshly cut flowers and the pitying stares in the long lines at the shops, he packed his bag and left town. No one was left to mourn him and the distant mountains rang his name, seemingly safer. Away from prying eyes and cautious gazes, he could wander as he pleased. Rebuild and resettle but the green eyed monster would still live on if he lingered too long in one town. So he would move again and again. 

He never seemed to fit anywhere. The leftover piece, he imagined his hometown would whisper. The world was one big puzzle and he was that piece that belonged to another planet. No matter how many times they tried to make him fit, he would never really belong. Bent, out of shape and never really one of them. Alien and unwelcome. 

But selfishly, he was relieved the monster inside lived on just as one is grateful that rejection exists. They would tie in together and he was determined to pledge forward, to put more acres between himself and the places he once called home. It meant he still had hope that better days lived on. Only when it succumbed to disintegration, did he know that he would hit rock bottom. He did this until history came calling. Until reality gave him a phone call and a shot at redemption. 

He returned three decades later, to the same town that had seen his father's death and his abandonment at everything that tied him together. He no longer recognised it. The people had grown taller, colder and gardens were withering and dying. The river banks where he spent countless weeks searching for happiness were gone. The weeds ripped out, the swing sets gone and all that was left was dust and rubble. Construction of a new apartment building was beginning in the summer. Just like that, he blinked and his childhood was reduced to some luxury condos. 

That was when he realised, with a heavy heart, the monster had won.

He had lost everything. 

Does time heal all wounds?

It was fall. The leaves had fallen and left traces of their old forgotten roots in the mailboxes. The sticky taste of summer had begun to wane and the smell of freedom seemed long lost. It was the season of upheaval, of constant and great change. Death held its presence. And it never seemed more present than now.

Does time heal all wounds? The young boy strived to ask the long paintings in every hallway. He dried his tear stained eyes with closed fists and a stern jaw but his hands could not help but tremble as they shook his visitors. They came sparsely, armed with stories of past and awkward pity. They seemed to stare at him more intensely, searching for pain and sadness. Grief was swirling within, shaping his every movement. It had not yet risen so far to the surface but he looked for ghosts at every corner. When death showed its face, you were either in pain or in denial at its consequences. No one would ever argue neither. He tried to hide, but how could he be so rude to those that merely offer their kindness? No matter that they reminded him of his losses. 

Does time heal all wounds? He forgot to ask that at the grave when he visited. The boy was now shaping into a man that was stern, not gentle, ambitious, yet lacked progression. He seemed to reflect his childhood, or lack thereof. Hollow on the inside but possessed all the qualities of resilience that came easy to those that were young. His anger at the world did not grow dimmer with the passing of years and only enlarged tenfold at birthdays, anniversaries and graduation. So warped it had become that he had long forgotten the source. It had narrowed so far that he only knew his fingers, his name, his age and his anger. Its power stemmed to his head as his tempting fantasies had no dictator, no tormentor to sneer at, free to take root and grow. The passing of years had not healed his wounds.

Does time heal all wounds, he asked again as monotony had set in. He grew more frustrated at the world, at new contraptions and destruction of records. The man seemed to chase ghosts in the grocery line, haunted at every turn by families and children. His evenings consisted of meals for one and a tantalizing conversation with the television. Relationships were a forbidden disease that he must stay away from, so plagued by death that it still loomed over his every move. He had forgotten his anger altogether but it still lingered in his choices. It seemed to always will. 

Does time heal all wounds? His children now asked. They read the same books as those past, he saw the same creases in their eyes. They laughed the same but it didn't hurt at all. It was more a twinge, gnawing away at him but never enough to complicate. His younger years seemed like a lifetime ago, that sad picture of a boy entrapped by mourners at every turn and willed the world to quiet. His grief would always be there, it would never truly go away. So at last, he felt at peace enough to have an answer.

Not completely. But just enough. 

The Funeral

It was merely a Sunday when I was told of the funeral. 

They walked like they were already leaving. Love has changed shape, they say. I see it everywhere. Sheets that never wrinkle anymore. Two toothbrushes angled like strangers. Sickness emerges and festers within the heart, a symptom of surrender. Bones shuddered under the weight of silence, ragged breaths in the hallway and time dragging on relentlessly. Witnesses to deaths reflection in cold dinners and face down photographs. Glares that could shatter glass. 

The paintings had hung at an angle. Behind the couch, a small side table bore a family photo, its glass cracked along one edge, distorting the smiling faces beneath. Their words fell like slow knives and my hands had gripped the couch as tight as it could, fearing my insides would cave within. They told me it was over, peeling the words gently, consoling and comforting. The grave was dug before the body had been wrapped. Words slipped through my fingers. 

Closing my eyes as their words blur together, their voices drowning. With weary hands, I tried to fit them slowly back together. But the insistent beating of my heart was not as stubborn as my wishes and the sight beheld remained. Their sentences were strung with deceit. I smell the rot in their smiles, I see their fingers stiff like soldiers in retreat. Fury crawled up my throat. 

'Will you cut me in half too?' I asked. 

No one answers. Neither of them looks at me. Death never speaks unless it chooses to. The couch had sagged unevenly, cushions pushed apart and the living room light flickered faintly, casting long shadows that stretched across the faded carpet. The air tasted like regret, thick and choking, pressing down on my ribs with that suffocating panic that I could not lift. My breath chants a bitter tone. 

I am burdened, for I resent them for giving up, for leaving me here with a body cold and lifeless. I curse the corpse but my feet find the ground and wet sorrow stains my sight. Death peered at me and I peered back. Its lips trembled, a thin line stretched tight and their jaw clenched hard. Their eyes could never keep still, too quick. Too practised in the performance of sorrow. 

They spoke at me. The necessity of moving on. Of not making the same mistakes. The body lay a mangled mess at my feet and I trace the jagged edges where life had been torn apart. The dead seem to know why I weep on the floor. They cannot move. I wonder if corpses dream of breathing again. I wonder if I can breathe again. 

I ask for the bill, the punishment. The cause. They told him, the body had given up. Their lungs were brittle and had finally collapsed within itself. 

Did they scream? I sought to ask. But silence ensued. It died then. Laid down, closed its eyes and stopped fighting. This isn't your fault, they beg. Sight would still suffice me. But not all have that strength. How dare they call this life?

I scream of compromise until my voice is black and blue. They don't seem to listen. The body lays and I urge it to fight. To escape death like so many others succumbed to. I urge it to be better. But death is irreversible. Grief lingers, in empty bedrooms, buried aches and closed windows. And when the dust settles, its winter. Always winter. 

Mourners ask me questions. Softly, like lullabies. 

Did you see the signs? Was death really that close? 

As if love can only die if someone heard the gun go off. Does it matter where the bullet came from when you're already half bleeding out? 

I answer in half sentences. Shrugs. Head shakes. The child is always the quietest in the morgue. They pat me on the shoulder. 'You were made from love,' they say. 

Maybe thats true. But I've just seen what love looks like when left to die. 

The Drowning

She paces the bridge, her chest heaving with every sob and her hair flung carelessly to one side, appearing forlorn and unkempt. The abandonment of her lover seems to unravel her, her mind leaping from incredulous laughter to searing rage, shifting with a cruelty so swift, it pulls her deeper into madness, into insanity. 

Unsure how to proceed, I carelessly grab her coat that she had cast aside, wrapping it around her as buckets of rain beat around us. Parchment paper falls upon the concrete, darkening as droplets of salted tears fall upon from the heavens above, staining it. I reached down to retrieve it and upon sight, she seemed to awake in a violent fury. 

I am frozen, paralysed by the weight of something I cannot name, unable to grasp the shape of whatever is occurring. I try to reach for her, but my hands are stone, my body a ghost and I can barely breathe. The hand of fate itself had closed around me, its fingers cold, its grip unyielding. I was wrapped in silence, it had forbidden me to interfere and I was an observer to catastrophe. 

The scene unfolds like a nightmare, the slow, agonising descent. Whether she leaned too far, or the world simply tugged her too hard, she plunges into the depths with the speed of a falling star. Her body jerks once before the water claims her, her arms flail in a desperate dance but there is no salvation in the cold grip of the current. Her hands reach for anything but it is too late.

My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that cannot keep time with whats occurring before my eyes. I see her face, frozen in terror, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless scream but the noise is drowned, lost in the depths. Her shape dissolves in the dark as her body sinks, legs kicking in a frantic search for something, anything, to hold on to but the water devours her, swallowing her whole like a lover's embrace. It was as if she never existed. 

torment or be tormented

"Envy, jealousy, agony, they seemed to fill me up, so full yet I could not throw the infested emotions away."

This is a few paragraphs of a story I adapted from another narrative I wrote that intended to show self loathing and anxiety at the world. We are forever being asked things of us, and many of us are often sensitive and fearful of what those requests may be. Some people get scared to order at a local cafe, much worse when having to ask someone to help you in a clothing store. Although it isn't finished, I hope you can understand that the man may be perceived as a lunatic, laughing at his interactions with others yet disappearing into his emotions when alone but many of us live like this everyday. 

I had no presentiment it would all end differently and began to feel somehow terribly sad at that moment, like laughter was beginning to stir in my soul. An incredulous kind, for what else could a man do but laugh at difficult moments? A discomforting response, only a thin veil stitched over the truth. No, my ruminations remained tucked beneath my ribs, fluttering in the deep hollows of my chest, its breath caught in the threads of my reluctant smile. I fear my insides will cave within, buried musings gnawing and gnashing, relentless in pursuit yet fearful of rejection. For what else could a man do but mock his sorrow and smile at the weight of his anguish?

The sky splits open and the gods of heaven battle, with their acid tears scalding the quiet purity of night with their hands twisting in furious grasps, clashing like old lovers turned enemies. Their war songs beating, drowning the earth beneath the weight of their madness. My heart very nearly seems to claw out my chest, the trees shaking and shuddering, bones breaking. 

I am a tangled knot of burdens, my mother ruefully prophesied staring at the same water that beheld at my feet, the jagged edges of my own heart pressing into my ribs. The sharp sting of grief creeped in, curling around my throat and choking the air from my lungs. Goodness in the universe did not seem to find me. Envy, jealousy, agony, they seemed to fill me up, so full yet I could not throw the infested emotions away. They grew within until my heart seemed blackened with contempt and anger, until the mere glance of a stranger seemed to rise a frustration that little could quench. Why was I angry at everyone? All the time?

Before I perceived what unfolded, the woman not far in front of me, kneels over, wheezing and coughing but her laughter rang atop the bucketing of rain. A hysterical smile had grazed her face and her body shakes with insanity. She unleashes a guttural scream that was sure to awaken the monsters of night, pacing the bridge, her chest heaving with every sob, and her hair flung carelessly to one side, appearing forlorn and unkempt. Salted tears fall upon from the heavens above, staining the ground beneath our feet. She stares at me, her tears growing fiercer as the rain fell faster. She seemed to wait for something. 

My heart slams against my ribs and I seem to have quickly forgotten my past musings. It is a frantic rhythm that can not keep time with what's occurring. Laughter echoes from within, sharp and hollow, a brittle thing that slips from my throat. The world has stilled and my laugh is a splintering crack in the air, a sound torn from the gut, twisted with fear and disbelief, it claws out, torn from a place too ugly to name. This ringing laughter does not make sense yet I cannot silence it. 

The woman was waiting for something, why was I laughing at her silent request? It seemed natural to respond with laughter as anxiety filled me. Could I fulfil her request? Would she silence me and go on her way if I kept laughing like a lunatic? That seemed more viable than to converse with her. 

a tale of rejection

Hello 2025,

This is definitely one of my most favourite scenes that I've written, so enjoy:

The heavens beckoned forth water, thundering down until man could only find composure in the warmth of light, moths to a flame. He stood, a deformed and unusual creature of the night, water pouring down his back, drenching his clothing and he stared blankly upon his reflection. The scene contrasted itself. He stood near joyful instruments, yet could not summon one ounce of joy himself. Swings and slides sat beside him and if the man closed his eyes, could hear the exhilarated screams of children with their wars consisting of the struggles of stuffed toys and action vehicles. He could not return to that round oak table where he spent plenty of midnights pouring over pages, arrogance etched within the scratchings of paper. 

For he pursued a role of critical importance, and perceived he would obtain it by end of week, so assured of his achievement he cast aside his fellow competitors carelessly. His unchecked smile engulfed his wearied face upon completion and his worn out shoes tapped beneath the forewarned desk, revelling in his joy. His assurance became his downfall, for they frowned upon certitude and exiled him to humiliation to mortify the poised. The man had spent the hours succeeding in a blinded craze, contemplating his chances to deviously announce his accomplishment within domestic entanglements but with modesty and humilty, of course. He spun at his chair with childlike exuberance, sat through dinners with his family grinning wildly but kept his mouth woven shut in a constrained countenance that seemed vulnerable to implode. And implode for seemingly improbable answers he did. 

At the reflection of these harrowing notions that seemed so foreign to the miserable man, he so crammed of suppressed resentment and self loathing, closed his eyes and reached into his pocket. Rain continued to fall in an intense rage, reflecting upon the misery of its companion. The scene unfolded within his mind. He had gripped the laptop with his hands, shaking in anticipation. He was alone, his wife had left him for a cross country retreat, his children enclosed in their respective schools and he could not halt his eagerness. But when the screen had lit up and the answer awaiting was displeasing, it wasn’t disappointment or anger that engulfed him. The man had only felt fear. Frightened, that denial of the worst had escaped him and was now ill prepared to face the selfish unseemly. Panic raced against his skin, his arms becoming ice cold and his fingers shook against the cold metal of technology. His body could not move, and he could not even attempt to reread the lines succeeding his failure, instead he sunk into a state of torpor, idle and apathetic.

Out from his pocket, he procured the letter for of course he had it printed. His resignation towards his fate was alarming to those he loved. Where was the drive that had once seemed insurmountable to overcome? His failure became the culmination of his existence, like dominoes the rest of his life fell. His wife never returned, and he discovered she was having a tumultous affair and was left to raise his offspring by himself. His children detected visible signs from their father, for they were perceptible to one who encompassed their world so dearly, and started to act out to gain favour and attention. 

But perhaps his spite was most felt in those that he had fallen against. Hands of allies often wrapped themselves around necks of the revered in a spiteful pit of envy and hatred. A coward’s shield, of sorts. Jealousy had emerged from his void of frustration, rising as naturally as humanity could repress. It stemmed from the inability to truly express his anger, tied by society’s custom, to admit praise and laud champions of peers, and consider the feelings of friends. Yet, the incessant loathing of man’s mind whispers at him in the depths of dawn. And the thoughts that he tries to bury into the open grave, wrap around one’s soul until the mere glance of friend is corrupted by perception and your heart blackened by contempt. His friends had sensed his gradual disappearance from social life, unable to comprehend but unwilling to extend attention. 

The man was utterly and entirely alone. Holding the paper aloft to an audience of none, the rain fell and in a few agonizingly slow minutes in the thunderous weather, the paper was reduced to nothing.

And the man allowed the water to wash away his miseries. 

the old cafe

The fog curled around the edges of the cobblestone street, and the muted hum of chatter echoed outside the dimly lit alley, circling the place. A small bell could be heard amongst the breeze but it hung like a forgotten charm, merely a reminder of countless patrons that had passed in another life. The sound of the door was muffled by the rich scent of espresso and aging wood that had faded fingerprints at every corner, of curious children, of impatient young people, of the tired elderly, all had scraped their hands over the weary wood to grab a coffee before breakfast, during midday or even a few rare night owls. 

The cafe was a relic from another era, though it seemed timeless in its quiet glory. It was a victorious investment, the only remaining building that had withstood the trauma of life, from wars, divorces, petty robberies and financial crises. The dark wood paneling on the walls bore the marks of decades of life as much as the entrance - rings from long-forgotten teacups, faint ink stains that told stories of writers long gone, marks on the floor of the many footsteps that had wandered through and scratches from purses that had been thrown on the tables in a morning rush. The air was thick with the weight of souls and their history, as if every wall had absorbed the tales of those that sought refuge here and every chair had wrapped themselves around every patron in an effort to placate. 

Past the corner, a lonely figure sat, glancing at the window beside him, hunched slightly over an empty mug of coffee. His face was fatigued with old age, of worries that had long escaped but weighed heavy, his hands were tapping idly on the rim of the mug, calloused and rough of hard labour and his eyes were downcast, permanently tired but observant. He wasn't searching for anyone in particular, rather judging the passer-goers quietly and just gazing into the distance. A soft trickle of rain had begun, streaking the window, running down like forgotten memories. 

The man did not pay attention to any of the other members of the cafe. Some rushed in, eager to escape the rain and looked rather annoyed, some came in laughing, the rain soaking them and the man knew they would probably be sick the next day but he suspected they didn't particularly care. He was envious of them, their youth and ignorance of life's hardships and would rather they not flaunt their joy in his face. Some sat at the table beside him, chanting and chugging their coffees at speedy rates so they could depart to their jobs or their loved ones. It was always one of the two. Life was labouring away to earn income or partaking in engagements with those you loved. He had neither.

The man didn't answer when the waitresses asked if he wanted another cup, if a woman brushed past him and whispered a breathy sorry in a hurry or if a curious neighbouring child loudly asked if he was okay as he had sat, unmoving for a while, before their embarrassed parents whisked him away, throwing him apologetic gazes as if their sheer presence would evoke an unnatural reaction from him. His gaze drifted from the window towards the old jukebox in the corner, where faint echoes of a jazz tune played, something from a happier life. The tune was familiar, but like the cafe, untouched and its memory slightly out of reach, only half formed. 

The man visibly half smiled half grimaced at the tune. It was a faint taste of the past, something to treasure but knew he could never return to. Conversations floated throughout the cafe but the words seemed to blend in with other sounds - the soft clink of spoons in cups, the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, the bags placed on the seats and the footsteps of souls entering, then leaving, coming in and departing again. 

Always arriving and then exiting. Over and over again. 

But he stayed. Alone. 

the enigma atop the perilous trek

The ruins of a chateau swayed sinisterly, with the echoing breeze wrapping itself around the alluring figure and enveloping the surroundings in a haunting haze. The remains lay atop a looming hill, with one wondering if it was a protector or a dictator of the town that lay beneath it. The cobblestone path strayed from intentions of warmth and cast a hopeless glow in the swirling night sky. It deceived those that were fearless enough to wander the vicinity, the foolish youth that confidently cast aside the treacherous warnings in an attempt of their own self worth, the hungry businessmen, intending to convince the owner of profit margins and tourism worth, or the roaming strangers, with an eye for survival and any place to rest. Those that returned with the reputation of forcing themselves to make the trek did so to placate themselves, with intentions that strayed from witnessing the concealed. It was a hopeless journey, but curiosity could not be suppressed.

If the mind had reluctantly settled upon undertaking the journey, intention be damned, then one had to account for other disasters. The path was often blocked by fallen trees, with the whirlwind of storms and winds thrashing against the weak, uprooting the evergreen in an incredulous, senseless manner, knocking them down like pebbles and it made out so carefully that they just had to lay upon the singular road that would bring visitors to the chateau. The whispers from the cowardly town below suggested that nature was intentionally warning, protecting the living from whatever strange inhabitants, and the rumours had infested the folks into avoiding the large stretch of land by whatever means necessary. One evaded every inch of territory, so fearful as if one intake of breath on the disgraced might inflict dishonor upon themselves. 

If transport did manage to escape the aftermath of a carefully calculated storm, and the path was abnormally clear and safe, they must wind their vehicles up, up, up against the extensive driveway. Those that would return from the perilous trek, recounted the upward climb as a never ending spiral, wondering if the end was an honest sight or a mere betrayal of facts. Maybe the chateau was a facade against the haunting mist and no ruins lay bare on top of the hill. Many only returned in response to defeat, the spiral so exhausting, a labyrinth that seemed to direct them towards the exit, and they came back in large droves, with only a sprinkling truly able to state that they had accomplished the impossible. 

If even that did not deter, if even nature's own warning did not bear any heavy weight, the task that succeeded cast a heavy cloud against the gullible mind. It filled the most determined with dread, and the most weak stepped away until they pressed their backs against the hard, cold wall and hid their faces with shame. Even the most unfeeling would feel.

What arised within the ruined hulk of mess, was the venomous and armoured gaze that could drill bullets into your body, and peel the skeletons hidden in your closet until they felt far removed from you, an entity of their own. Her hands could wrap themselves within your pumping heart and strangle it until your lungs felt crushed, until you felt paralysed by the need to move, to do something, until oxygen felt far out of reach. One would finally understand the vitality of breathing when it finally seemed impossible to do so. Amongst this vulnerability and intoxicating hesitance, the shell of a woman would gaze at you with raw disgust. Her nails, once clasping dollar bills and golden chains, now cracked and worn, gripped your own skin. A subconscious welling of disgust trailed within, almost natural, succeeded by admonishment, forcing your own mind to feel pity and sorrow. Your eyes deceive you and one can only smell the stench and can only see the grime. One rips their hand away instinctively, but an apology wells in their eyes, a sight that the woman has seen for a while. 

Rebecca was her first name, and she inhabited the ruins of the castle. She had become a living legend, the villain of the tale, but essentially an enigma. Her home was once vast and beautiful and valuable. She emphasised valuable in a wistful tone, as a visitor could only avert their eyes from the ruined state of not only the chateau but of Rebecca itself. The castle had certainly strayed from its grandeur, becoming much a shell as the woman who owned it. The cobblestone path was meant to resemble the entree before the main course that was the chateau itself. Now it was torment and caused many to turn back, a sight that meant Rebecca had less and less visitors. 

The foolish youth turned away in fear of garnering the attention of the infamous Rebecca, if they could ever gather the courage to continue up, up, up the winding driveway. The hungry business winced at the sight of the scrutinising glare and turned away, content without an answer. The roaming strangers were left with the remnants of kindness that Rebecca had left to give. Some escaped her gaze, and slept on the edges of her property while some were offered a warm bed and a meal. 

No, Rebecca was faced with only two kinds: the government officials, reminding her of the debt that she was now buried under, or the local tourists, fed by the haunted stories of the townsfolks, with curiosity, hunger and slight boredom filling their bellies. The most fearless of townsfolk were the only constant companions for Rebecca, driven by their humanity as they offered food to someone who once had every materialistic richness that one enviously desired but could now barely acquire a pan to cook their eggs in. 

"The Sword" is on Goodreads

Goodreads

I'm very excited to announce that my book, "The Sword" is available to view on Goodreads! If you've read the book, you can leave a rating and a review or you can now add it to your shelf, if you want to read it. To view "The Sword" on Goodreads, click here. 

To order, you can reach me through my email, which can be found if you click on "my complete profile". If you can not reach me through there, you can comment down below :)

"The Sword" Update

Hello,

I just wanted to come on here and express my gratitude to everyone who has reached out to me, whether it be on here or on social media to buy or order my book. It took a long time to make with a lot of thought and I'm really happy that its out in the world now. The good news is we managed to sell out every single one in such a short period of time! I never expected this much demand and I'm really thankful. Because of the demand, we've ordered more of "The Sword" to be printed and it is available now!

The Sword by Najwa M

To order, you can reach me through my email, which can be be found if you click on "my complete profile". If you can not reach me through there, you can comment down below :)

Najwa M

"The Sword" Release

The Sword by Najwa M

It's finally here! I am incredibly happy to announce that my debut novella, "The Sword", with an exclusive bookmark launched on my birthday and is available to order by reaching through my email, which can be found if you click on "my complete profile". If you can not reach me through there, you can comment down below :)

I appreciate anyone who can buy the book and I've had so much wonderful support while writing it. It took me a few years to write as I managed writing, editing and all the logistics as I still had school and exams but I'm very proud that I got it published. Many people put a lot of hard work into the creation of this novella so show some love. 

Celeste Albus is the heir to the throne of Aerion, a kingdom in the midst of a realm ripped apart from the Great War, a conflict that forced the Energy Guardians into near exile and left a bruising mark on the Elemental victors. With the tide beginning to turn and the wounds of an old war beginning to heal, Celeste is preparing for her ascension with a sword gifted to her on a momentous twentieth birthday. 

But the sword harbours some deceptive links to her origins, establishing the unravelling of her own existence, as the past, present and future collide. Facing uncertainty across all paths, she starts to uncover secrets that have consequences on everyone, especially on the growing peace within. Now racing to prevent another war, both inside and outside the kingdom, Celeste must truly fathom her purpose and what it means for the new world. 

Autumn

He truly hates autumn.

They liked to say autumn was a season of wonder, of new beginnings as the past was swept aside, with the leaves falling off trees, the hands buried in coats, the dogs barking in parks and the children laughing in the playground. It was deceitful, he glared, filled with spite. Leaves fell off trees because the bond of leaf and branch had weakened, science had dictated it so. Wind carried it away, forcing them to separate and never to see another again. Hands buried in coats hindered human interaction, although he quite enjoyed that fact, but often caused collisions on the footpath as one went away with the other bumping into them. It was quite strange, he observed, as they acknowledged the other but continued on each other's path.

He supposed that was what he seemed to other people. Just a stranger they bumped into on the footpath. A small overlap on their universal path but never to be seen again. He knew they would never wonder what happened to him. It wasn't like being given a trophy by a stranger or being served by a waiter in a grand hotel. Those were core memories, forever etched into their minds but people bump into one another everyday and faded from one hour to the next. But never to him. Never mind, he never won awards or saw no need to visit grand hotels. Those strangers on the footpath were all he had and he remembered every face. Whether they were old or young or weary or elated. Whether they rushed past him, barely sparing an apologetic glance or smiled at him, embracing the walk. He remembered them all. 

It did not change his opinion of autumn. The new beginnings optimistic people often referred to were a facade for the bracing of the plunge in temperatures in the following months. It irritated him, yes, that he couldn't take one foot outside his apartment building without the bristle of dried leaves beneath his feet but he'd rather the winter chill arrive sooner. At least it did not have mood swings; bitterly cold one day and slightly warm the next. Autumn and spring were all the same, differing in temperament of temperatures, as one season tended to be warmer than the next. Never mind, spring was supposedly filled with hope, just as he believed autumn was filled with despair. 

But he did not obsess over the underlying effect of the season. He hated autumn the most, yes and remembered every human who could not place him in a crowd even if their life depended on it but may, july, october, january were still the same for him. Months on months of restlessness, teetering on to madness, as summer came and went and the ocean that seemed to beckon towards him swelled and thrashed but never swum in.

The ocean didn't call to him as it grew colder. Maybe that's why he liked winter, each passing day was a sign it would end, that summer would be here. But autumn just meant that winter was coming, it meant more minutes would have to pass before the salty air would even seem seducing. Now, it was cold and barren and the water would feel as cold as the air they breathed themselves. He sighed, staring at his window.

He hoped it would all change. Summer was upon him soon. Autumn waved far away in his gaze but he should have begged. Because as sunlight rose on a fateful fall day, bathing his old, rundown house in a glow and the sight was one to behold. 

He did not notice the creaking of the doors the night before, nor the tiptoeing or the hidden shadows. The lights continued to flicker and remain aglow and he assumed all was well. His snores were the only sound that filled the echoing hallways of the vacant buildings, a feline purring ever so slightly but it awoke with a yelp, scampering out the door and into the street as the cars honked their horns and the glow of screens never seemed to waver. Slightly at first, a movement in the very core of the earth that no one noticed as they walked quicker and talked faster, afraid of wasting time, colliding with another but swerving away. Only he awoke with alarm, faltering, pausing as his breath quickened. The paintings started to shake, begging for relief as the walls of the house began to collapse inwards. 

He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He did not beg to be saved, nor did he even attempt to save himself. He saw no ending that was worse than what had befell him, saw no reprieve except this feeling. The house remained a wreck for a few months. It had collapsed inwards so it caused no pain for any neighbours. They were too afraid to venture inside and no saviours came. No one was sure of the man who had dwelled, whether he remained inside, or had ventured to the ocean or to the footpath he often strolled, and no one decided to even see. 

He truly hated autumn.

Humanity

The weary clock tower struck, with a shrill chime that clambered through the labyrinths and haunted the laboratories. He awoke with a slight gasp, eyes widening and his chest heaving with every indulging breath, with a trepidation that had him clutching the lavish seat. The gleam admist the lanterns pertubed him, his lashes fluttering rapidly, struggling to ease his breaths. The impalpable ticking of a timepiece measured his regained recovery, an unwelcome reminder of reality. As his vision cleared, he yearned to return within the endless depths of his pedestrian mind again. The train reeked of expectation, with the mere hundred souls that wandered its dormant anatomy, with intimacy dispensed for glory and triumph, each to their own narrow perspective. Past tales of endearment and passion seemed like disintegrated memories. 

The man seemed to be the only slumbering being, with not a murmur nor a flinch recurring around. It astounded the neighbouring occupants, their muscles tightening, eyes glowering towards him and youth were shielded. An unsettling stranger diverted his attention, staring so blatantly. It mirrored his own reflection, one he was desperate to disguise and did not aid in deterring the many pairs of eyes that lingered. His face contorted with worry, his forehead creasing and his nerving knack to scratch his arms arised again. Red marks became starkly prominent as the stranger seemed to intensify his stare. He wished for it all to just stop. 

The train slowed to another gradual halt, the wheels hitting the track silently. In the many decades of the new era, it had never malfunctioned nor failed them, not dissimilar to any other new contraption. Those that boarded the shared transportation had large thick briefcases and faded polo shirts, with shoes especially shined. They were particularly on the cusp of death wasting their squandered existence, death being an inevitable surrender so feared like failure, with their anguished eyes and quiet resolution. It was not an affair to be associated with as those that strided through the station barely made a sound. The stranger bent his finger towards the widening doors, forcing the man to have no choice but to glance outside.

The first click of a gun reverberated through the walls and the mass of those that they feared most deeply, crowded the archway of the dimly lit station, visible past the widened gap. These uniformed soldiers loitered the few and far mass transportation stations, with much success. The sky lit a pale glow and if not for the visual, it would remain a mystery whether they hit their mark or not, with not a scream nor a cry could be discerned. The shadow of a faceless man slumped to the ground, with whatever belongings he was clutching hitting the ground with a soft thud that seemed like a roar. Those that vacated the general vicinity barely blinked, but their eyes wandered away. The man flinched slightly and sunk low into his seat, praying to success that not a pair of eyes had caught him. Afraid that his languishing existence could lead him to a similar fate of the man that was just murdered, his perception heightened, fidgeting. Through the closing crack, the body lay on the stairs, with those rushing to get to the train brushing past him, marching away into the distance.

The doors closed, intending to leave for their next destination, but not before a piercing yell echoed within the station. It was the regimented troops, forcing their way in. The stranger’s other hand climbed out of his cashmere coat and gripped his bag lightly. The glint of gold prompted the man to visibly straighten and bury his hands beneath his briefcase, clasping it more tightly. These enforcers of law marched in, with their weapons drawn, individuals victim to their blazing, daggered glances. Instinct overwhelmed sanity, gripping their plaques and badges, certificates of declaraton signalling their superiority to those that sat next to them, a regretful but necessary occurrence. They were imperative shields, repelling these troops as they were abiding with the laws. These trophies gestured their contributions to advancing society.

Concluding their search, they glared at the stranger and the man, raising their eyebrows with their palms facing upwards. Waiting. The man’s heart seemed to race even faster, with his white-knuckle dying grip grasping his briefcase, afraid. Deliberating, he reached to unclasp it, but his hesitation had cost him dearly. In a haste, the nearest soldier grabbed him by the shoulders, pining him to the wall, clawing at him, searching. The man crossed every digit he could, praying to the ancient gods, spouting off lies for if only he could live for another day. His briefcase was knocked to the ground in the altercation, and they scoured it as well. Pages that endowed no value were carelessly chucked to the ground, pens and pockets grabbed.

No signs of records, or plaques, or badges, No certificates of any contribution bequeathed to society. The man was exposed, laid bare and dissected to the keepers who would eradicate the average. He glimpsed the flagrant stares that made him seem like a circus animal and those that caressed their trophies with considerable more care. He knew what was to occur. Had seen it and feared it for so long. There was no justification, only his own brain to blame. But the man feared death itself, and fought it, struggling against the enforcer, powered by the looming terror, with a stake at heart. It was no use though, and the familiar gun aimed, his chest beating erratically. Death was nearing. He was desperate, and the glint of gold caught his eye again. The stranger was observing with bored interest, his medal hanging from the bag knocked carelessly to the side. Summoning all the man’s courage, he veered to the left and seized it.

“He is worse than an average being, he is a rare thief! He snatched my hard work away,” he cried, shaking in a performance of disbelief whilst clinging to the cold metal.

Without any hesitation, the troops aimed their guns at the stranger, who flinched in alarm. Murmurs began to ripple throughout the carriage and the stranger raised his arms in defence, a grave error. He had shielded his physical entity but had not defended his greatest shield, his brain. The muffled gun clicked again, and the stranger was gone, slumped to his seat. The splatter of blood mingled with the burgundy fabric and echoed throughout the train. Satisfied with a fulfilled errand, they passed the man again, clinging to the medal, as the train slowed to another stop, and they departed.

The man stared at the corpse, alone. The train was empty, with the individuals eager to escape the body and the man accused of an alarming crime, enabling him to grab the rest of the stranger’s trophies, shoving it quickly down his briefcase, along with his other belongings. He stripped him of his identity, with only the clothes left on his back. Any rising feelings of regret or sadness were swiftly buried, commonly surpressed with the repetitiveness of the several occasions he had committed this sin.

He was, after all, just a man.

Flashbacks

Between exams and figuring out my work experience (more updates on that...), I have been quite busy so here is another story I wrote a year ago that I have let see the light of day:

First grade, Lexie Williams stole my seat. Second grade, she beat me in a colouring competition. Third grade, her star was placed higher than mine. Fourth grade, she got first taste of the ice cream even though I raised my hand first. Fifth grade, her whole family got uprooted and moved across the country. I never had to see her face again until ninth grade, when her family moved back. I hated seeing her face everywhere I went. Tenth grade, she got top of the year while I came second. To her. Eleventh grade, she chose the same classes as me and I’m still convinced it was purely to make my life hell. Thankfully, I got top of the year. Senior year was basically a competition on who would get the better university. But, shocker, we both got into Yale. University was too big a place for us to be each other’s only competitors. So I haven’t seen Lexie Williams in a long time. But yet here she is, sitting opposite my boss. 

“Miss Cooper. Come in,” my boss, Rachel motions for me to take a seat next to the devil. 

“What's going on?” I ask, staring back and forth between the two. 

“We have an exciting new story for you. Sage Brown is currently in New York, filming his latest travel segment and we want to send an investigative journalist to scope him out,” she explains. 

My heart leaps a little. I’ve been dying to write a news piece of this calibre since I first started at RW Company. But the joy is dimmed a little when I realise I have to write it on Sage Brown. 

“Then what's she doing here?” I glance at Lexie, who doesn’t look at all shocked. 

“We agreed to print the story in our newspaper and the Brettson’s and naturally, they sent someone to oversee the writing,” Rachel hesitates. “You two will have to cowrite the piece,”

“No way,” I fold my arms. As much as I hate to admit it, Sage Brown is one of the hottest new names that everyone knows about. This story could be the one that could make me a household name and I’m not stupid enough to do it with Lexie Williams, who would take all my credit. 

“We specifically wanted you because of your style of writing. It's incredibly similar to Lexie’s which is why we think you two would be a good fit,” Rachel says.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “The answer’s no,”

“It could be one of the biggest stories you’ve ever written and you know it. Are you really gonna pass on that?” Lexie speaks up. 

“What's going to stop you from taking my credit?” it comes out of my mouth before I’m able to stop it. 

“Nothing,” Lexie says simply. “I just won’t,”

“And I’m meant to believe your word? Answers still no,” I shake my head.

“You’ll get an all expenses paid trip from London to New York, a platinum card from Mr Brown himself to use on any of your expenses, professional or personal and your names will both be in print. Emphasise on the both,” Rachel says.

“An all expenses paid trip?” I ask. That had to be taken into consideration. It had been a long time since I had flown to New York because the plane tickets cost me twice my rent. 

Rachel nods. “If you can’t make a decision now that's fine but you need to make one by the end of the week,”

“I can do that,” I nod.

“Good. You two are both dismissed,” 

The second Rachel’s door closes, Lexie hisses to me, “Seriously? This could be the story of our lives for both of us and you’re really going to think about it?”

I quicken my stride but Lexie manages to keep up with me. “I’ve had my experiences where my work has been stolen because I agreed to deals like that. Forgive me if I wanted time to consider it,” 

“For the last time, I didn’t steal your maths test and cheat off it,” I can just hear her rolling her eyes. 

“I’m not talking about that,” I snap. “But you so did,” I murmur.

“Well then what can I do to convince you to take this job?” Lexie says, exasperated.

“Why do you need it so badly?” I turn around. 

She gave me a look like I was so dumb, “Money, for one thing and revenge,”

I raise my eyebrow, “Revenge?”

“Yeah,” Lexie turns away. “Don’t bother asking,”

I shrug, “Okay,”

the study session

Disclaimer: This scene doesn't appear in my book

Characters:

Celeste Albus

Riven Markham

Kyton Robertson

Trinity Albus

Celeste Albus:

Scarlett has abandoned me. She has left me in the library to face the clutches of my final exam. I’m slightly irritated at her because it seems her father or her brother has been drawing her attention away a lot lately. This is the fourth time she has canceled on me last minute and I can feel my best friend slipping away.

I’m crammed in a hidden corner of the library with my head buried in a book. Most of those who are in the library are students my age and regularly attend classes with me so the novelty of the heir has worn off. Unfortunately, a select few of the younger years spotted two tables across from me and have been whispering and staring at me all afternoon. Scarlett usually takes the edge off but she's not here so I grit my teeth and sink further into my seat. 

I don’t look up as someone slides across from me but my body reacts faster than my mind does. My warmth reins in as I battle for control of the temperature. Instinctively, I glance up to meet the sharp, fierce eyes of Riven Markham as he slides his books onto the table.

“Riven,” I say curtly, my eyes drawing back to the textbook. 

“Celeste,” he responds, equally curtly. 

Riven Richard Markham. One year, my elder. 

“What do you need?” I sigh, making a note in the book.

“More like, what do you need?” he arches an eyebrow.

“That is the worst pick up line ever,” I let out a laugh.

“Tell that to Ky,” he picks up his books before throwing them aside.

“Kyton Robertson? How are you friends with that kid?” I finally put my book down. 

“You realise he is the son of one of the most powerful members of your council?” Riven asks. “Why are you studying?”

“Final exams,” I explain.

“I did those last year,” he says, picking up his books again. 

“I get it. You’re a year older than me. Stop flaunting it in my face,” I say, not impressed. 

“I’m not flaunting it in your face, I’m stating pure facts,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

I notice half a shadow peering into the library and I recognise her immediately. Its my younger sister, Trinity Albus who loves the library as much as I yearn to be in the forest. Riven turns around and meets her eyes. She immediately scurries out, afraid to speak to him. 

I pick up my pen and I wish to be in the forest.

Short Scene: Twisted

With assessments building up over this past month, I haven't had a lot of time to create some new content. I wrote this little scene in 2020:

I hiss in pain as my bruises knock together. My bruises were turning black and purple over time. I glance at Axel. I was expecting him to fall over in pain but he was remaining strong. Even after all that had passed between us and every lie he had told and been told. Every betrayal. My cheeks flush as I remember the last few days and I can’t imagine how it must feel for him. 
My eyes linger on his face before he feels my gaze. Our eyes meet for a split second before I turn my head and stare at the wall. I can’t bear to look into his eyes. The eyes I used. The eyes I also betrayed. 
“Manio, Reese,” a voice from behind me calls out. 
I swing my head back to see a girl that looked a few years older than me standing firmly with her hands on her hips. She meets my gaze with a challenging look. She has long blonde hair and emerald eyes. I straighten my back, not letting anyone see me, retreating into my shell and stare right back.
She blinks and then breaks her gaze, “I’m Lynn and I’m looking after you guys while you're here,”
“And where’s here?” Axel bites.
Lynn holds his gaze for a few seconds before hesitatingly replying, “You're on Midnight, the sleekest boat-“
“I don’t think this counts as a boat,” I interrupt, my voice even. 
Lynn glares at me, “ It's an underwater boat, we are currently in the ocean tunnels,” 
“Submarine,” I hear Axel mutter.
“Hey,” Lynn glares at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, you two are in the presence of a person who didn’t exactly grow up as important as you, Axel or had enough money to get by, Jade. My family grew up rough, surviving because people like Kayo and Lee were there to help us and while you're here, you obey us,”
“Well Lynn, in case you haven’t noticed, you're standing in the presence of two people who have suffered a lot in the past week,” I snap back, my face flushes. “And no matter how much you resent people like Axel or me, we don’t exactly live all sunshine and roses,”
Lynn and I stare at each other waiting for the other to break. 
Axel clears his throat, “If you girls are done, I have a question,”
Lynn doesn’t break her gaze but raises her eyebrow.
“Lynn, if you're implying that you can’t survive without help then how do you have a submarine, sorry, an underwater boat? Only the government has one,”
Lynn looks away, her face red, “ We stole it,” in a small voice.
“Who’s we?” I ask slowly.
Lynn sighs and looks at me. “I’m sure you know how unfair the rules are between lower class people and higher class people, and why we even need to be “classed”,” she looks pointedly between Axel and I. 
I can’t bring myself to look at Axel though I know I’m burning up. 
“When the harder rules, like wearing wristbands to signify what class we are, came into play, it was getting harder for us to survive. So Kayo, Lee, a few other people and I joined forces and we became The Shadows. We had a goal to change the future, overthrowing those above us,”
“I think you have to ask yourself, do you want a better future for yourself or do you just want vengeance?” I say slowly. “Because if we become the leaders, we will not be any better than the people making the decisions today,”
Lynn is silent for a while. I can see no one has ever questioned this goal. “It’s just a goal. An imperfect one,” then in a softer voice. “Alex, my brother, thinks our goal is a dream. Impossible. He doesn’t stop us but he doesn’t join us. I think I’m starting to believe that,” her eyes glaze over, in a long memory.
I take a step forward and gently touch her shoulder, “At least you want to change the future and have people with you,” 
I flinch when I say ‘have people with you’. Before Axel and Matthew, I had never once felt like people cared about me. I was fragile. I still am but parts of me have changed.
Axel eyes me. I know he sees that in me and I can see it in him. 
Lynn smiles sadly at me, “I wish, the shadows were ready to stop before you two came along. Now everyone thinks you guys are miracles,”
I scoff, “Miracles? We just two broken teenagers,”
Lynn shrugs, “Miracles come from the strangest places even if you guys are pains and I can barely stand to be in the same room as you,” 
I grin, the familiar bite is back. “Before we have another emotional conversation-“
“Tell us what’s gonna happen today,” Axel interrupts. 
Lynn walks towards the door, I didn’t notice it before, and says over her shoulder, “Come with me,”
Axel and I exchange glances before we follow her.
The hallway is crowded with people in black masks. Every single one of them has an emblem of a silhouette. All of them avoid my eyes and some even clear the path for us. Axel is met with disgusting looks. We are both out of place here. We don’t belong in a place where we stand out. But now I don’t know where I do belong. I am an outsider in both. The people in my “class” see me as a rebel, a traitor and will sentence me to execution. The people here see me as someone higher than them. Someone not worth their time. And I don’t think they will trust us.
Lynn leads us through dark twisting corridors before stopping at a dark blue door. She knocks
“Enter!” a deep voice booms. 
“Aah. Our two guests,” the voice says as Lynn brings us in. It's a man a few years older than Axel. Maybe twenty two, twenty three. “You may leave Lynn but stand guard outside the door,”
Lynn nods and retreats.
“Well well well. Two higher ups,” the man sneers. “I’m David,”
I am fighting the urge to laugh right now. He looks so pathetic right now, sitting in a chair looking down on us. He is sitting so tense. Axel and I are both deadly and he knows it. Axel alone has had military training since he could walk and I’m a natural fighter. David wouldn’t dare try to attack us. We would overpower him quickly.

Excerpt From My Book

I have been hard at work creating a solo book that I hope to self-publish soon. While it isn't finished, I can reveal a short excerpt. This is a memory from my main character, Celeste Albus:

It was January 1st and I was nearing seven years old. The clock had struck ten minutes past midnight and I had woken up for a glass of water. I heard laughter as I glided silently down the especially long staircase and creeped to the kitchen. I passed my father’s study and I clearly wasn't as stealthy as I’d hoped because he called out to me.

“Celeste?” he called.

I stopped dead in my tracks, hoping and praying he couldn’t see me and would forget I was there. I closed my eyes and silently counted to ten but I could hear his footsteps reaching the ajar door of the study. The light lit up the dark hallway and illuminated our faces. 

My father looked stressed and distracted and he rubbed his head more often these past couple of days than I had ever seen him. His dark brown eyes, that I didn’t inherit, search mine. 

“Care to explain why you’re awake at this time, young lady?” he rubs his head again.

I feel myself beginning to shrink beneath his blistering gaze but I pull my posture up. 

“I wanted a glass of water,” I defend myself. 

My father sighs, like I’ve insulted him. He always comments on how defensive I am. Says that if I feel no shame, I won’t filter my words or my actions. My mother just says I’m a born fighter. 

Laughter grows louder from the common room. It just annoys my father more. He has dark circles under his eyes and I doubt it’s because of the loud parties occupying every part of the kingdom.

It’s my grandmother.

The Queen, Daphne Corran-Albus, is sick. She has been, for the past couple of months but no one had been amiss. Even now, ignorance plagues the court. Only the immediate family knew and despite my parents calling in favours from every inch of the kingdom and beyond, nothing was helping. Even the Healer Guardians couldn’t stop the sickness, only stall it. 

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he says. I take that as a sign to grab his hand.

He pushes the doors open and my eyes adjust to the light. Our head chef, Francesco, who is from Rykon, is busy making coffee. I yawn loudly and Francesco registers our presence.

“Your Majesty!” he sweeps into a long and dramatic bow. “What can I do for you on this fine night?”

I giggle and Father manages a small smile. “Francesco, it's the middle of the night. I’m sure my wife and her friends can manage making coffee on their own,”

The chef frowns, “I am more than happy to help, sir,” he assures us.

My father sees no use arguing with him and is about to grab a glass when the chef blocks his path. 

“Anything you want, I give,” his accent giving way. 

“One glass of water,” I pipe up, holding up one finger. “Please,” I quickly add.

Francesco hands it to me with a wink. 

I down it quickly before scurrying to the dishwater and placing it in. I dart back to my father and we leave the head chef back to serving his coffee. 

Father leads me back to his study and closes the door. This is the first time I’m really aware of his study. The chairs are ginormous and his table reaches my neck and I'm just able to peek my head at all the sheets on top. The walls are painted a forest green while the furniture is the colour of tree trunks. I lay a hand on the smooth walls, marvelling at how cold they are. 

“Celeste, take a seat,” Father says, pacing the room. On occasions, he likes to gaze out windows when he’s thinking. There are no windows to be found. 

I place myself down on the chair closest to me and cross my legs, waiting. 

“Who are you?” he asks, taking a seat.

I’m unsure of how to answer. So I don’t. Instead, I wait patiently. 

“Celeste, it’s a simple question,” Father says, leaning forward, hands clasped. “Who are you?”

Still unsure, I say hesitantly, “Celeste Albus,”

“Good. That’s a start,” he nods, leaning back into a more relaxed position. “What are you?”

I answer that almost immediately, with no hesitation in my voice, “The heir,”

Father’s face curls into a smile. I silently take that as a win. “You will be the most powerful person in the kingdom. The most privileged,”

I sit up, wondering where this is going. 

“You will have everything,”

“Like new weapons,” I perk up. I had been begging my father to finally start my sword-fighting lessons but he refused to give me a sword. 

“Yes but not just that. You have food, clothes and a roof above your head. You will have everything at your fingertips Celeste. Not everyone in the kingdom has what you have,”

I wonder why he’s telling me this. In fact, I wonder why he brought me to his study and not tucked me back into bed. “Mama always tells me to mind my own business,” I remind him. 

“Yes that’s true,” Father nods. “But as rulers, it's our job to make everyone’s life a better place. If someone is sick, we have the medicine. If someone needs a home, we find them one,”

“So it's our job to make everyone happy?” I question, uncertainly.

“If we could make everyone happy, we would. But it’s not that simple. When you grow up, you’ll understand how hard it is. But our job is to make sure everyone survives,"