Theudifara: The Adventurer's Ambition is to Become the Empress

"Where do you think you're going?"

Mom's voice crawled up my spine like a centipede. Words sharp as broken glass. The kind of cold that makes your snot freeze mid-drip.

She yanked our hair like we were weeds needing pulling, dragging us across the floorboards. My scalp screamed. Fleda's kicks thudded uselessly against Mom's legs—legs that used to bounce us on her lap during harvest festivals.

The hearthstones bit my knees as she threw us down. My forehead smacked the iron grate, the pain blooming slow like ink in water.

Snap.

Mom lit the fire with that finger-flick Law she'd taught me last winter. Flames swallowed the charcoal, their heat licking my cheeks.

"W-What are you—?"

The iron poker glowed orange-red in her hands—the one we used to toast marshroot bulbs. She plunged it into the coals until its tip hissed like a snake's tongue.

Fleda's dress tore like old parchment. The blue one with embroidered buttercups—her sixteenth birthday gift.

Sizzle.

The smell hit first—burnt sugar and something meatier. Fleda's scream pierced my eardrums as the poker kissed her shoulder. She rolled, a rabbit caught in a snare, her arm blistering angry red.

Mom turned. The poker's glow lit her face from below, hollowing her eyes into crow-nest holes.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The heat reached me before the metal did—a dry wind promising storms. I squeezed my eyes shut like that time I jumped from the barn loft, praying for wings.

Sizzle. Again.

The red-hot iron kissed my chest before I felt the pain—a searing wrongness that made my teeth clamp down on my lip until copper flooded my tongue. I rolled across the hearthstones, the world blurring into streaks of firelight and Mom's laughter—sharp and broken, like a dropped clay pot.

"Not my fault… his fault…" Mom giggled, her voice skipping like a cracked music box. Her smile stretched too wide, lips splitting at the corners, mimicking a crescent moon. Fleda's whimpers mixed with the stink of burnt skin and charcoal.

Not Mom. Can't be Mom. Mom smells like rosemary and kneaded dough.

Fleda curled into a ball by the flour sacks, her arm blistered and weeping. Mom's shadow loomed over her, iron rod glowing like a fallen star.

Move.

My fingers twitched. That man's warnings buzzed in my skull. Never use that script without me! But Fleda's tears drowned them out.

"Exibunt. Aquae!"

The words tore from me raw-throated. Water erupted from my palms—not the gentle stream I'd practiced, but a roaring beast that smashed Mom into the wall. Plaster rained down as she slid to the floor, motionless.

Did I…?

Blood trickled from her hairline. Fleda stared at me, snot and tears gluing her bangs to her face.

"Adele…" Mom's voice slithered through the settling dust. She stood too fast, joints popping. "Hurting your own mother? Naughty brat."

The iron rod glowed anew. Mom's eyes were black pits now, swallowing the firelight. She lunged.

Run.

I grabbed Fleda's good arm, dragging her toward the root cellar. Mom's boots thundered behind us—too loud, too fast.

"This isn't over!" she shrieked.

We tumbled down the rotten stairs as the trapdoor slammed shut above us. In the pitch dark, Fleda's hiccups echoed.

"S-sorry," I whispered, clutching my blistered chest. The locket burned icy against my skin.

Somewhere above, Mom began to sing.

The root cellar was damp and smelled like dirt and old potatoes. Fleda huddled beside me, shivering, not just from the cold. We sat in silence, broken only by her occasional sniffles and the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Mom pacing upstairs. It sounded like she was right above us, and every thump made my stomach jump.

"It's okay," I whispered, even though my own chest hurt like crazy. I squeezed Fleda's hand. Her fingers were icy cold. "She'll… she'll calm down." But even as I said it, I didn't believe it. This wasn't just Mom being mad. This was… different. Scarier.

After a while, the thumping stopped. Fleda gasped, squeezing my hand so tight it hurt. We held our breath, listening. Then, Mom started singing again. The same song she used to sing when she tucked us in at night. But now, it sounded… twisted. Wrong. Like a beautiful bird with broken wings.

The trapdoor creaked open, and a sliver of light cut through the darkness. Mom's silhouette filled the opening. "Adele," she called, her voice sweet as honey, but with a sharp edge underneath. "Fleda. Come on out, sweeties. It's time for dinner."

Fleda shook her head, burying her face in my shoulder. I knew we couldn't stay down here forever. It was freezing, and we didn't have any food or water. But going back up there… to her…

"Adele," Mom sang, her voice getting closer. "Don't make Mommy come down there."

I felt a tremor run through Fleda's body. I knew what we had to do. I had to protect her.

"Okay, Mom," I called, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're coming."

I helped Fleda to her feet, and we slowly climbed the stairs. As we emerged from the root cellar, the warm air of the kitchen hit us. The fire in the hearth had died down, leaving only glowing embers. The room was dimly lit by a single candle on the table. And there she was. Mom—her head drenched by dried blood. Standing by the table, a plate of something steaming in front of her.

She smiled. It wasn't the warm, loving smile I knew. It was the crescent moon smile, the one that stretched too wide and made her eyes look like endless pit.

"Come, children," she said, her voice still sickly sweet. "Eat."

We walked towards the table, each step feeling heavier than the last. The smell from the plate hit me then. It wasn't the smell of stew or roasted vegetables. It was the same sickeningly sweet smell from earlier. The smell of burnt skin.

My stomach churned. I looked at Fleda, her face pale and drawn. She looked back at me, her eyes wide with terror.

"What is it?" I whispered.

Mom giggled. "A special treat," she said, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Just for you."

She gestured towards the plate. I could see now what was on it. It wasn't fruit. It wasn't vegetables. It was…

My vision started to blur. The room spun. Fleda's scream echoed in my ears, but it sounded distant, muffled. I felt a sharp pain in my head, and then...

No, not like this. Please not like—

Thud.

—Dad's smile as he tucked me in—

Crack.

—Fleda's giggles during hide-and-seek—

Thud.

—Mom humming as she stirred supper—

The pain came slower now. Fuzzier. Like raindrops on a pond.

…stupid birthday wishes…

…should've wished for cows instead…

…Fleda's hand in mine…

…cold… so cold…

***