40

Emotional has increased

If you have the tool at your disposal, you'd be a fool not to make use of it. The world around you fades away, your eyes close, and your mind drifts. With no clear point or objective to focus upon, your mind struggles in the form of a massive headache. You forcibly steer it to thoughts about him, Silvanus. His beautiful porcelain face and that long flowing black hair. How can you save him with the powers at your disposal? How can you defeat these warrior monks and save the day?

How can you become a hero?

…

…

You can't. You can't save Silvanus. You are not a hero. You're a commoner who thinks herself special just because she knows a few old tricks. It isn't enough; it will just end up with you getting killed. Speaking of getting killed…

A raggedy man of the barbaric sort charges at you in the comfort of your own living room, a spiked club raised menacingly over his head. His wild howl rings in your ears, but you react on instinct. You are already in focus.

The kitchen is just a stride from where you stand, and inside it you can sense the dirtied water your mother had used to clean the dishes after dinner. That would work. Its contents appear before you, splattering on the wooden living room floor. The enraged bandit slips and slides over it, all the way to where your steel happens to be. The scream is horrific.

It isn't much of a cry, though, with your sword lodged where his lungs should be. While you know that swords are more for hacking and slashing, with its sharp edge…pushing it through unarmored opponents works just as well. The problem—as you yank your blade out of the dead man—is having to clean it off all the time. You don't know how much time you spend staring at the mangled mess in front of you. It was once a human, you're pretty sure. Not just a human but a person, as well. He had a name, grew up as a little boy, had a past, a present and…he doesn't have a future. You have taken that from him; you ended his life. You just ended a man's life.

You're a killer. A murderer. It was just! You are just! It was self-defense, no one could blame you! And of course, they wouldn't, but that doesn't stop you from seeing those shaking bloodied hands in front of you as those of a killer. Your soul has just been stained, you've just committed an act that can never be undone. But what has you shaking isn't regret but fear…fear that when you cut him to pieces, you enjoyed it.

Your corruption grows

"Ronald Dunhall! Are you al'rit?!" If your father hadn't snapped you out of it, you'd have lost more than just your lunch. Your sanity has been put to the test for the first time in your young life—you only hope it manages to pass. Are you going to go insane? "Fates…" Your old man is at a loss for words as he pieces together the scene.

Your mother is gibbering in her near incomprehensible dialect, asking what that noise was. Then the little ones enter the room, groggy from lack of sleep but interested nonetheless. The older ones file in reluctantly after that. The look you see in their eyes, staring at their blood-soaked sister like you're some sort of monster…is a look you will never forget. If only you had known then that it would be your last memory of them…

"Quit starin'! Git packed, the town's under attack!" Your father's words disperse the living room; it's only you and him. Well, and a dead brigand. Your dad hastens to grab his hunting bow and quiver, along with a pair of skinning knives. He speaks to you hastily in an impromptu heart-to-heart.

"You did good, Ronald Dunhall. Ain't nothin' wrong with killin' a man if'n it's for the right reasons. Ah don't know what them holy men wanted, but if they're together with these bandits…I need to go warn the other families."

"No."

Your father is taken aback, not expecting such an abrupt answer from you. Truth be told, you weren't expecting it yourself. You don't feel like yourself; in fact, it's been like that since you left the grocer's with Bregan. But you know you aren't wrong. Your father is strong but getting older and wouldn't be able to outpace them if it came down to it. You only wish your last words to him had mentioned how much you loved him.

"Take mother and the rest of them and escape. Leave through the forest, but avoid the woods behind the house at all costs. I'll warn the other families."

Usually, when you speak out like that, you end up with a firm hand flying across your face. You have no idea what he's thinking, but his features grow gravely serious. You brace for the worst. But instead of curses, you hear your father say something he's never said to you before. "Daughter, I'm proud of you."

You run out of the house in a hurry. You don't want your old man to see his proud daughter start to cry.