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SCAR TISSUE
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IT WAS ONLY THE ABRIDGED version of the tale, he assured. He was alone in the woods and hadn’t noticed the creature stalking him. When it pounced, claws met skin. She arrived out of nowhere. She intervened. Somehow, she’d talked it down. Savara had thought the entire story unbelievable, until he showed her the scar.
Three long ridges streaked across his back where claws had torn through a leather tunic. Grazing her fingers over them, the energy of a fresh wound fluttered under her touch, as though beneath the uneven skin the original pain still bubbled.
A picture formed in her mind of a creature—a horned wolf with golden brown eyes—snarling at a bleeding young boy. Savara imagined how she would’ve approached it; three times her size, the putrid scent of its warm breath blowing over her in huffs. She imagined what it would’ve felt like to pass her hands over its plush brown fur, her tiny fingers disappearing into its coat, and finding them guided to a lodged arrow. She imagined the strength it must’ve taken to pry it from the beast’s neck, and the sound of it clattering to the ground, surrounded by droplets of warm blood. In her mind, the beast huffed forcefully in her direction, turned on its heels, and raced back into the forest.
Savara was sure the image would stop there, but then a man appeared, outrage and fury plastered across his face. At his side, another boy, who looked around the same age as the young Griffin, trembled. A thin gold circlet sat atop his brow.
Griffin prickled away from her touch, realising she was not just imagining things; she was seeing them. Somehow, Savara had tapped into the memory held within his scar. A vein pulsed at his jaw as he looked over her again, as if seeing her for the first time... and somewhat frightened at what he saw.
“Was that... a memory?” Savara asked, still reeling from the strange sensation.
“Yes,” Griffin huffed.
Her fingers recoiled from his back and the buzzing in her palms began to fade. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was about to—”
“Nothing,” he growled. “Get out.”
Savara tried to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t let her. He’d cleaned his face of all emotions, though she could sense apprehension rippling from him.
“Griffin... Are you okay?”
“Get out, Savara.”
Savara had no idea what she had done or how, and judging by his sharp shift in mood, she could tell Griffin didn’t either.
“Right,” she said as she bit her lip again, realising that this was the end of her visit. “I should check on Jasper anyway.”
“Just go.”
Savara shuffled nervously to the door, taking one last glance at him before crossing into the blinding sun outside. She waited just outside the tent, staring at her palms, remembering the how it felt to tap into his memory. It had seemed so real, almost as if she were there—but then, she was there. Maybe she was able to tap into it because she’d lived the same moment, only she couldn’t remember it herself.
The tent walls rippled behind her. Savara wondered if she should go back and apologise for... whatever had happened, but she didn’t even know where to begin. For the time being, she decided it was best to leave it be, at least until she figured out what she’d done and how...
***
IT WAS ONLY THE ABRIDGED version of the tale. Griffin hadn’t meant for her to see the rest. All he’d wanted to do was give her a glimpse—a brief snippet of the memory—to prove he was right. And the whole thing came back, as though it were yesterday. He stared at the flap in the tent where Savara had just been. Pouring from me like blood from a fresh wound. Griffin bathed himself in the solitude of his room. Am I that weak? To his great disgust, he could almost hear his father’s voice say yes.
The whole suppressed incident came back to him as though it was happening before his eyes...
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HE NEEDED SPACE, NEEDED to breathe. After the argument, he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as his father. Trying to be the perfect son was not enough—had never been enough. He’d stormed out of the building, walking as far as his legs would carry him, but in his heart, he knew not even that would be far enough.
Griffin was respectful, quiet, and having devoured every book in his father’s vast library—and more—no one was more studied. Adept in every fighting style originating from Yozora to Iliso, he was the perfect soldier, hailed by his father’s old war buddies. He was even divined Izar for Iturri’s sake! And still, his good-for-nothing father was sending him away.
The swarm of thoughts had taken him further than he’d imagined. The palace gardens enclosed him in a world of green, and beyond lay the darkened hollow of the forest. He didn’t usually wander this far out, but it was as good a place as any to sit and think. Far enough away from his usual haunts so that if someone came looking, they wouldn’t find him. They might even panic for a bit. If they came looking, he sulked. For who would come looking for him?
Griffin plopped himself down on the grass, unsheathed his sword—the ancient piece of glowing steel the only gift his father had ever given him—and began to sharpen it. He glowered at his own sorry reflection in the shining metal of the blade. People said he had his mother’s eyes, if only he could’ve seen them in real life. Many a time he’d imagined what life might have been like if she lived.
A loud crack sounded from somewhere within the woods. Griffin froze.
“Who’s there?” he called, jumping to his feet. With a relaxed grip on the hilt, he pointed the sword towards the sound and called out again. “I know you’re there!”
If there’s one thing his good-for-nothing father had made sure of, it was that he could defend himself with a sword. He gripped the hilt firmly but kept the slack in his wrist, easing into the weight and feel of the blade as he waved it before him. Hand too tight would make you slow, hand too loose and you let go, he remembered, hearing his father’s voice in his head even now.
A large shadow stretched out along the floor in front of him. A low growl and a slow crunching of leaves followed it, emanating from the dark depths of the forest. Its snout appeared first, teeth and slobber-coated fangs bared. Next, its heavy brown paw, each claw a blade protracting into the moist soil. The rest of it stalked into the light. The horned wolf was twice his size, its horns alone were about the length of his leg, and almost as thick.
“Stay back,” Griffin said nervously. A flash of steel cut through the air in front of the beast. It retreated a step but came back stronger. It swiped at him, knocking the blade from his hands. Maybe he’d held it too loose. Griffin scrambled over to it. He was fast, but not fast enough, for the beast managed to land an attack. Sharpened claws met tender flesh as they tore open his back and part of his chin. This is it, he thought. Who would hear if he screamed? Who would look if he were lost? Who would miss him if he were no longer around? Lance, he reminded himself. Lance would. And as if remembering that gave him strength, he rolled over just in time to dodge another thrash of claws. He wouldn’t be so lucky twice. He forced himself to stand and looked around for the quickest escape when suddenly, she appeared.
Not just any she. Her speckled eyes glistened like those of a doe caught by lamplight. She held her hand out in front of her and hushed the beast, lulled its rage and stayed its paw with only a look. Whispered words fell from her lips into the creature’s ears, and though it growled threateningly at him, to her it paid no mind. Her gentle hands even managed to stroke its side, getting lost entirely in its fur.
After a few agonisingly slow seconds of her whisperings, she ripped something from its neck and sent it clattering to the ground. An arrowhead. Lodged in its side and restricting its breath. Griffin stared blankly at the discarded piece of bloodstained metal. The creature had come looking for help... It huffed a warm breath and turned on its heels, galloping back into the darkened forest. She looked back at him and smiled innocently, as though none of it had happened.
“You’re hurt,” she said with a frown, watching the spot where the creature had disappeared as she spoke. “What were you doing out here? Did you get lost?”
“No, your grace,” he replied with a low bow, made painfully difficult by the slits in his skin. “And it’s nothing,” he lied. The wound was deep, the curl of flesh rubbed against whatever scrap of tunic remained on his back.
She gasped at his open back. “You need help.”
“Thank you, Your Grace, but no.”
“Please. Call me Savara. I... don’t like the title.”
“I apologise, your grace, but it isn’t done.”
The young Savara sighed. “I know.”
“What have you done?” shouted the hardened, disgusted voice of his father. Griffin held his breath, waiting for the barrage of insults that he knew was coming. His father never held back when it was time to attack, verbally or physically. “You sorry excuse for a soldier. You are sliced through.”
From behind, Griffin spied another boy, long and lanky with a mass of rippling strawberry blond curls held steady by a golden circlet. His amber eyes looked troubled. Lance.
Griffin wouldn’t meet his friend’s eyes—he couldn’t, not even for a second. His father’s anger he could take, but the expression on his friend’s face—the fear in his eyes—hit with more force than any of his father’s lashings. Griffin stood at attention, keeping upright through the pain as he waited for his punishment. His father was about to dole out another metal-plated slap when he finally noticed his son’s company. A white-hot fury boiled in his father’s eyes that Griffin had never seen before but knew to fear above all else.
“You endangered the princess,” his father hissed.
“No, sir, he didn’t,” Savara interjected.
“Pardon, Your Grace.” His father bowed respectfully at the child, but there was no hiding his fury. “But this is not your place to intervene. Your life was put in danger by my foolish son. I apologise for the err of his ways.”
“Your son saved me,” she lied as she looked up at him. Griffin’s heart skipped a beat. She lied. A royal lied to save him. “Without him, I might not be here, sir.” But they both knew it was the other way around.
“Savara, come here,” called Lance, looking to protect his younger sister from the tyranny Griffin’s father was about to inflict.
Savara frowned. “No.”
“Now,” he replied and glowered at her in a way that meant she too was in trouble. The two of them peeled off and headed back for the palace, leaving Griffin alone with his father.
Griffin held his breath, refraining from moving even the smallest muscle. Nothing that would make the punishment worse. His father made no movements either for an excruciating length of time. He simply glowered at his ward—glowered and calculated. Finally, after minutes of silence, he spoke up.
“You are leaving. Tomorrow. And that’s final.” With that, he was on his heels, following the two children back up to the palace without so much as waiting for his son’s response.
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...THE OWL COOING SOMEWHERE in the darkness of the tent cast the horrible memory from his mind.
Griffin knew he shouldn’t have snapped at Savara the way he had. It wasn’t her fault. All the tentative trust he was building with her had once again crumbled. At least she had agreed to visit Osiir. It would’ve been impossible to get into the palace without her.
Griffin waved the thought out of his mind and turned back to the table. He twitched his fingers, bending the light around him and bringing the menacing dagger back into view. Its glittering rubies and shadow blade mocked him. It had been a long time since any such object had surfaced, and it was hardly a good omen. The secrets it held could prevent wars, but there was a good chance uncovering them might start others. It was a risk he had to take, especially now that his fears were confirmed. It could have been worse, he thought as he contemplated its blood-red glow. She could’ve found out who she was before time.
