Bone's Width

Prologue

I could've been a dancer.

My dress sways with me as I move, and I can feel the energy in the air taking its cue from me. I twist my body into a work of art. My shoulders glide back, my neck straightens, my chest goes out, and my limbs move as if carried by the wind. If dance is a type of poetry than I am poetic. The hardwood floors creak under my partner's step but remain silent beneath mine. He's nervous. I can feel it in his loose grip on my waist.

I smile at him in what's supposed to be a comforting way but he looks even more frantic so I let it drop. He's thin but not frail. I can tell there's muscle, but it's hidden well enough to make the mistake of underestimating him in a fight. His cheekbones are the most prominent thing about him; like he belonged in the oil paintings from the library. In another place his aura would probably exude confidence, but standing next to me he's folded in on himself in a way that makes him appear smaller than he is. His eyes don't focus anywhere for more than a few seconds at a time which gives him the appearance of a caged animal. I suppose that's not too far off.

"Calm down."

I think I must've startled him because he faltered and stepped on my toes. "Ouch. You know if you break my toes I can't make up for your poor dancing." I had only been teasing but I doubt he realized. Apparently it was still possible for him to look even more uncomfortable.

I toss my head back and close my eyes as I twirl around. It becomes 20 degrees warmer and the stuffiness now caries the scent of fresh air and earth. The music is the chirping of my ravens. It's not my partner wrapped around me, it's the flora taking me into its comfortable embrace. My daisies sway with me, tickling my ankles. The birdsong stops.

"Enough."

The warm air is sucked out of the room and replaced with the previous chilling drafts. The sunlight remains tucked behind velvet curtains leaving behind a dim room and casting shadows upon the stern face of our instructor. Everything beyond her face is hidden by the blinding spotlight highlighting our performance. My partner and I separate to stand next to each other with empty eyes and stiff stances. I can't see myself but I'm almost certain I look nothing like my partner who looks the part of being brought in front of a firing squad. I feel bad. His terror will just be fed on. I wanted to touch his arm in comfort, but I was expected to show weakness and therefore I will not. Sometimes bullets miss. He'll figure that out.

"What was the assignment?"

"To practice casual espionage, specifically the art of warfare through dance. Dance, distract, neutralize." I'm surprised his voice doesn't shake but I don't show it. Blank expressions are the only useful ones. His behavior was an act then.

"You're both still standing." I hear murmuring voices coming from the shadows behind her. "Dissapointing but expected. Underground. Both of you." The voices are silent.

I smile and her expression drops the tiniest bit. If she was capable of a frown I'm sure she'd be wearing one.

I feel my partner shift his weight. The gaze of my instructor—and I'm sure dozens of others- falls on him. I smile wider. He crumples and hits his arm at an awkward angle when he meets the floor. I have a suspicion him and the ground were already well-aquainted and there really wasn't a need for introductions. Which is perfect because he was out before hitting the floor, and that would have been quite rude otherwise.

Ouch. He's going to be sore.

I remove my cloak and lay it over him to the appalment of my invisible audience. Maybe he'll hate me less if he wakes up warm. I turn my cheerful gaze to my instructor.

She blinks at the boy sleeping soundly on the floor before turning her gaze to me. "Underground. Now." I was expecting that. I didn't argue, just turned my back and walked away. I was angry of course, but I was used to this feeling of righteous indignation. My face maintained its smile despite the significant amount of self-control taken to walk away without seeing the imprint of a hand on her face and feel the stinging of my palm. My punishment was expected. It didn't matter how well I performed today. The kindness I demonstrated by covering the boy was the mark of a heart too loud by coven standards. I let my feet carry me along their well-aquainted path to the dungeons while I broil in my anger. I feel stuck.

Every day I wake up and choose not to lose myself, and everyday I am punished for it. I've allowed almost every part of me to be weaponized. My clothes are perfect, my makeup and hair flawless because as a young woman I was taught that beauty is a weapon. My body is strong, my gait graceful, and my balance perfect because as fighter I was taught my body is a weapon. My mind is always pushing its limits and continually running on overdrive because as a survivor I was taught my brain is a weapon. I'm demure, silent, obedient because as a daughter I was taught behavior is a weapon. I drill spells into my mind and practice technique until I'm limp because as a witch I was taught my power is a weapon. However, I'm kind and I love too hard because I believe my heart is my shield against everything and everyone that tries to weaponize me. I refuse to lose the last piece of me that remains untouched.

So I walk down the final staircase into darkness without complaint and smile as the guard unlocks the door for me. I'm down here enough that I should be given my own key. The ornate door swings open on its own welcoming me into its receiving hall of nightmares.

I walk in and turn around to face the door. "Have a nice day, Rutnick." He says nothing as the door closes between us on its own accord.

Men may prefer my beauty, trainers may adore my strength, instructors can value my wit, Father can reward me for my complacency, the coven can celebrate my power, but I will hold on to my heart.

I turn around and greet the horrors with a smile.