The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Twenty-Five

*Trigger warning for mild panic attack*

The Magician was not at all what I had pictured. For a man who was at least a hundred years old, if not more, he was young-looking—hair a dark gold, skin smooth and lightly tanned, a full, rounded beard on his cheeks and chin. He was also quite handsome.

His eyes were what destroyed the idea that he was normal, or young. They were black—deep, and dark, and sparkling in a way that reminded me of the stars. They told of a thousand things that he had seen. They told of wisdom, and knowledge, and—most of all—a need for revenge.

I was terrified.

My breaths began to come faster, and my head spun. I stumbled slightly to the side.

The Magician grinned.

"What are you doing to her?" Reed demanded.

"Nothing," said the Magician. "She's doing it all herself."

"Fyra?" said Bran. He grabbed my arm and ducked under it, stopping me from crumbling to the floor. "Breathe, Fyra. You know what to do. Slowly. In and out. Sip."

I nodded and squeezed my eyes tightly closed. The darkness was comforting. It shut out the world around me, made me believe that I might be safe, though I knew I wasn't.

"Is this okay?" Bran asked. "Do you want me to bring you to the floor?"

"I'm okay," I gasped. My breath still wasn't cooperating.

"Breathe," said Bran. "You can do this."

A sob escaped my lips.

"You're weak," said the Magician. "All of you are weak."

"Of course we're weak," Reed shot back. "We're children. What do you expect?"

I saw the Magician shrug through the blur of my tears. "Nothing less reasonable than what the people in your village expected of you."

My breath caught in the back of my throat. I wheezed, painfully.

"Stop it!" said Reed. "Can't you help us?"

"Why would I help you?"

Lark stepped forward. "That's what we're here for. To ask for your help."

"Ah," said the Magician. "And are you going to?"

"Yes! That's what we're doing right now!"

"Hmm. Try again, and be more specific as to what you want."

"We want you to take the curse away from our town. We want you to help Fyra make it through her panic attack, and to stop scaring her and trying to make it worse. We want you to stop making people afraid of Blesseds."

"Ah," said the Magician. "You think I'm the one who makes people afraid of Blesseds? I'm afraid you're-"

"Have you done anything to make them less afraid?" Lark interrupted.

The Magician seemed taken aback. "No."

"Have you removed your curse on the town in exchange for equal treatment of Blesseds?"

"No."

"Have you done anything that would help Blesseds be treated better?"

"No."

"Then what have you done?" Lark waved her hand at the room around us in a dismissive gesture. "Making all this doesn't count. What have you really accomplished?"