Volume I: Forged

Chapter 10: Fight Club

Phil watched his son from where the boy was curled up next to him, a blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders.

The fire flickered lazily, sparking every now and then. Above, the stars stretched out, reaching for the moon. The trees hedged into the small clearing, creating a sort of claustrophobic environment, mosquitos and cicadas buzzing in the background.

It was peaceful, quiet—Phil sighed deeply, inhaling the sweet pine of the forest. A mosquito landed on his arm, and he swatted it before it could even think about biting him.

It was rare for him to have one of these moments, where everything wasn't trying to kill him or beg for attention. Sure, he loved the chaos that came with being a father to nine abused, hurt sons that saw him and his wife as the only good in the world—but he was happy when he did occasionally get a reprieve.

Wilbur murmured in his sleep and shuffled closer to his father. His wings—beautiful dapple-grey replicas of Phil's own—were tightly pulled to his back under the blanket.

They had to be careful—very careful.

Phil wondered what he had been thinking when he decided to bring Wilbur along to Odium.

The massive city, bigger than even the capital of the Kingdom, was notorious for their hatred of hybrids and mages and anything remotely different that what they had deemed normal.

But he had promised Wilbur a father/son trip and he had been putting it off for months now. Wilbur had cried for two days straight the last time Phil had to leave and couldn't take him with. Phil couldn't bear to do it again.

Phil bit his lip, his hand wandering to card through Wilbur's fluffy mop of chocolate hair, anxiety for his son tickling his stomach.

Wilbur was his and Kristin's only 'real' child. Wilbur had his father's wings and his mother's temper. Wilbur had the potential to be something great, so great the world would quake at his feet.

Phil thought of his own past, and knew Wilbur could do all that his father had done and more if he put his mind to it.

And Phil had done a lot.

Phil sometimes saw snippets of himself in his boy, the magic that would ripple behind the chocolate-dark eyes and the thrum of power that would run through his wings. Phil's own stubbornness, his pride, his iron will that had faced the unimaginable—he saw it all in his boy.

Phil often wondered about the child, often wondered if someone like himself—with the magic he contained and the power he held—should have even had a child.

He didn't regret it for a second, ever—Kristin had so desperately wanted a child of her own, and Phil had never once felt remorse from the second he had noticed the first swell of Kristin's belly. Wilbur had been the first treasure he had cradled in his arms, the first he had called his own—with many, many more to come. Phil would never, ever, regret having his little boy.

But the fear remained, the fear of what would happen to his son because of his heritage alone.

"Oh Wilbur—" Phil sighed softly. "What am I gonna do with you?"

He slapped at another mosquito, one on his neck, and stretched his legs out a bit. The fire was warm, and he was drowsy after insisting that Wilbur could sleep while he himself kept watch.

He was feeling really drowsy though—

Phil yawned, wondering why he was tired all of sudden.

His eyes drifted shut against his will, and horror filled his stomach.