The Brother I Never Had

In the nation of Adarlan, there was a large town called Belhaven. There, a general had married a beautiful court lady and had a child and the child became the rightful heir to the estate they owned. The child had once stood in this mansion, pondering the impossible, planning his future. Little did he know what he was surrounded with was what he was about to be. A murderer. He left his home when he was sixteen, determined to experiment, to really know. He was filled with ridiculous thoughts about good and evil. But the world showed him how wrong he was, showed that there was only power, and those too weak to seek it. So he took it. Took the power that could have been his parents, his grandparents, and made it his own. He was Kailer White.

The road beneath me was covered with a soft blanket of snow as I peered curiously out my bedroom window. It was the type of day where people expect you to be frollicking around or something, otherwise they'll think you've got a problem. But I'm not a person who plays. At least not now. My parents have stamped that bit of fun out of me ages ago. And now they expect me to retrieve it, get it back, out of the useless nothingness that was all that was left of the realms of my once joy filled life.

My mother's voice snapped me back to attention. "Sage, are you going to stand here all day? I don't see you making much of an effort to go outside and enjoy yourself."

"Yeah, you shouldn't," I agreed. "You'd be imagining things if you saw me out there." Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Sagerinn White! Watch your mouth, young man! Don't you dare speak to your mother again in that attitude. Go make yourself useful. Go practice your archery or exercise your sparring skills. What are you doing, staring at me like that? Go!" And with that, she swept out the room, her black cloak billowing out behind her.

I goggled at her for a moment, utterly flabbergasted, before I sighed ruefully and I stomped out my bedroom after her.

My name is Sagerinn White, but I prefer Sage because it's nice and short; only one syllable. I'm nineteen and I have hazel eyes, but dad always says that they have a hint of green in them. Mother is constantly complaining that my mahogany-brown, collarbone-length hair is too long, but I like it that way. My best friend's sister says that I have my father's tanned skin, but my annoying cousin likes reminding me that I'm paler than the rest of the family.

I marched down three spiral staircases lined with paintings before I reached the sparring ring. I unhooked my scabbard from my belt and stalked over to a small, dingy closet. I wrenched the door open with unnecessary force and snatched up a wooden sword. Grumbling, I grabbed a handful of protective padding and stuck them onto my chest, back, legs, arms and so on.

"Finished fumbling, Sage?"

I whirled round to see a skinny, blonde haired dude. It was my best man, Meverick Bertulli. It was just like him to turn up when you least expect him to. "Hi. And by the way, I'm not fumbling. What? Come to spar or something? Cuz I've never seen you pick up a sword before."

Meverick grinned wryly. "Hey, doesn't hurt to stay and watch, does it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Uh, yeah, it does, actually."

Meverick pulled on a mock stern expression and a voice that sounded some what like Mother's. "You better watch your tongue! Most nineteen year olds are nicer than you! You better be good, Mr. Son-Of-A-Rich-General!"

"Be quiet," I spat. Literally. I watched as though in slow motion as the strands of saliva flew from my mouth and landed on the floor.

Meverick wrinkled his nose in revulsion. "What a temper you got there, man," he commented disdainfully.

"You've known me for, what, seven years and that's still news to you?"

He appeared to have ignored this so I started to spar with an imaginary horde of foes, the ghosts of my miserable past.