SADIE
Morning mist clings to the training grounds while my mother demonstrates control I'll probably never master. She holds a butterfly in her cupped palms, its orange wings torn nearly in half. Power flows from her like honey—slow, golden, deliberate. The butterfly's wings knit together in real time, delicate veins reconnecting, color spreading back across damaged membranes.
"Feel the life force first." Her voice carries the patience of someone who's taught this a thousand times. "Every living thing pulses with its own rhythm. Find it before you try to change it."
The butterfly tests its healed wings, then lifts off her palm in a flutter of restored perfection. I try not to think about yesterday—Steven's crushed throat, the old guard's blood painting the combat circle. Instead, I focu
