“Eliol!” Came a stern shout from behind him.
The boy jumped and the knife clattered to the floor. He turned slowly to see his mother, headband in hand. She had her hands on her hips — which was never a good sign — and was looking at him with her steely gray eyes.
And in those eyes, as was always the case in such situations, Eliol noticed fear. But now that he was older, he had learned to tell when his mother was afraid for him and when...
No, she wasn’t afraid of her own son. But it seemed that Lita was afraid that he might accidentally hurt someone with the knife.
What nonsense! Just because he liked to play with knives and sometimes threw them at targets with the other boys for fun didn’t mean that he would hurt anyone.
“What a little disaster you are,” she said, approaching him and
