|[ DEATH'S APPRENTICE ]|

[Prologue]

Wrellhaven: 2nd District

12 years ago...

I winced as my father raised his arm again - arms corded with muscle from years of abuse. The belt buckle shone with a deep gleam in the lamp light; shiny, cruel metal that whipped down and caught me on my back. Agony flared out across my back like a line of flame, biting into my flesh, vicious. I cried out in pain, tears bursting over and down my cheeks, hot and salty. My small, frail body quaked, the pain slithering further into my skin, worming right through me like a living being. My eyes, frantic, scoured the room. They swept over my mother's cold face and towards my older brother who watched without compassion. Something flickered behind his eyes, but he didn't move. He looked just like my parents; tall, thin, with emotionless, icy-blue eyes and cold, blonde hair. Nothing like me. Nothing like the child none of them wanted.

My father lashed me again with the belt and I scrambled further back into the corner, covering my head and whimpering. The welts stung, throbbing with each beat of my heart. What had I done to deserve this? Again and again he laid the hot leather against my skin, as hot as a fire-poker and as sharp as a blade. Sometimes the buckle caught me, an extra hook digging into my flesh. I wanted to scream for help, scream loud enough that people on the streets would hear, would come running to my aid. But knew if I did my father would punish me all the more. No one was coming to help me.

"Please!" I cried, "Please stop..." No one listened to my pleas. No one moved to stop my father as he brought his arm back once more. His face was icy smooth, with no fear, or anger, or even a hot fluster in it. He didn't get any elation out of hurting me – he just did it because he could. To show who was in control. To feel power. As I bit my lip, fearing the pain once more he dropped his arm, though the fingers still gripped the belt with an iron grip. I stared up at him with dread; scared he was only feinting; that he would strike out without warning.

"Get up to your room." He growled softly, eyes flashing, "And stay there until I send for you. And if I hear one sound...just one sound..." there was no anger in his voice, only cold calculation. It scared me all the more. I gulped and rushed to wipe the tears off my face. I scrambled to my feet and took a tentative step forwards. I didn't know if my father was playing a cruel trick – if he would launch into another attack at any moment. I kept my back to the wall, not wanting to take my eyes of any one of them.

My mother and brother stepped away from the door, not bothering to hide the disgust on their features. I shuffled past before enough courage filled me to turn my back and run. I streaked past, hunched over, almost hearing the whistle of the belt closing in on me. My muscles tensed in fearful anticipation, waiting for a fresh chorus of pain to sing through me.

I reached the rickety staircase that led upstairs and I sprinted up them, two at a time. The wood was rough beneath my bare feet, sharp edges digging into me heels. Reaching the landing, I threw open my door - the only door there - and scurried in, slamming it shut behind me. I couldn't lock it. Nothing would be able to keep my father and his belt away from me, but the solid wall and the wood of the door between us gave me slight relief. My heart raced in my chest, my breaths were short and shallow and my arms and back was aching where my father had whipped me. With tentative movements, my fingers crept under my thin clothes and across my skin, feeling, searching for the wounds. They touched tender flesh, raised up in angry welts and the pain fired up with a flash of heat, tears springing into my eyes. I sucked in a sharp breath, trying to stifle my whimpers. If he heard me crying... he had warned me... not one sound. I curled my palm on the door into a fist and bit my lip, tasting salt in my mouth.

I turned away from my door and looked around my room – if you could call it a room. It wasn't much bigger than a cupboard. There was only enough room to throw a dirty mattress in the corner and for a box of clothes. The room was tiny. It was lucky I was small. Dust covered everything, including the glass of the tiny window set up high in the wall, out of my reach. I had tried reaching it before, tried to squeeze out through it and escape. But even standing on a box or crate, the route to freedom remained out of reach.