Edward’s day is far from over. He waits nervously in his athletic garb and uncomfortable breeches. His father is picking out foil fencing swords, and the training dummies are put away to the side today. He curls his toes against the mats, restless eyes scanning the spacious room. It always did seem too big for him. He tries not to look at the dents and scrapes on the walls, constant reminders of his failures. His father never bothered trying to repair anything.

It’s hopeless, Edward sighs. I’m not good at anything. Not boxing, or jiu-jitsu, or wrestling…and probably not fencing either. The sinking feeling he gets whenever he knows he’s going to disappoint his father is back. I mean, height equals reach and that’s a good advantage in fencing, right?

“Try to land at least one hit on me today, Edward,” his father says, handing him the hilt of one of the foils. “I’ll stay on the defensive this time, so you ought to be able to achieve that.”

They’re facing each other, blades at the ready, and Edward’s insides rumble and tumble. Nope. Nope. Nope. Can’t do it.

His father stays true to his promise, making no motion to move. “Anytime, Edward.”

Despite his inner turmoil, he advances anyway. His father immediately retreats. Edward presses, foil extending. His father parries, meeting his blade, flicking as it wobbles.

Edward backs away, putting enough distance between them. That was dangerous.

“Good,” his father comments. “Don’t stop moving your feet.” He gestures for Edward to come at him again.

Edward closes the gap and lunges, but a feint from his father has him backing away. Didn’t he say he was going to stay on the defensive? He watches carefully with wide eyes as his father feints again. And again. And again. Was that one real?

Somehow, Edward ends up on the defensive. His heart races and the world sharpens. Their echoing footsteps are garishly loud. The lights are too bright. His breath comes in pants. His mind is in disarray.

And then his father brings his blade up.

Now! He scrambles forward to counterattack.

But his father turns his body away from Edward’s sword, lowering his own to block. Their foils scrape against each other. Edward’s sword bends down and away from him.

I’ve made a mistake.

A blade dashes against his chest.

“Eh?” Edward looks down. Blinking uncomprehendingly, he returns to his senses, stumbling backward.

His father sighs, withdrawing. “Do you know what you did wrong?”

Edward shakes his head. Again. I lost again. What was I expecting?

“You should have waited. Watched me carefully when I made that big move. Did it never occur to you that it might have been a trap?”

“No,” Edward’s small voice responds. Stupid. Stupid. Of course.

“It’s the same every time. You start strong and you finish weak. It’s like a switch that flips midway through. You doubt yourself. That’s a dangerous problem to have, Edward.”

Edward nods, swallowing a lump in his throat. He can’t bear to meet his father’s eyes--eyes that are surely full of disappointment.

The door opens, and William enters with towels prepared for them. “Good work master, young master.”

His father heads over and takes a towel. “He still has much to learn.”

“Oh, come now, he’s still twelve,” William chuckles. “And he’s going up against you, an adult, sir.”

His father shakes his head. “You know, William. You know he has to be able to best me, sooner rather than later. Especially because he’s my son. It’s for his own sake.”

There’s a moment of silence and Edward’s brows furrow.

William laughs softly, somewhat sorrowfully. “I know very well, master. Such is the burden of being born into the Blackwood family.” Lowering his voice, William continues, “But I do wish you’d let him enjoy being a child just a bit longer.”

Equally hushed, Richard gives his butler a stern glare. “You know as well as I do that we can’t afford that.”

William has a puckered look on his face. He resigns with a nod. Richard leaves, footsteps receding down the stairs.

Edward observes this exchange, having heard everything. “What burden?”

William startles. He quickly smiles. “Come. Let me wipe away your sweat, young master.”

Edward doesn’t move, fixing William with the best glare he can muster. “No. Answer my question.”

William looks conflicted, eyes flicking from side to side. “I’m not sure what you mean, young master.”

“You do. I’m tired of secrets!” Edward feels a warm sting behind his eyes and the telltale prickle of tears welling up. “Answer. My. Question.”

William closes his eyes, turning his head up. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, young mas—”

Edward rushes out of the room, purposely bumping past William as he goes.

“Wait, young—Edward!”

He runs, ignoring the calls of his name. Trembling hands and labored breaths wrack his small frame as frustration swirls in his chest. He can’t be bothered to wipe his tears. He can’t be bothered to care who sees.

I hate this. I never asked for any of it.

The truth is, Edward had his suspicions long ago. Suspicions that his training was more than just standard physical exercise, that his father was more than just a businessman. Suspicions about the Blackwood family—his family—in general.

The rapid frequency at which his father changed his training—from boxing to wrestling to jiu-jitsu to fencing, and probably to something else now, deeming that Edward didn’t have a talent for any of it. The frantic look on his father’s face as he searched and searched for something, anything that might prove otherwise. “A specialty,” his father had once mumbled. “Something that he will absolutely not lose in.” If Edward didn’t know better, he’d say his father needed him to know how to fight well.

Then there were the senior servants at the manor. William, James, Eliza, and Lucy in particular seemed to know something. The shared looks, the cover-ups and smooth lies that reassured him when he was younger whenever there was a loud bang in the manor. Or when guests arrived, and he never saw them leave. Or whenever he overheard part of a conversation he shouldn’t have or mentioned a term that seemed taboo, like ‘artifact’. Not to mention, the lack of pictures around the manor of his birth mother. She’s a taboo topic too.

And Edward swears he’s seen magic. Objects don’t float by themselves. If that’s not magic, what else could it be?

The excuses seemed flimsier as he got older.

There was also a strange tension between his stepmother and his father. It was tangible whenever they ate dinner together. Edward found it harder and harder to ignore with each passing day, the wary gazes and the curt responses. How his father maintained a proper distance away from Adelle, almost avoiding her.

Finally, the strange mural on the ceiling in the foyer and how it sometimes would change if Edward looked at it during the night. The light orbs that turned out to be peculiar objects when he glanced a second time. The disappearance of certain hooded figures in the painting and said objects. How his father sometimes looked up at it with a pale complexion and worried, dark eyes.

Edward stops running. His feet have brought him to the foyer again, mere steps away from the large front doors. Outside the windows, pale snowflakes fall in the black night. He can’t see anything out there, so he stays rooted to the spot, enveloped by the warmth of Blackwood Manor and the sweet, sickly, honeyed radiance of the light fixtures and candles.

“Young master!” William’s voice calls from atop the stairs. The man, slightly out of breath, sighs in relief at the sight of him. “Thank goodness,” he says. I thought you ran away, is left unsaid.

William descends the stairs, hastily making his way over, fresh towel still draped over his arm. He kneels and meets Edward’s eyes, the earlier tantrum forgotten.

This time, Edward doesn’t object. He lets William wipe away his sweat and his drying tears. Even if he wanted to leave, he wouldn’t have anywhere to go.

“It is time for bed, young master,” William says. “Come with me, I’ll take you up—”

Edward has already tuned him out. His eyes are trained on the ceiling mural once more. He barely registers William leading him up the stairs and away to bed.

Again, the painting has changed, but this time, it’s not the objects or the hooded figures. That previously unidentifiable unease coiled within his chest now has a name: fear.

This time, Edward sees its true nature. It’s no holy mural. Those aren’t angels bestowing gifts upon humanity.

Those are demons. And their claws yearn for the light.