Hoofbeats pound frantically past the hollowed log I haplessly dove into, a hammering that echoes my rapid heart rate. “Good horsies,” I breathe, “just keep going. Nothing to see here.”

The mass passes while one rider audibly clops closer. Digging my nails into the moss ensconcing me, “What did I _just_ say?” I hiss.

There’s a snort then.

Whether from horse or rider, I can’t be sure.

“Get out of the log, Mave.”

I’m only mostly sure that one was the rider.

“No ‘Mave’ here, sorry,” I reply in the drawling accent of our fae brethren to the south.

Apparently not a very good impression, I realize, as the rider dismounts.

_Maybe they just have to pee._

But then my feet are being pulled and I’m sliding out of my semblance of safety, rolling on my back to stare up at the sun gleaming off the silver scar bisecting Hyde’s face from right temple to left jaw.

The scar he received years ago in his relentless pursuit of me.

Not romantically, but for a much worse purpose, if possible.

“Oh! Hello, Hyde,” I greet casually, “If I’d known you were coming by, I would’ve made tea. Let me just…”

My futile attempt at scrambling back into the log is thwarted by a large booted foot.

“These are nice,” I coo a compliment as if that were his intention.

“Up, Mave,” he bites out impatiently.

I sigh and sit up, resting back on my palms, dragging my stare all the way to his large chest and stopping, rather than continuing to the permanent wound proving my talents are not in booby traps.

“You know, demands are quite unbecoming of company,” I inform him lightly.

“Up!” He snarls, bending to aid me in his command with thick fingers laced under my pits.

I’m bodily tossed in the air, landing lightly on my feet.

These elongated points of my ears aren’t just for looks, my friend. They denote my belonging to a race with innate preternatural grace.

A trait that is rumored to have skipped the youngest in my family, which I resent, yet confirm as my toes tangle, cheek slamming into that chest I was just staring into.

I feel it deflate with a resigned sigh.

Hands cap my biceps, squeezing slightly instead of instantly pushing me away, as if he can’t look at me as he asks, “When are you going to drop the act?”

My feet instinctively move to retreat. He lets me.

“Act?” I question his freshly muddied leather vest.

I reach up to my face and feel a clean patch of cheek that I hadn’t been aware was so dirty.

I beam up at my apparent personal maid, pieces of his shoulder length dark hair have fallen from the leather tie at his nape to tickle his face.

At the sight of my gratitude, Hyde looks even more furious than usual, something I hadn’t previously thought possible.

“_No one_ is this inept,” he insists.

I raise an unaffected shoulder. “Maybe I’m just special.”

My sisters always say as much, but their tone is always strange, like they’re joking or something.

Hyde grumbles something under his breath that doesn’t seem very complimentary.

“You’re coming with me,” he growls.

“Yep,” I agree.

He narrows his eyes.

The expression puckers the skin around the scar.

“And we’re making it _all the way_ to the estate for your magic testing,” he prompts slowly, his usual insistence almost imploring.

“That’s the plan,” I neither confirm nor deny.

He blows air heavily out of his nose like an enraged bull. His palpable fury pollutes the air. Even his horse senses it, shifting uneasily with a low nicker of unease.

I just smile.

It’s been the same song and dance since I turned eighteen, over a decade ago.

I’m happy for the government to blame my reluctance to be tested on insolence rather than ever learning the true reason for my reticence.

Regardless of despising the formality of it, I understand why we have the testing required as soon as we come of age.

Everyone seems so happy working in the field that pertains to their innate gifts.

While my sisters received materialization of threads and fabrics and are ecstatic about channeling it into manifesting the local fashion industry, one vapid thought at a time, I don’t foresee the gift that I’ve hidden inspiring as much excitement.

Hyde stomps over to his increasingly anxious mount and strokes the chestnut fur of its neck, confidently turning his back to me.

He knows I can’t run very far.

Or well.

“You‘ve been lucky so far with the war against the goblins keeping everyone too busy to send us after you consistently,” Hyde says, speaking freely without the potential distraction of my reaction, “but you’re drawing the wrong kind of attention by avoiding the test,” he advises.

_Lucky people don’t have wars start on their birthday_, I think, folding my arms and looking down at my log hiding place longingly.

“What if I’ll draw more attention by taking it,” I voice, barely a whisper.

Hyde’s gift, to my detriment, is tracking.

So, his heightened hearing has him stiffening at my question.

My foot slides back, if only to fulfill my fruitless desire to flee. Hyde reaches out and needlessly raises the stirrup to tighten the saddle, as if nervously needing something to do with his hands before turning to me.

“Get on the horse, Mave,” he instructs tonelessly.

I comfort myself with the fact that mounting the steed hasn’t ended with me taking the test yet, approaching the familiar beast and patting the place Hyde just soothed. “Hi, Rooster,” I greet.

Both horse and owner seem amused and annoyed with the nickname that I coined back when his whinny through the trees would wake me from within the hovel I moved into. Always just before sunrise, giving me only minutes to effectively hide.

I honestly blame sleep deprivation on the quality of the booby traps that fateful day, but have feared openly sharing the blame might make these encounters a lot less cordial.

Hyde seemed to actually respect me after I almost took his eye with swinging blades strapped to ropes.

I hop up on Rooster.

Hyde slides in the saddle behind me.

He learned not to let me sit in the back after the last time I used his complancency to escape.

We ride until the sun settles on the opposite side of the sky. Both our tensions rise the closer we get to the Governor’s estate, but as the green of trees continue to blur by, I realize the source of disquiet isn’t coming from our destination.

I bat at the hands grasping the reins in front of me. Hyde pulls back on them instinctively, grumbling chastisements at himself for heeding me while Rooster slows to a trot.

“Do you feel that?” I ask, staring toward the foreboding feeling emanating over the hill to our left.

“Irritation? Yes,” he answers.

I smile openly.

“No,” I laugh and gesture, “over there.”

The leather saddle squeaks as he turns toward the hill I pointed to. I’m pleased enough that he’s actually humored me, then delighted at the pins and needles sensation that indicates he’s using his magic to scan the area.

It cuts off as abruptly as his creative curses begin to pepper the air, ones I thought only I could inspire.

Rooster dances in disquiet beneath us.

“Ambush,” Hyde hisses.

My heart bottoms out, mind instantly summoning the memory of the day the war began.

I was an unfortunate witness to the very moment, summoned to the estate for my magic test, just as the goblin consulate arrived.

I’d looked on with awe from the balcony above as the historical moment unfolded – two sides diplomatically colliding in the foyer with forced politeness.

It only took a heartbeat for the hand shakes to be utilized as leverage for the goblin’s gnarled green grips to more effectively wield their weapons.

Another beat for the act to fully process to the revered fae leaders, penetrated through the chest, and onlookers alike.

The screams from the loved ones of the slain came even before the coughed sprays of blood.

In all my recurring nightmares of the event, I have yet to reconcile which outburst was more horrific.

There was no reason, no sense.

It just was.

The goblins have maintained that position in their relentless attacks ever since.

My overwhelming alarm at the thought of another ambush eradicates all but my resolve.

Ever since that fateful day, every move I’ve made has been a purposeful performance.

Hyde is right.

It’s time to drop the act.

“Ride towards the goblins,” I order.

Hyde’s sputtering laugh is a dry, unused thing.

“You can’t be serious,” he insists.

It’s almost heartwarming, his continued confidence in my aptitude despite the antagonistic nature of our relationship.

I turn in the saddle. His expression of incredulous defeat falls at the look of sureity on mine, the whites of his eyes becoming more prominent the longer I display the severity of my command.

“Ride.”

His long inhale seems to be an attempt to absorb even a morsel of the confidence I have.

As he encourages Rooster to our left, he grumbles, “I knew you’d be the death of me.”

I turn forward and smile at the unseen ambush.

“Not today.”

It only takes a few minutes to reach the top of the hill. The verdant valley below turned sickly green from the writhing wave of its unwelcome occupants.

Rooster trots in place, his hooves seeming to communicate the same curses that the formidable man at my back is openly expressing.

“Mave, this is insane. We have to report this,” he pleas.

I hop off Rooster.

Both males curse more.

I take three steps toward the incoming attack, close my eyes, and breathe deep.

Diving within, I force myself to face the anger and pain I’ve stored.

The anguish of a life spent hiding and biding time, only really losing it in the process.

The fleeting freedom of unknowingly utilizing my gift and the indelible impact only a moment has wrought.

Addressing all the negativity seems to make it dissipate, dancing up into the sky like smoke that then settles over the valley before reigniting into flame.

It’s like popping corn kernels over the stove, the way one goblin scream turns into a symphony.

Hyde continues to call my name in increasing concern as I sway to the beat.

My sisters may have been gifted with sewing cords, but I was cursed with the sowing of discord.

It stubbornly decided to reveal itself at the estate, moments before my testing that day.

I’ve hidden away for everyone’s safety ever since.

I feel Hyde’s presence standing mutely at my side and reluctantly relent that I should witness the damage my curse has wrought once again.

It’s a massacre.

Goblin turned against goblin, brothers and friends slaying each other with a froth mouthed fervor.

Some are even taking a knife to their own chests as if to appease the call to fight at its source.

“Are you _doing_ this?” Hyde asks hoarsely.

Rocking back on my heels awkwardly, “Surprise?” I squeak through a grimace.

He rips his slack jawed gaze from the harrowing sight before us to instead look down on me with the wariness and trepidation I’d feared but anticipated.

“You could turn the tide of war,” he intones in a breath of awe.

Intending to shut that down immediately,

I admit, “I _started_ the war.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me.

They never do.

With only a thought, I impose upon him an internal battle. He drops to his knees in contemplation.

_‘It’s getting stronger,’ _the voice inside me says with an appropriate amount of fear.

Rooster and I seem to come to an understanding as I approach and loop my legs over his sides.

He points himself towards my home just as the last scream dies.