past

The door slammed on the opposite end of the rowhouse, rocking it to its foundation. That was her signal to hide. Sweeping the last pile of errant ash back into the hearth, she dashed into the adjacent pantry, broom still in hand. Pulling the door closed save a sliver to allow for a narrow swath of light, she backed into the corner and clutched the broom to her chest. Wordlessly moving her lips, she began her customary silent prayer for protection when once again she found herself cowering, paralyzed with the fear of her drunken father.

“Graced Valen,” she began, “Paragon of Order-”

“Nathania!” Her father bellowed, furniture kicked and tossed out of the way as he ambled toward the kitchen.

“...I am your humble servant. Please, grant me bravery in the...

Please subscribe to keep reading.