Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (read me like a book txt) 📕

His breathing began to slow and his arm, almost vibrating with tension, throbbed as he reflexively drew the card to his chest. He cradled it there like a child, the urge to fold and squirrel it away sweeping him again. It brushed aside his thoughts and desires in a tide of mental programming rooted in fear.

“I…” he began, but his throat caught as shame and years of fear bore down.

Ambrose and Rihyani exchanged looks of open concern before gazing at him with sad, knowing eyes. They realized what Milo did: that this wasn’t a magical malady or eldritch possession.

Milo had been hiding this secret, this burden since he was a child. The psychic architecture he had constructed to protect himself and ensure the concealment of it was not easily breached. Years of habit, years of terror about others learning the truth, years of quietly but ferociously dismissing something that could not be had brought their full weight to lock his body down. Confessing it was one thing, but handing it over was another. Having another person take hold of the wicked thing had been a fear similar to death for as long as he could remember.

“This card, this thing…” Milo said, glaring down at what he was still cradling. “I’ve been trying to hide it from others for so long, I... “

He took a steadying breath, hating how Ambrose and the fey stared at him with such concern and pity.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be this hard,” Milo explained, forcing himself to straighten and pull the card away from his chest, though only so it hovered over his lap. “This card has been the only hint about where I came from and who or even what I am. I knew if anyone ever figured out its magic, fear, pain, and death would follow.”

Ambrose’s mouth tightened beneath his mustache for a moment before he spoke.

“How would anyone know it's magical?” Ambrose asked. “I mean, I understand you figuring it out, but anybody who didn’t know your story about the card aging with you wouldn’t know it was anything but an old tarot that looks like you, right?”

Milo nodded. He understood the confusion, but the effort of formulating an answer was monumental. Instead, he reached inside his coat to the carefully shaped edge he kept in the lining and nicked his scarred thumb. He then held the card in one hand over the bloodied thumb.

“Because of this,” Milo said and snapped to ignite the blood-catalyzed magic. The green-tinged flame danced across the edge of the card, kindling it almost instantly. The card began to roll in on itself like a dying spider as the emerald light lapped across every surface, leaving nothing but black crust and a tracery of sullen orange fire. Milo let it fall to the bare floor of the train compartment, where it quickly crumbled into a few black curls that gave up a few pitiful wisps of smoke and then nothing at all.

Milo met Ambrose’s and the fey’s bemused faces with weary boredom, face slack and lids drooping as he pressed a foot down on the floor, turning the remainders of the card into a dark smudge. Still looking at his companions, he bent down and ran a finger through the stain, and then held his darkened fingers up for inspection.

Satisfied that they’d seen absolute proof of the card’s destruction, he reached into his breast pocket and with clean fingers, he drew out the folded card. He unfolded it as he had done upon his initial confession, holding it out for them to see. He then pointed at the floor, which showed no sign of the dark smear from a moment earlier.

Ambrose gave a long whistle.

“On my first day in Dresden, one of the orderlies took it out of my pocket and ripped it to shreds before tossing it into the trash bin.”

Milo looked down at the card, a swirling amalgam of anger and nostalgia simmering in his eyes.

“I found the card in my pocket, completely whole before I’d been shown to my room. It was inescapable.”

Milo stared into his own face on the card, the woodcut’s expression, as it always had been, one of royal stoicism, vaguely dismissive and utterly remote. He remembered practicing making the face in a mirror sometimes when no one was looking, but every time he came close to achieving it, he’d shivered and run away from the mirror.

“My attempts at getting rid of it have always been unsuccessful,” the wizard said, looking up at them, forcing himself to meet their eyes. “It’s been a curse I couldn't escape and also the one hope I had of knowing my past. In a strange way, I love and hate it at the same time. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Rihyani said, and to Milo’s immense relief, he saw something other than pity reflected in her dark eyes. The fey’s expressions were not as transparent as humans’, but Milo had learned enough to know that he was looking at understanding. She was no longer looking at him with pity or concern or even curiosity. She was knowing him.

Somewhere within him, Milo felt something long broken heal.

He looked down at the card, shook his head once, and held it out to her.

“Go ahead,” he said, unable to believe what he was saying. “You can look at it. It’s okay.”

As Rihyani’s hand stretched out to take the card, the compartment lurched around them, and all three of them were thrown to the floor.

Ambrose bounced back to his feet and tore open the compartment door as Milo and Rihyani were still struggling to disentangle themselves. From where they were on the floor, Milo realized the sudden jolt had brought on a rapid decrease in speed, but the humming vibration of the rails under them could still be felt. The engineer must have spotted something that caused them to slow.

Milo could only think of one reason for that.

“I’ll see what’s