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you are what defines you by the value of your appearance: slightly thin, pale arms and a freckled face. you’re born with soft chestnut hair curled around your scalp and immediately your supposed biological father is skeptical as he glances at his two sons borne from the same womb.[break][break]

he’s right for his suspicions, but your mother is sly in a way that she keeps her secrets buried deep like death — not even you know your true heritage. you’re a bundle of lies that cries and squeals, and nobody’s the wiser. your name is sophia estella badcock; offered into a world that could barely contain you. you learn that a badcock woman is strong, sound of mind and of heart, and that your loyalty only belongs to a specific, valiant coven.[break][break]

you’re not too old when you begin to hear a voice — not even properly a voice that demands attention, but a single word that calls out to you in a demanding growl that jolts you into a state of hyperawareness of selfhood. when you complain to your parents they seem elated; a new life was now growing inside of you and waiting to bare its flesh, teeth and claws. as a young child this certainly frightens you stiff, but once consoled by brothers with bright eyes and petting hands, you drift into a haze of a childhood you cannot fully recall.[break][break]

unsurprisingly, you do not have many memories that do not involve a book in your lap, or spells being muttered to you. that same rasping, guttural voice takes shape as a sentient being resting in the expanse of your imaginative subconscious. sometimes when you are bored and fed up with your studies you beg for it to reveal itself.[break][break]

silence. sighing now, you push the voice away and settle on repeating the family motto as if it was inked onto the back of your angel–kissed hand: “together we rise, together we fall.” yet, you’re not too young to know the definition of of hate.[break][break]

then why have you always felt so alone?[break][break]

although you’re the youngest of the children birthed from elias badcock and anaïs roth ( stubborn, your father always chided, she would never take his surname ) maturity is something that lays its hands upon you, blesses and curses you, makes you indifferent to the silliness th begot your elder brothers in turn for knowledge and potion–making. your eldest brother makes the brew spill and burn, his bashful face red as father scolds him. the other, younger than the elder but still older than you by two full summers, perfects his magic like a proper badcock and takes the title of heir underneath the nose of his elder without attempting to do so.[break][break]

envy isn’t the word for your emotions then, but you cannot deny you felt a bit green.[break][break]

even in the beginning, not many people know much about you — your heart often flashes from heart to stone at random intervals and it much easier to fake a smile than show them you were scowling the entire time. a badcock woman is taught early to have some mystique surrounding her and you do it no better. when your hips fill your skirt deliciously and your shirts seem much more snug around your chest the men begin to court you; dogs with their tongues lolling from the sides of their slobbering mouths.[break][break]

you tilt your head, flash a convincing smile that is all saccharine and sickly sweet ( makes their hearts pound as it rattles in their chest; boy will be boys, the voice scoffs ). you are firmly stuck in your ways. you don’t need anyone to tell you that you are beautiful.[break][break]

you’re not like your adulterous mother, desperate for hand–outs even if it came from the hands and bed of another man. you’re not like you’re father, zealous and faithful, grounded and unmovable.[break][break]

you move like a feather, grin crooked yet shy, attracting gazes as you reached coven age with a sort of playful indifference.[break][break]

being a witch is not your calling.[break][break]

rebellion, says the unmistakable voice of your familiar that still resided comfortably between your temples, snarling all the while. you know what you want. take it. take it or you’ll never leave![break][break]

being a witch of the helios knights is not your calling — now, it feels like more of a death sentence. although delight comes in the form of your two brothers being accepted into their ranks, you hesitate. you don’t feel at home in their ways and don’t feel the kinship you were suppose to feel. you, sophia estella badcock, run out their doors and leave their members puzzled as your brother laugh awkwardly and apologize for you.[break][break]

the jester’s den fit you better, like fine silk clothes, like a new leather glove, like you belong here.[break][break]

the voice smiles, if that sounds believable. soon, it mutters. soon enough.