The Shadow's heir

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She knew what it meant. She had always known what it would mean. In a way, she had been waiting for it her entire life. But nothing could have prepared her for it. And nothing could have dulled the shock. But what possibly could have?

She sat on her stool by the front door of their house, slowly whittling a piece of wood. It had been much larger when she had started, but by now it resembled a very thin carrot. Curled wood shavings were piled up between her feet. Some had caught on the rough wool of her dress, but she couldn’t summon up the energy or interest to brush them off.

She couldn’t keep her attention on her knife, either; she let it slide away toward the sky and stared vacantly at the white clouds drifting over it. It would be another fine day tomorrow.

The knife slipped, and she started at the sudden blossoming of pain in her hand. It woke her from her reverie, and she put the knife down and hastily covered the cut with the edge of her skirt.

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