Hall of Games [ REWRITE ] | The Varya Chronicles #1

Chapter Three

Media: The bottle

Music: The Four Horsemen by Audiomachine

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CHAPTER THREE

Cadence woke up with a horrible backache. Groaning, she latched onto her bedpost for support and rose into a sitting position. The first thing that popped into her mind was her usual routine of picking out Khazaria's outfits and then preparing for a hot bath, but the rough blanket, creaky bed, and darkness reminded her it was the weekend.

She cheered mentally, then shivered.

The fire must have gone out in the middle of the night. She cursed the cold, got to her feet, and went toward the hearth.

Her brother was curled up in a blanket, his body a thin, silver silhouette. Cole liked to sleep in during the weekends. Given her job, Cadence couldn't sleep past six chimes. Khazaria flew into a rage if she got her breakfast late or her bath water was even a few degrees cooler than she liked. For five years, she had trained herself to rise before the sun broke through the mountains. It was now a ritual.

Cole had melted a bucket of snow and left it at the other side of the kitchen. Being careful not to make excessive noises, she retrieved a basin of water from the bucket to wash her face and hands, then another for her father.

She crouched in front of the fireplace. A few pieces of dry wood and a few strikes of flint against stone revived the embers. Warmth rolled over her instantly in gentle waves. She spread her fingers before the heat, letting it seep into her bones.

Cadence touched the scars on her hands—scars from Khazaria's nails and handling hot utensils. While hers were covered in scars and burns, Cole's were covered with calluses and nicks.

The price to pay for food and medicine. Cadence heated the basin of water and made sure it was lukewarm before she went to give her father his morning shower.

The curtains in her father's bedroom were drawn, allowing the beginnings of the morning to stream through.

"Morning, Papa," Cadence said.

Her father snorted as he woke. "Morning, shezinka."

Shezinka. Her father loved to call her that, although she had stressed about a thousand times she was nothing like a snowflake, and she hated the cold. The cold made her work more miserable than usual, also hurting her knee where she had injured it when Khazaria pushed her down the stairs two years ago.

She kept one of her hands beneath her father's back and the other on his chest. Slowly, she raised him into a sitting position and wedged the pillow behind him.

Her father stank of morning breath and sweat. Cadence removed his shirt, dunked the cloth into the basin, wrung it dry, and wiped his back and chest.