"She stole my bloody horse!" I fumed. "The softhand dismounted me! With a wave of her pinky finger!"
My sister clucked like a hen, cleaning the scrape on my forehead and bandaging it. "I suppose that teaches you not to underestimate us softhands."
"The repression spell didn't work! It had to have been some dirty trick." I protested. "There's no way she could've even remained standing. I'm missing something."
"I'll say." She replied, shaking her head. "It sounds to me like that last knock to your noggin made you all the thicker, love." Her tone was mischievous and cryptic. I hated that tone. She'd used it for the entirety of our childhood and obviously intended to continue well into her 18th year and my 21st.
"Enlighten your idiotic kin." I deadpanned. Kinsam smirked her all-knowing smirk. "She's of beast-tongue. Irrepressible."
I stiffened. "Impossible. When her father gave me the assignment he said they haven't had a holder in the family for generations. It's unlikely she even possesses magic, much less an irrepressible gift."
Kinsam arched an eyebrow. "Which gives rise to two possible options. Either her father lied, or her father isn't her father."
I blinked, suddenly remembering the way she'd smirked at me when I'd conjured the repression. "That saddle looks rather uncomfortable." She'd said. I realized now that she hadn't been talking to me, she'd been talking to the bloody horse.
Oh, softhand. It's on, now.
