"Honey, I feel like we're missing something important," Ares's mother said as eggs sizzled in a hot frying pan. Sam—Ares's father—looked up from his daily newspaper, confused.
"I don't think so," Sam said matter-of-factly.
"Daddy, look, look!" Mia, six years old, sat at the table—a sweet bundle of joy—with a bob cut and a pink princess hair clip holding back her hair. It was her most prized possession; her brother had bought it for her. Lately she'd been obsessed with drawing. "Look what I drew!" she said, excited.
Sam's face lit with the smile kind men keep for their daughters. He examined the paper with exaggerated seriousness. Scribbles masquerading as people marched across the page.
"Oh, my daughter is such a genius." To Sam, it was his most precious treasure. He picked it up and proudly stuck it on the fridge. "Look, Mother—what our little angel has drawn."
"Oh my!" Sophia exclaimed, frolicking toward her daughter and showering her with kisses. The three of them danced around the room in happy little circles.
That night, a shadowy figure could be seen sneaking from street to street, a shadow with a mission. It was Ares; it had taken him the whole day to find his way back to his home.
His face was back to normal. He leapt over the wall of his house, landed like a cat, and slipped through corners like a shadow. His father was in the TV lounge, sitting on an old sofa—"Jeff," as they called it. Jeff had been with the family for as long as Ares could remember. It had witnessed every beating he'd received. Ares considered it a brother.
"Don't look at me like that," Ares muttered as tears moistened his eyes. "A man's gotta do what he's gotta do. I can't live like this anymore. I was born to be a fashion designer." Even he couldn't have said exactly why; there had been a promise once, and he knew he had to keep it. So he would probably say: a man's gotta keep his word.
Ares hid in the kitchen, waiting for the old man to sleep. His eyes darted around the room: the utensils his mother used for cooking, the table where they ate. Something new caught his eye on the fridge. He affectionately patted the drawing, fixing the magnet so it wouldn't slip. "I'm going to miss you, kiddo."
"Grrr, grrr, grrr," a strange noise trickled from the TV lounge.
"Damn, the old man's started to snore like an engine."
"Grr, grrr, grrr."
"A bad one," he remarked, as he snuck up the stairs, placing his feet carefully so the wooden floor wouldn't creak. His room was unlike what anyone would expect from a mechanic's son: small, with unfinished dresses hanging on the wall. Mia had been his model. She loved the attention, and he loved making them for her. He couldn't help remembering the little things.
"Maybe life isn't so bad," he sighed—but a faint whisper of a promise rose within, strengthening his resolve. "Let's get ready before the old man wakes up." He opened his cupboard and found no clothes.
"Looking for these?" Sophia stood at the door with a packed bag. "Sneaking out in the dark of night? Not even going to say goodbye to your mother?" She stood there with a pained smile.
"Ma…" Ares reached for words, but none came. He hugged his mother tightly. She stood still. "I love making clothes—the smile it brings. I want to weave joy for people."
Sophia finally moved, her hand caressing the back of her son. He had grown so big. She remembered how happy he was making dresses for Mia. "I know." She pushed him back and fussed with his hair. "I know. My son has to take his own path—just don't forget us along the way."
Tears rolled down Ares's cheek, a knot twisting in his stomach. "I won't. I'll write and visit. I'll send you the dresses I make. I promise."
"Okay, now you're going to make me cry. Kiss your sister goodbye before you leave," Sophia sniffed, forcing a smile.
Ares found his little angel, tightly hugging her nightie. He lifted her lightly. She groaned but nestled her head on his shoulder. Ares gently patted her back. "Hey, little bird, your brother will be going away for a while."
"Mmph…" She opened her eyes a little, then, feeling safe in his arms, drifted back to sleep.
"I love you so much." Ares shifted her slightly, eyes closed, feeling her little heartbeat—so alive.
"Ennas le, faeg!…" A flash of light filled the room and a man appeared.
All sound stretched into a slow reverb; the hair on his nape stood. Danger! In one motion, Ares laid his sister on the bed and, with his free hand, hurled a wrench at the intruder.
The man was middle-aged and muscular, wearing golden robes marked with three suns and seven moons. The wrench hit him square in the forehead, and he lost consciousness. Ares grabbed the stranger and shoved him out the window—he wanted Mia safe. Glass shattered, and Ares and the robed man dropped to the ground floor.
The impact jolted the man back toward awareness, though he was still concussed. He blinked and scanned the street, dazed—then a figure blurred toward him.
Ares moved like a beast. Someone had appeared in his angel's room. The intruder's hand flickered. Ares's instincts roared; he kicked the man in the groin, making short work of him.
The man stared in disbelief, vision swimming. He tried to cast a restrictive spell, but the concussion and the kick ruined his concentration. The weave misfired, and in a flash of light Ares was transformed into a girl—naked, and unmistakably a girl. For a heartbeat, a faint sigil—three suns and seven moons—pulsed under Ares's collarbone, then faded.
"Why does my ches—" He looked down and lost all sense of reason. Purely on instinct, he beat the old man within an inch of his life.
"Á pusta málya!" a voice rang out as multiple portals opened in the middle of the night, each glowing a different color. There were ten of them—elves, dwarves, jinn, orcs, and fae. Everyone stared in disbelief: Arwen was lying at the feet of a naked girl.
"What?" Ares looked up, alarmed.
The elderly woman in blue robes waved her hand; the air tightened around Ares and lifted him into the air. She paused, eyes narrowing. "Manen ta ná? Lá ëa curwë mi sé?" she said. Puzzled, she found traces of illusion magic clinging to the girl; with a flick of her wrist, Ares returned to his original form.
"What the—?" Glad to have his crown jewels back, he froze, looking at the people around him. His heartbeat quickened as he looked at the strange figures surrounding him, speaking in foreign languages.
"Na iôn, be-'vedui," the woman remarked another blue weave formed around her figners and disappeared.
Ares felt a ringing pain in his head.
"Elders, return to your stations. Arwen is safe. Leaving your posts endangers the Academy. We will discuss this in a more appropriate place."
"Yes, Rector!" the figures replied, nodding before they stepped back through their portals and vanished into the night.
The old woman eyed Ares, who silently assessed his surroundings.
"Look at this fellow—still has his wits about him," she scoffed. With a gesture, she opened a narrow band of blue light. She, Ares, and the unconscious Arwen disappeared into the dark like a candle snuffed by wind.
On the opposite side of Ares's house, a man stood shell-shocked, vomit all over his clothes.
"Honey!" the man's wife screamed when she saw him. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
"What was I supposed to say?" he replied. "Two people were fighting in the street. A boy kicked another man in the balls, screamed, then turned into a woman before disappearing into thin air…"
The woman stared mutely at her husband.