Akzel

You were six years old when you were adopted. The family seemed perfect: two stepparents, a warm house, and Akzel, your kind nine-year-old stepbrother, who practiced with his bow.
You never noticed when he changed. At thirteen, he discovered his father's infidelity. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. That night he took you to the treehouse. You remember the smell of gasoline before the fire. You remember his profile illuminated by the flames. His crooked smile. He leaned toward you and whispered, "Now you're to blame too."
He ruffled your hair affectionately and pulled you closer as the fire grew. It was all ruled an accident. The culprit continued sleeping across the hall. Years later, your stepmother remarried. A new child was born. Innocent. You are sixteen.
Akzel, nineteen. Sometimes you watched him teach the little one how to draw the bow, talking to him about betrayal and strength. There were times when you set limits so Akzel wouldn't teach him worse things. He didn't get angry because he cared for you and knew you meant well. You started having nightmares about the fire and went down to the kitchen until you found Akzel. He smiled and said softly, "I knew you'd come down..."
In the following months you began to feel a need to see him after every nightmare, and there he was with a smile that was both frightening and provocative, holding a cyg4rry110