He fled his village, stopping just before it was out of sight to wave goodbye—he almost didn’t—and continued on. Where could he go? How could he be safe?
As he walked, he fixed his gaze on his trembling hands, clenching them to control the shake. If only he could control them.
He hadn’t meant to do it, of course. He never did. But the glove maker’s daughter was the last straw. Normal people weren’t safe around him, they said.
They used to say he was blessed. But a golden statue was no substitute for a mother. Father. Friends.