My mother once told me that the best revenge was living well.
She said this after my father walked out on us, leaving her with three kids to feed, parents long dead, and no skills. So she went out to learn some skills. The blacksmith was the only one who didnāt laugh her off, so she learned how to blacksmith. Soon enough, she was surpassing her teacher in armor-making.
It was how I was discovered.
My friends who, as soon as the prophecy was done, avoided me.
I mean, I understood that, at some level, I was an outsider. I was a country bumpkin. They had grown up in the capital. Still, that didnāt erase the hurt when they all said they were too busy to go to the Harvest Festival, only for us to bump into each other. It didnāt compare to the rush of hot tears, the annoyed look Janice had, the awkward looks everyone else had.
I was a quick learner. My mother made sure I was. She didnāt want us to ever have to go through what she had. My sister, like my mother, eventually had surpassed her in armor design. I had bonded with the kingās bookkeeper, learning from him, from the merchants the king bought from. I learned and I learned and talked with my sister, my family.
I didnāt need my friends. I needed my family to live. I wanted my mother and sisterās talents to be seen. My brother had learned his math well and his pitch even better. And me? Well, I had connections.
More connections than my āfriendsā could even think of.
And, five years later, staring at them now at the kingās gala, worshipped as both the hero of prophecy that they could never fill and the best armor supplier in the country, I could admire my motherās advice.
Living well was truly the sweetest revenge.
