Arabella Pov
I stared down at the plate that was put in front of me and contemplated if it was edible or not. My father did this often, to test me. He’d place various plates in front of me, and he’d arrange them by different presentation and colors as I was expected to figure out which ones were poisoned and which were edible. If I guessed wrong, I’d end up for a week in pain with my stomach aching until my wolf blood healed me. If I guessed right, well. I never really got anything if I was right, just a stern look and a nod of his head as I was led to my next task. I guess in the language of my father that meant he was proud of me, but those words weren’t really something I cared about. Proud, You did good, You’re awesome. Those words that children strived to hear and rolled over backwar
