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When the group of hazekillers enter his room, followed by his father, Ezra’s not quite sure what to think. His father approaches, handing him a vial. “Drink.”
“Why—“
“Don’t question me, boy,” the man snarls. Ezra only stares at it a moment longer before uncapping it and drinking, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He hands the now-empty vial back.
“Begin,” his father says. The guards raise their dueling canes and advance.
The first blow knocks him against the wall, the second to his knees. He cries out, trying to stand up until a third strike pushes him onto the floor on his side. He pulls himself into a ball as more blows rain down, unable to keep from screaming and sobbing throughout.
He’s not sure why it stops, only that it does so suddenly, when he can barely move and his ears are ringing. He blinks, trying to see through the blood pouring down from his forehead as the guards retreat.
He whimpers as his father approaches at a slow, leisurely pace, hands clasped behind his back.
“Out. Now,” he orders. The hazekillers leave, and Ezra is left alone with his father. The man stops a couple of feet from his head. “Get up.”
“N– no,” Ezra whispers in a hoarse voice.
“Up. Now.” He gestures, and Ezra yelps as he’s dragged to his feet by the chain loosely connecting his wrists. “Tell me why you suddenly think you don’t have to obey me anymore.”
“Yo– you just– you just beat me until I co– couldn’t move,” he whimpers, trying to keep his gaze defiant despite the pain radiating through his body.
“That was the point,” his father says, smiling. “And look at what you’ve become because of it.” Ezra still glares up at him, as defiant as he can afford to be, and the man’s smile disappears. He tosses the boy to the ground.
“Ple– please don’t—“
His father steps on his hand.
Ezra screams, the pain intense enough he can almost feel his bones cracking. He breaks down into sobs as the man relieves the pressure, smiling pleasantly down at the boy.
“When you’re done dwelling on your weakness, maybe you can figure out how to use your abilities,” he says.
“I– I don’t have any,” Ezra says, breath catching as he tries to crawl away. “I’m not– I’m not like y– you. I’m not the same.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But this,” he says, stooping to pick up a small object from the floor near Ezra, “is proof that we are close enough.”
“What’s that?”
“A button, it appears,” his father says, examining the object. He tosses it to the floor near Ezra’s head. The boy eyes it warily. “Make it move.”
Too terrified to consider the alternative if he’s not able to, Ezra reaches his uninjured hand out, nudging the button a few inches away. His father laughs softly.
“Not with your hand, boy. With your abilities.”
“I don’t– don’t have any. Not...not like you.”
“That doesn’t appear to be the case. You see, Ezra, this button was not originally on the floor. Prior to your earlier display, it went here.” His father taps the highest buttonhole on his shirt. “You pulled it free and towards yourself. I believe that qualifies you as an Allomancer. Unless, of course, you’d like to test that theory another way and I can call back the guards?”
He shakes his head wildly. “N– no,” he whispers. “Pl– please no.”
The man stares at him for a long moment, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is even, dangerous.
“Then make it move.”
Ezra returns his attention to the button, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He has to do this. He has to.
He won’t survive another beating, and he and his father both know it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the sensation of blood dripping down from his forehead again as he focuses on the button. His father’s able to Pull metal to him; he’s seen him do it often enough. And according to the man, Ezra did the same just a few minutes ago. So why can’t he do it again?
His good hand scrabbles against the stone, trying to find purchase as he forces all of his energy into moving the button. After several long minutes of this, he hears a faint rattle against the stone. He opens his eyes.
His father gestures and the button is Pulled up into his hand, a rare smile on his face. “Well done, my boy,” he says. “It looks like we can make something of you after all.”
“I...I moved it?” he asks weakly.
“Yes. And you didn’t just move it, you also...Pushed it. Very well done indeed.” His father sounds distracted, and his gaze seems to be on something far beyond the button. Ezra gets to his feet on his own, trembling.
“Can I...can I go to the healer now?”
“I believe you won’t need to go to the healer ever again.” The man chuckles softly, pocketing the button. “You can heal yourself now. Try it. The same way you Pushed the button.”
Ezra squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to will himself to heal. To be able to survive another beating.
Something in his stomach burns and he gasps, eyes opening.
“Do it again, for longer this time. And you can leave your eyes open.”
“I– I can’t focus if they are,” he mumbles, closing them again and focusing. The burning feeling comes quicker this time, and he manages to withhold the gasp, clenching his good fist as the feeling spreads throughout his whole body.
In moments it vanishes and he opens his eyes, unable to suppress a wide grin. “I– I’m not hurting anymore.”
“Good. That one’s called pewter. It makes you stronger, almost...fills in the blanks.”
He nods, too excited about his new abilities to come up with a reason for his father’s odd tone. “And what about the other ones?”
“You will learn those, in time. For now, clean the blood off and make yourself presentable. I’ll send a couple skaa to clean up the floor. Meet me for dinner in no less than an hour.” His father turns to leave, and Ezra only finds the courage to speak up when the door’s halfway open.
“Wait, can I...can I see Mom?”
His father is silent for a long moment. The man finally turns halfway back, silhouetted by the torchlight in the hall.
“You can see her when you’ve learned to burn your other metals. Not another word about her until then, am I understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The man exits, the door shutting behind him with a low thud, leaving Ezra to his thoughts.