limbs forgotten amid the weariness of her heart. She refused to let the others see her weakness. “Let’s go.”
Descending from the spur, she glanced again over her shoulder, fresh guilt now joining the dreamers in their pursuit of her.
24 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Airspur, Lower Districts
Ghaelya’s eyes fluttered open. Sitting up slowly in the dark, she found herself alone in the Jinn’s Favor, a favorite tavern in the lower districts of Airspur. Her stomach turned, and the night’s drinking made her neck feel boneless, her head unimaginably heavy. A faint singing floated through the air. She pushed herself away from the bar and stumbled through the empty common room to the door. She leaned on the jamb and peered out into the dimly lit streets.
A group of hooded monks passed by, humming and chanting their strange songs. She shook her head in disgust, immediately regretting the movement, then fixed a glaring eye upon the backs of the monks as they continued on their mysterious rounds. They called themselves the Choir, and were servants of some unknown goddess she’d heard them reference ‘the Lady’ on occasion during the sermons they’d read in the squares and streets.. She cared little what they did or who they worshipped, but their singing bored into her skull like a knife.
Their presence disturbed the powers high above in lofty towers however, and for that she’d raised at least one glass to the monks’ health, even though she tired of the haunting songs and wished they would move on. If not for the peace of fewer headaches, then to loose the Choir’s powerful hold over her sister.
Not yet fully trusting her balance, Ghaelya fell to her knees in the alley and crawled toward the glow of the street lamps. Ascending the various layers and levels of the city, she regainedunfortunatelya measure of her sobriety back and found no friend or acquaintance that might allow her an uncomfortable stretch of floor until morning.
Turned out on the street by every so-called friend she-had, Ghaelya made her slow way, leaning on walls and
high railings, to her family’s home. Their small tower in the middle-airs of the city was modest compared to the suspended mansions and estates high above, but their family’s status was cemented due to her mother’s distant relation to the Steward of Fire. Their coat-of-arms bOre the mark of a candle’s flame for all to see, on every wall, door, and window.
Ghaelya had relished the look on her mother’s face when she’d turned to the guiding element of water to shape her destiny. Though she’d been born into the spirit of fireshe occasionally felt the heat of flames burning in her blood she resisted the urge to manifest the “family flames” as she called them, leaving that duty to the more complacent Tessaeril. An annoyance to her family, Ghaelya had never been forced into a fine dress or made to attend the boring gatherings of the wealthy and delusional.
Placing her hand on the flat metal panel above the doorhandle, tiny runes flared blue in recognition, and the lock clicked open. Falling inside, she slammed the door with a wince and leaned against the wall, waiting for the yelling to start. It never came, and she raised an azure eyebrow in surprise. A slow intake of breath made her peer blurrily to the end of the hall where her sister stood with arms crossed.
“Almost made it,” she said under her breath.
Shifting her weight forward, Ghaelya made a clumsy salute with her left hand, a mockery of the city watch.
“No trouble here, my lady,” she said, smiling as she wobbled on rubbery legs.
“Drunk again are we?” Tessaeril said, and though her sister stood still, Ghaelya imagined a single foot tapping disapprovingly and stifled a drunken laugh. A flicker of flames danced in Tessaeril’s eyes, but Ghaelya was accustomed to her glare of disapproval.
“It’s been a long night,” Ghaelya said, planting her hands on her hips with
Descending from the spur, she glanced again over her shoulder, fresh guilt now joining the dreamers in their pursuit of her.
24 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Airspur, Lower Districts
Ghaelya’s eyes fluttered open. Sitting up slowly in the dark, she found herself alone in the Jinn’s Favor, a favorite tavern in the lower districts of Airspur. Her stomach turned, and the night’s drinking made her neck feel boneless, her head unimaginably heavy. A faint singing floated through the air. She pushed herself away from the bar and stumbled through the empty common room to the door. She leaned on the jamb and peered out into the dimly lit streets.
A group of hooded monks passed by, humming and chanting their strange songs. She shook her head in disgust, immediately regretting the movement, then fixed a glaring eye upon the backs of the monks as they continued on their mysterious rounds. They called themselves the Choir, and were servants of some unknown goddess she’d heard them reference ‘the Lady’ on occasion during the sermons they’d read in the squares and streets.. She cared little what they did or who they worshipped, but their singing bored into her skull like a knife.
Their presence disturbed the powers high above in lofty towers however, and for that she’d raised at least one glass to the monks’ health, even though she tired of the haunting songs and wished they would move on. If not for the peace of fewer headaches, then to loose the Choir’s powerful hold over her sister.
Not yet fully trusting her balance, Ghaelya fell to her knees in the alley and crawled toward the glow of the street lamps. Ascending the various layers and levels of the city, she regainedunfortunatelya measure of her sobriety back and found no friend or acquaintance that might allow her an uncomfortable stretch of floor until morning.
Turned out on the street by every so-called friend she-had, Ghaelya made her slow way, leaning on walls and
high railings, to her family’s home. Their small tower in the middle-airs of the city was modest compared to the suspended mansions and estates high above, but their family’s status was cemented due to her mother’s distant relation to the Steward of Fire. Their coat-of-arms bOre the mark of a candle’s flame for all to see, on every wall, door, and window.
Ghaelya had relished the look on her mother’s face when she’d turned to the guiding element of water to shape her destiny. Though she’d been born into the spirit of fireshe occasionally felt the heat of flames burning in her blood she resisted the urge to manifest the “family flames” as she called them, leaving that duty to the more complacent Tessaeril. An annoyance to her family, Ghaelya had never been forced into a fine dress or made to attend the boring gatherings of the wealthy and delusional.
Placing her hand on the flat metal panel above the doorhandle, tiny runes flared blue in recognition, and the lock clicked open. Falling inside, she slammed the door with a wince and leaned against the wall, waiting for the yelling to start. It never came, and she raised an azure eyebrow in surprise. A slow intake of breath made her peer blurrily to the end of the hall where her sister stood with arms crossed.
“Almost made it,” she said under her breath.
Shifting her weight forward, Ghaelya made a clumsy salute with her left hand, a mockery of the city watch.
“No trouble here, my lady,” she said, smiling as she wobbled on rubbery legs.
“Drunk again are we?” Tessaeril said, and though her sister stood still, Ghaelya imagined a single foot tapping disapprovingly and stifled a drunken laugh. A flicker of flames danced in Tessaeril’s eyes, but Ghaelya was accustomed to her glare of disapproval.
“It’s been a long night,” Ghaelya said, planting her hands on her hips with
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