AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mirage had supplied plenty of holos explaining the class system on Katáne.
They showcased how individual Katánian aeries were identifiable by their morphology and the design and colour of one’s krest.
Licking her fingers and flicking her papyrus carrier into a waiting rubbish receptacle, Sana’a walked along, trying to identify the various k?sts.
The most obvious were the packs of Kän?dôr thugs who prowled the city in gangs, moving in a slow hover through the expansive streets.
The outer plains’ tall, burly, vulture-like avifauna sported fulvous krests in wild tawny and butterscotch hues.
Twas clear they were not a disciplined force of peacemakers. Instead, they were hired goons of the rich. She gave them a wide berth, unwilling to get anywhere near their snarling beaks, vain swagger and shimmering koyas on show, glinting in the sunlight.
She took special note that their eyes burned with malicious intent when they tracked higher to the silent cordon of fierce, half-transmuted eagles in the sky above.
There was bad blood here, Sana’a thought to herself.
She strolled past a cafe spilling out onto the pavement where groups of affluent Katánians sat.
Also known as the high-born K?'nere, the aristocracy, they were identified by their sarcoline wings, pale skin tones, and blue and yellow quills. Their plume kätu, their inbuilt íkantation, was focused on protecting their close-knit families at all costs.
The shops that lined the high street were owned and staffed by the Kírkos. They were the merchant bourgeoisie, the business owners, investors, and entrepreneurs whose gold plumage and íkan signified new projects, plans and beginnings.
Sana’a’s eyes tracked to a krest of purple and lavender quills that bobbed three feet into the air above a nobleman passing by.
He was likely a kôrm?r?nt, one of the planet’s efficient and expert administrators. Their rachís conveyed dignity and seriousness and came in various hues of skobeloff, a dark, muted cyan, which conjured up images of abyssal coastal waters and deep-blue zaffre.
While the locals looked fierce and raptor-like, gazing around her, the shikari was confident no Katánian could rattle her—except one man.
Sana’a shook her head, trying to shake off thoughts of the silver-haired rogue who’d haunted her for days.
His essence trailed after her.
It had never left her, not since Eden II, frustrating her no end.
She had an oath to complete.
She didn’t need to lust for anything more.
So lost in thought was she that she almost bumped into a group of adolescent Katánians of mixed k?sts. The youngsters dashed past with banners and flower crowns, chanting, ‘Death to the Okto Kíríga, long live the Usurper!’
Sana’a raised her brows, her eyes tracking them.
One of them, a teenager, pulled at her arm. ‘Hey, xkénos, can you tell us where the new king is hiding?’
She was about to twist his hand behind him when she noticed his open, hopeful grin. It was charming enough to elicit an upturn in Sana’a’s lips.
‘I’d love to know too,’ the shikari said. ‘When you find out, let me know.’
‘Now, move along,’ a fruit seller chimed in, waving the youthful Katánian off.
Sana’a turned to the rosy-cheeked woman, an emerald-krested Kíkara wearing bright robes of the same hue. ‘Is what they say true? That Katánians want the new, unseen, and unknown King to rule?’
‘It’s all we can talk about,’ the woman chirped. ‘The scandal of the secret consort is enthralling and spicy. Can you believe that an obscure, humble man whose veins run with royal blood is about to upset the proverbial K?'nere cart? We love that the threat of his takeover stirs up the eyries of the rich and powerful. It gives us regular folk some inspiration and hope that he’ll be different from the previous Kíríga.
‘Why’s that?’ Sana’a asked, her interest piqued.
The woman sighed. ‘The Okto Kíríga was old, weary, mired in the past, maybe even lost to senility. Twas evident he was going mad with his beserking, his blatant refusal to listen to the lower k?sts, and his selfish spending of our hard-earned taxes. We all threw a party when news came of his death on Devansi.’
The trader spat on the ground and turned lightning fast to offer Sana’a a plump, ripe peach, ‘Fresh from Kisolde.’
