“Do you think it’s peaceful?”
“Death?”the island whispers.
“Yes.”
“It’s probably better than whatever this is.”
“And what is this?”I don’t know why I’m asking, or why I continue having a conversation with myself, but it’s better than nothing at all sometimes.
“A gods-cursed, long night.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Never. Always. Loneliness is no longer relevant.”
“Why?”
“Because soon it won’t matter.”
Opening my eyes, I watch the smoke curl long into the night. Until the wind quiets and the snow thickens. Until I’m fighting exhaustion. Curling my knees to my chest, I wait until the pyre can no longer be seen glowing against the snowy night. Until the smoke is nothing more than a whisper in the wind.
When the smoke finally thins, I pull out a stack of papers and write down everything I remember from tonight. The shade of the young Fae’s auburn hair. How fragile the brittle needles felt in my hands. I write of the smoke, haunted by the stench of death. Maybe no one is left to remember those who were lost today. War swallows towns whole on the main continent. Their families, friends, and enemies may be long gone. But if that’s the case, then I’ll remember them.
Even if they are nothing more than a footnote in a human girl’s journal.
Not many in the village know how to write or read, but Father always stressed the importance when it’s so easy for stories to be twisted and changed through the centuries. He wanted me to understand the history of our realm as much as possible, and to be able to tell stories of my own.
After all, so little is known about the humans in Lyrichia. Much less those in the Mortal Realm. The Fae don’t bother documenting anything about us.
So I do.
Every night, I write in my journals. Ramblings of our village and what happens here.
Only once I’ve filled three sheets of paper front and back do I finally settle.
But just as I’m about to rest my head on my pillow,movement in the street catches my attention. A figure wearing a white tunic and pants nearly blends into the snow.
No Crown insignia. No armor.
It’s not a guard.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s a human daft enough to brave the freezing night.
But as the figure pauses and turns, I quickly duck so they don’t catch me staring. Because they were not human, as evidenced by the pointed tips of their ears. Which means they can only be one thing.
Rebels.
Chapter 3
Elorie
Gods,it’s freezing this morning. Bitter cold air stings my lungs with every inhale. Snow drifts off the rooftops, catching in my mouth as I take in a deep breath. The snowy path to the market is packed solid from people trudging to the square, creating a slick sheet of slush beneath my feet.
I pull my cloak tight around my freezing cheeks.
The icy morning would be miserable if I wasn’t thankful that the cold is helping me fight through my exhaustion. After seeing the rebel through the window last night, sleep was scarce. By daybreak, I almost convinced myself that I’d imagined them and their white winter cloak.
Maybe I did.
