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I feel his aura of protection. I feel like nothing in this world could possibly touch me.
Ever since he told me my mother’s name, I haven’t been able to speak. But now I need to be strong. I need to find the fire that’s sustained me for so long.
It comes from anger, and something else entirely.
Corvan waits. He holds me and stands perfectly still; expectant yet patient.
And after a while, a man appears.
A Khaturian.
The first thing that catches my attention is the color of his hair. It’s pale blue, the same hue as a cloudless sky. Arranged in a high topknot, it offers a startling contrast to the silvery grey of his skin. His ears are slightly pointed. His eyes are angular, with deep black sclera and amber-hued irises.
The man’s coat is made from a thick white pelt, the collar trimmed with ebony fur of which the strands are long and silken. I can’t even begin to imagine what animal it might have come from—perhaps more than one—but it looks awfully warm.
Beneath his coat, he wears a suit of pale, supple leather—almost the color of the snow. A pair of sword hilts emerges from his back, just above his waist; I catch a glimpse of wickedly curved blades hidden in pale leather sheaths.
Lithe and graceful, he walks up to us, but makes a point of avoiding eye contact with Corvan.
“Yenabe, O’Kral.” His voice is deep and resonant. He gives me a quick, appraising glance as he takes a step backwards.
“Yenabe karazu, Zuhalla.”Corvan looks directly at the Khaturian, who still refuses to meet his eyes.
Is it out of deference, or disrespect? I don’t think it’s the latter; the Khaturian’s demeanor is reserved and dignified.
But then he looks over his shoulder and yells something in Khaturian.
“You speak Khaturian?” I whisper, knowing Corvan can hear me perfectly well.
“Passably.” He slips his fingers into mine. “Zuhalla’s called them. They’ll all come out now—the warriors, clerics, shamans, and elders.”
“Why?” I feel like I’ve set foot in another dimension. This can’t be real.
“I’m theKral.In their culture, I’m revered.”
“What is aKral,exactly?” I glance up at him.
Behind the dark glasses, he looks a little miffed. “It’s…complicated.As I mentioned, it’s something akin to a god. They call me ason of Hecoa.They believe I’ve been granted this power for a reason, and so they rely on me to uphold peace in these lands. It isn’t blind worship, though. The moment they sense I’ve strayed from the path, they would hunt me down and destroy me at all costs.”
Oh?I stare at the Khaturian called Zuhalla in surprise. He’s as tall as Corvan himself; lithe and rangy and graceful. He certainly looks like he could do some damage with those curved swords of his.
Someoneat least, is keeping an eye on the mighty Corvan Duthriss.
But…
“Can they even harm you, Corvan?”
“I’m sure they could. They have more than a few highly talented shamans.”
“Oh.” Through my tinted lenses, I stare in fascination as more Khaturians start to emerge from their dwellings. Some of them are like Zuhalla—attired in white leather and equipped with deadly looking weapons. They must be the warriors. Some of them are women, which surprises me, because in the Rahavan Empire, there’s no way a woman could become a soldier.
More villagers appear; male and female, both old and young, dressed in different styles of clothing; long fur coats, thick black and brown robes decorated with intricately embroidered bright geometric patterns, or sleek white leather armor. Their heads are adorned with warm fur hoods, their necks wrapped with brightly dyed scarves—green, orange, pink, red. Some of the men and women have adorned themselves with necklaces of polished stone beads in dazzling shades of blue.
They all have blue hair, in hues ranging from the palest sky-blue to deep cobalt. Khaturians keep their hair long; either loose, tied up in high tails—a style adopted by the warriors—or braided. Their eyes are striking—black sclera contrasting with lighter colored irises. Some have amber eyes like Zuhalla. Others have irises of pale green, or even white.
Now there are at least a hundred Khaturians standing before us. They look at me, but not directly at Corvan. He looks across the crowd, his expression cold and distant.
I get the sense he’s not entirely happy about this. Right now, he’s so different to the Corvan I’ve come to know. It’s as if he’s putting on an act; tolerating this spectacle for the sake of whatever we’re supposed to do here.
