THE ARCHIATER.
For a moment Mari stands statuesque, waiting for something to change. For them to flinch at her step forward, to lash out, to say something bitter and fearful and violent. Surely they cannot trust her already. Her poise is almost militaristic, muscles locked and pulse insistent in her chest. She would be a fool to let her guard down. And still somehow Marisol feels guilty for the fear that emanates from these strangers, forces an attempt to clear the coldness from her gray eyes, to appear civil, at least, maybe less scary than she naturally is, though of course those stubborn dark lips never turn into a smile.
She is nearly jealous of them. Never in her life has she stood as close to someone as they are standing to each other. Never has she felt calm enough to look at someone the way they look at each other. She’s almost sure no one knows as much about her as they know about each other, and Vespera knows even her best trainees have heard only the bare minimum of the stories she has to offer. As much as this world might hate them, at least they have each other. Something almost bitter rises in her mouth. What does that feel like, loving someone, she wonders briefly, and in the next moment pushes it away.
Lead on, then, one of them says, and Marisol shakes herself from her stupor. The agreement is almost surprising, but she chooses not to question it - bringing them voluntarily is much easier than the violence that might ensue should they prove to be difficult about being taken to the Court. That would require an explanation much more thorough than she has offered. But of course, they cannot know what she has not bothered to say. What she hasn’t told them is that strangers, even poor, fearful refugees, are expected to be taken to the city center and questioned; what she hasn’t told them is of the civil unrest she feels like electricity all over Terrastella, of the dragons, and the blacksmiths working to make swords at their forges, and the shaky promise of war impending.
No need to tell them. No need to be bitter so early. It’s easier like this.
She dips her head at them and turns, taking her first step back toward the Dusk Court. A stone of familiarity settles in her chest, weighty but comforting. Home. At least for her - who knows what these boys will think of it. All of Novus remains to be discovered for them, and yes, perhaps the other courts have something to offer, but even after all her travels, Marisol is and will always be quick to speak of her love for Terrastella, the genuine magic of the inner city, more glamour and life than anywhere else on the continent. The citadel rises like smoke on the horizon, dusty-marble and painted glass; it is a blur from here, but Marisol can see it in her minds eye, in all its exact glory. It makes her heart beat just a little faster.
You are in Terrastella, she responds coolly. The Dusk Court is - there. One wing sweeps from her side to gesture at the smoggy cityscape ahead of them, where buildings rise and fall against the land in perfect unity. Marisol falls silent again. Of course there is more to be said, more she could tell them, but already her tongue is a rock in her mouth, already speaking is a nuisance, and there are millions more qualified than she to talk and talk about what this all means.
Just as she thinks they are falling into a comfortable silence, the talkative one speaks up again. The Commander flicks an ear back to catch his voice over the wind. Are you a soldier for Terrastella? Who’s Vespera? Are they your ruler?
Gods, so many questions. Marisol’s mind freezes for a moment. In the midst of muffled panic, she focuses on her steps, the half-moons her strides make in the dirt, the comforting familiarity of the hard-packed trail she’s leading them on, winding over fields and through the tall grass. Her heart pounds. And then, disciplined as ever, she swallows her discomfort.
Yes. Marisol’s voice, though certain and calm, is almost a croak from disuse. I am the Commander of the Halcyon Unit, Terrastella’s flying army. A pause to recover. Vespera is our god. There are others in Novus, but Terrastella is under Her jurisdiction. Praise be, she adds quickly. Florentine is our mortal ruler. What else would you like to know?
