THE ARCHIATER.
As they begin their trek to the capitol, the craggy surface of the cliff underfoot turns to soft dirt; the previously sparse purple grasses seem to shoot up, until they brush gently against the lowest part of Marisol’s chest; a sea-salt stained breeze goes whispering across the plains as they move away from the rolling, churning tide and deeper into the Susurro Fields, filled with lavender flowerbuds and autumn-shed greenery. It is at this time of day that the beauty of Terrastella is most amplified, and the girls are free to bask in it.
As much as Marisol wishes that their conversation could continue as easily as it has been, when Theodosia speaks of becoming a cadet, she knows there is much more that needs to be discussed.
The Commander exhales in a quiet huff. She thinks back to her own training - the bruises that silvered her side for weeks on end, the tiny gray scars that still litter her skin, the scent of tears and sweat and blood that followed her regardless of how many times she bathed it off in the swamp. Even now, it is not an easy life to live: always running, always hair-raised, always looking for imminent danger. The three stripes glazed on the back on the back of her wing are their own sort of ghosts.
Induction is difficult, she starts, raspy voice drifting from dark lips in a low hum. And long. From cadet to soldier is a year and a half of training, at least - partially general, partially rank-specific. How do you wish to serve? Marisol glances over at the girl. Messenger, fighter pilot, healer? Something about Theodosia’s nimble feet and the leonine dexterity of her tail makes the Commander think she would be best suited as a soldier, but she would never say as much: if Mari knows anything, she knows not to judge a girl by her looks.
Others who made that grave mistake have suffered at her hand.
