Few things could bring people together like the turn of the seasons. Since the conception of ‘community’ there have been gatherings to celebrate the various cycles of life. Births, unions, a good harvest, the first frosts; any excuse intelligent beings could devise there would be some elaborate event to bring joy and excitement to the participants.
Novus had been through a veritable hell the last few years, depending upon who you asked. Sovereigns had changed more times than many would care to count, a troubling occurrence of leadership vanishing into the ether to be replaced by fresh faces. Something was stirring, and the bonds between the realms had been tenuous at best. But the changing of hands brought about a change within the inner workings of the courts themselves, though if you were to ask any common citizen they couldn’t tell you why. The shift was within the atmosphere in a way that one could tell a storm was coming without there being a cloud in the sky.
Spring, however, had a way of washing away past sins and breathing new life into anything. It seemed only fitting as court alliances and relationships were being built anew there would be a grand gathering with the intent to bring the denizens of the often solitary realms together. If you spoke to a Solterran they might say that their fearless leader, Leviathan, had been the one to speak out first, to forge stronger bonds with his neighbors. If you asked a Denoctian they would say that the combined efforts of Israfel and her compassionate partner Luvena brought about the festival, as a way to quell any lingering fears or misconceptions about the outcast court. Those belonging to Terrastella might be the first to tell you that Liam, ever a peacekeeper, put forth the idea so that the long-held rift between the courts might finally begin to mend. Though, if you spoke with a Deluminian, they would posit that Callynite, the only Sovereign who was not equine in nature, had opened up her court lands to the festival as an olive branch to her fellow leaders.
Any of these assumptions could be true or false, but regardless of their validity, one truth remained: the Spring Festival was open to all, and intended to bring even the most disparate members of each court closer together. The invitations that had been sent out among the people advertised a sort of pop-up marketplace for vendors to peddle their wares, where artisans and specialists from each land could showcase their talents. There was even to be a bonfire dance reminiscent of some folk traditions, where sharing stolen moments with exciting new faces seemed to be encouraged.
Though the dance certainly intrigued Nefertari, she had intended to keep her interactions with the denizens of the different courts a largely professional one. She was placing the finishing touches on the tent that she had been so graciously provided. The small frame was draped in rich purple silks that shone with accents in gold, tassels depicting suns and moons hanging from each of the high points. In the center a small table was situated, across which lay a black silk cloth, a deck of gilded cards set to one side. The entrance to the tent had a plush patchwork cushion and a hand painted sign in a swirling gold script that proclaimed ’Tarot Readings, a glimpse into the Universe’. At the bottom of the placard as a delicate aside there also read the note ‘Donations appreciated’.
As the mare stepped back to admire her work, she took the time to watch as the other vendors of the inaugural event went about setting up their own displays. It was still morning, though quickly approaching midday and several of the stalls were well underway to being fully stocked. Just within the handful of tents the Solterran could easily observe along her own row she saw several jewelers, leather workers and in the distance she could hear the telltale signs of a blacksmith at work, though she couldn’t fathom how they managed with the inherently temporary stay that the festival provided.
The Illuster Meadow provided a pleasant backdrop to the activities, beautiful poppies and wildflowers dotting the terrain and a softness to the ground that meant traversing from tent to tent and back again was easy on even the oldest in attendance. The day promised to be clear and mild, and the clairvoyant was grateful to see a stall not too far away setting out various baked goods.
Nefertari settled herself inside the tent, reflecting on the recent events of her winter season. She had fled Denocte as a child, wandered the unclaimed lands for a handful of years before finally claiming Solterra as her home. Last fall she’d felt a pull, a call to her birthplace, and traveling at such a time had proven to be rather a divisive choice. The Arma had prevented her from returning to her cherished desert lands, and so she had chosen instead to educate herself on some family history. That experience had been less informative than she would have liked, and some part of her took it as a sign to not dig any further. Why go snooping around a past that she had deliberately run from? What possible good would that have to her now? The invitation to the debut festival had been an intriguing one, and not ever a woman to pass up an opportunity when it so loudly came knocking, she had made the trip to Delumine once the snow had cleared.
Bright gold orbs watched as attendees meandered past, a soft smile to her sooty maw, wondering whose fortune she might read, who she might provide guidance to even as she struggled to understand her own signs from the gods. Interpreting the will of deities and the universe always seemed much more simple when it was for anyone but yourself.
Organized fellowship had never felt genuine to Fever; forced community was just a band-aid placed on much deeper wounds. The conception of the Spring Festival was no different – a guise of peacekeeping and chivalry, invitations serving as a good omen, a dove, encouraging all kinds of people from different walks of life and serving different kingdoms to all gather and revel in their wares and talents. Coerced, by the promises of grandeur, feasts, and merriment, citizens of each court would come together and cast aside their differences in hopes of cultivating meaningful, lifelong bonds.
It was a crock of shit.
The chimera minx wasn’t convinced this festival served any other purpose besides getting to better know your enemies. Do you ask the wolves in the wild to forfeit their territory borders in order to mingle with other packs? Do you approach a mighty gryphon and request they donate their feathers to all the flightless creatures so that they might all be equal? Do you beg the spider to change her nature as she wraps her silk around the butterfly?
Sovereigns could converse and fraternize gayly all they’d like – but they’d be lying through their teeth if they said they were here to help unite all the people. People were their pawns. They’d pretend that the scholars of Delumine didn’t gatekeep their knowledge and libraries, or that Vespera’s people in Terrastella didn’t covet their precious elixirs and tonics; they would pretend Solterra wasn’t overrun with bloodthirsty barbarians who answer questions with the blade of their swords, they would insist that followers of Caligo actually wanted to be here instead of bedding down with their secrets in the hole they crawled out of.
In slight appreciation, Fever thought it befitting to host the first annual festival in the Dawn Court.
Afterall, mornings are for war.
A thin veil of mist curled and twisted around her fetlocks as she made her descent into the meadow, an abstract shape of a woman, as wild and cruel and giving as mother nature herself. Dew collected on the fresh blades of grass, a glittering display as the sun crested the bordering tree-line and illuminated the mundane activities of vendors establishing themselves. Those early rays would ignite each flaming poppy and wildflower, reflecting off the oils Fever anointed herself with every morning: a mixture of shea butter, amber, and spices from distant worlds that would entice the nares of any passerby, and in any amount of light, she would be sleek and metallic. Yet, it was the smell of fresh pastries that would arouse Fever, the promises of something melting on her tongue and filling her stomach would remind her to behave.
The atmosphere felt heavy, as if these people were not sure how to interact with each other yet – Fever included. Yet, Fever had no familiar faces in Solterra, as she had just returned to her home after hiding away on the outskirts last season. Her journey would lead her here, because just like the ruling powers, she thought it valuable to have allies in different courts.
And more eyes to find her mother.
Temper would love to be here at a Festival. She’d probably marvel over every tent, spend too much money on donations, laugh fearlessly at the entertainment, gorge herself on all the treats she could find. She would have softened Fever, would have gently pulled her from her thorny shell and shown her all the joys she was missing out on.
A scoff left the mare’s nostrils in a puff of air, discarding the day-dream of her mother being fancy-free and happy.
There was no room for her mama in her head: she had to remain focused, she had to put up those walls, who knew what kind of snakes made their den here.
So instead, Temper was moved to Fever’s heart.
A tent dressed in royal violet fabrics and dangling charms caught her attention, her aurum eyes eagerly digesting the fine needle work of the throw pillows and the way the tassels reflected morning light. Fever always appreciated beautifully made things – not only because they were simply enchanting, but because she would insist only a clever and artful mind could find a way to make tangible, awe-worthy items out of seemingly nothing. She would halt in her progression, the chimes of her jewelry playing against her skin as she now moved towards the entrance of the tent, allowing the silks to caress her sinuous back as she stepped inside.
Perhaps she had been distracted by all the glittering and the gold, for she finally redirected her gaze to the beautiful creature that sat at the table; she would remind Fever of deserts of her home, a wisteria-grulla but reversed, inky purples and night tones would mix on her body and bleed into warm daylight on her face and limbs, long ears tipped with gold, and joints that might suggest she was crafted from the finest agate.
As a feminine, captivating creature herself, Fever found herself most comfortable around equally enrapturing company. For a brief moment, she imagined leaning forward and getting to know if all of her skin smelled of lavender, or just the delicate areas.
Inappropriate.
Fever would quickly recall her sign: Tarot Readings. For all Fever knew, she could have been speaking an alien language as she was unfamiliar with what that would entail. Using the context clues of the astrological signs and the cards on the table, she would believe it was some sort of future reading.
She reached back and gathered a few coins, placing them delicately on the table. She would look up at the stranger with desire, yet not of the physical sense, but glamorized by the possibility of this fate-reader being able to give her much sought-after answers.
“Can you tell me my future?” she breathes out her words in a sultry and naïve fashion, unable to hide a bit of desperation in the question, forcing her brow to fall softly and reveal a gentle face underneath her sheer mask.
It did not take long for one of the festival attendees to accept the offer the tent provided. A tri-coloured desert beauty parted the cascade of silks like the sea and stepped into the cool shade from the bright spring sunlight. Gold glittered at her throat, her ears and across her body where splashes of ink and snow danced. The mare was lithe, pistons long and delicate like a dancer. The way she moved was captivating, as if she knew the whole world would eat from her hand and thank her for it.
Nefertari waited patiently while the woman appraised the tent, taking in all the fine details of the rather rudimentary setting before her striking gaze fell to the reader herself. Her regal features are accented by the sheer silk draped across the bridge of her nose, obscuring only slightly the sooty muzzle and gold hoop that lay within. The woman radiated sensuality and her scent spoke of worship at the altars of gods only the ancients could identify. Her presence was absolutely intoxicating.
Rarely did the clairvoyant find herself overwhelmed by another woman in this same way. She had spent much time among the noble houses and high society parties, and all of them had pretty ways and beautiful smiles, but their existence was shallow. The vixen before her was an endless pool, and she wanted nothing more than to drown in her depths. If they had ever encountered each other before, the psychic was certain she would have remembered her.
Languidly the stranger produced three coins, placing them gently atop the silken cloth. Nefertari moved the coins to one side, out of the way of the center of table and began to shuffle the deck with a bemused expression. “Past, present, future,” she breathed, taking the woman’s essence deep into her bodice, tasting the spice of clove on her tongue. “If there is an answer you desire, I will see if the universe has the answers that you seek.”
The mare continued to shuffle the cards. Though gilded, they were well worn, the gold leaf fading at the corners, gentle creases where they had been handled with less than a delicate hand. The images of suns and moons flashed as she moved the cards between each other before she lifted her warm gaze to the woman opposite her, watching her beneath a fringe of delicate gold lashes.
“Do you have a question you wish to ask the cosmos? Or perhaps you would like to know what the stars have to say for you,” the question flowed from flirtatious lyrics, a sly smile playing about her sooty maw. The desert queen was enthralling, and it was much too easy to mirror her sultry qualities. Briefly, and only briefly, the clairvoyant pondered what she might look like under moonlight, oasis water dripping down her spine and the scent of warm sands mixed with exotic spice.
With a deep breath, Fever carefully scrutinizes the gilded deck that the violet- gold minx shuffles – she observes each card sliding over each other effortlessly, without falter, and she noted the edges fraying ever so slightly, well-loved corners. It told her that the clairvoyant – this decipherer of the stars, reader of the cosmos - she was well practiced and versed in her craft. The silks and glamour were to attract strangers who were curious, and although much appreciated by Fever, she wasn’t here for pretty things.
She was here for the mystic power, for the third-eye viewpoint of her crumbling life, for clarification and answers as to what path she should pursue.
No complaints on the package it came in, though.
Admiration would glaze Fever’s stare, her tongue running over her teeth as she salivated over what answers the fortune teller would give. She dreamed of many things, glorious and gilded, and yet, she was haunted by something dark and foreboding. Something had its vice around her, and she had yet to decide whether to fight the chokehold or succumb to it.
The sound of scissors would eject her back to the present.
“I often desire more than just answers,” she’d answer casually, a leer obvious in her stare, a smirk pulling up one side of her black mouth. It was clear that answers were not the only thing she was pushing for.
“Did you furnish this tent yourself?” Fever would ask, wearing a guise of charm and flattery, hoping that a conversation beforehand would help ease this overwhelming shadow of doom. “You know, it’s impressive – but it falls short –“ she pauses, another warm simper curling her lips, “In comparison to you.”
At this moment, she would turn her head back towards the entrance, breathing out the last of her nerves as the woman’s voice would pacify her, convince her to stay. The timbre of her song would crawl into her spotted ears and make it’s bed there, a beckon to join. Fever then looks to her, her own eyes would ask permission as she sought a place at the table. A quiet spell of laughter would spill from her, effortless, almost as if in the presence of someone she could trust.
“I’m not yet convinced that you have all the answers I seek.” There was no hesitation in her voice, yet her expression would briefly harden, a slight squint as she contemplates her next words.
She wished to ask where her mother was; she wished to know why she was haunted by strange and ominous dreams of bones and severed hair and voices weeping; she wished to know how to restore greatness to her people.
Alas, fate wasn’t so kind, and even she knew that whatever answers she would receive would be cryptic and not yet sealed into prophecy.
After all, it wasn’t the stars that told her to get blood on her hands.
Fever leans forward, hushed, paranoid that someone outside could be eavesdropping on their conversation, “May you ask the fates what is in my future? I am unsure of where to go to find what I’m looking for.”
Nefertari smiled easily as she shuffled her cards, listening to the mare as she asked about the tent. “Yes and no,” she said. “I put the items up myself, but they were graciously provided by the host court. I would not have been too keen on hauling things across all of Novus by myself. And while I’m of Solterra, I spent the winter months visiting Denocte and I wouldn’t want to imagine what the trek through the Arma would have been like had I needed to consider all of this frivolity.”
She cast her gaze out across the tent, admiring the faint sparkle that danced across the fabrics in the morning light. “Though it was quite kind of them to provide something so on theme.” The seer continued to run the cards over each other, waiting to hear what question, if any, this exotic creature might bring to her ears.
As the woman leaned in, the clairvoyant could taste the clove of her scent on the back of her tongue, the accompaniment of other worldly spices and oils that conjured images of desert oasis and cactus blooms, warm summer nights and shadows filled with passion. It stirred something primal inside the mare’s belly, but she pushed it aside for now. The painted woman before her exuded sensuality, and it was difficult not to mirror. She asked the one question that both excited and twisted Nefertari into knots.
The vague questioning of what the universe might have to tell someone always left room for great disappointment, and this was one mare that she had no desire to fall short with. Something pulled at the back of her mind, however, that she would be satisfied with the answer, whatever it may be.
The clairvoyant nodded, golden forelock obscuring her vision very briefly as she separated the deck into three distinct piles of equal size. She motioned for her patron to make a decision. “Which deck speaks to you? The fates’ answers lay between those cards.”
When Fever made her choice, the woman gathered the other cards together, pressing them to her muzzle in a silent thanks before setting them to the side of the table and clear of her working space. Nefertari began to place down the cards, first a single set of four, from left to right, then a second row just below the first. She flipped them over one by one, gentle in her motions.
First, a young filly alone in a meadow, only a sliver of a moon in the dark sky, glowing reflective eyes staring daggers from the shadows of the trees surrounding her. She curls into herself, staring frightened at the viewer. The lettering, turned so that Fever might read it, clearly stated this card as “Nine of Swords”.
Next, a hefty draft looking out over a garden, seven sunflowers blooming with golden coins for their center, a gentle smile on his features.
A stallion of earthen tones with stern features. The woodlands are woven into his mane, and a strange twist of antlers reach for the open sky. He is backlit by a bright bonfire, where faint figures can be seen dancing. He holds an elaborate torch, presumably the same torch that brought the flames to life. Below, his card names him “King of Wands”.
The final card of the first row depicts a full moon and a languid mare thrown into silhouette, a golden tear tracing the curve of her cheek.
The second row begins with another stallion, this one a draft beast with well crafted muscle, shoulders cloaked in rich purple fabrics and soft furs. He is surrounded by carefully maintained piles of treasure, from standard golden coins to chests nearly overflowing with jewels, artwork and tapestries displayed. He carries a particularly large pendant around his neck, a five-pointed star carved into the face of it, the card proclaiming him as “King of Pentacles”.
Nefertari continues to turn the cards facing upwards, matching the second row to their partner in the first. A white mare with ivory antlers, curling locks braided with flowers and vines. She holds herself with a quiet confidence, staring down the viewer with the grace of ages. She holds a stave, more of the same flora twisting around the thick branch as foals frolic in the fields of wildflowers behind her, the “Queen of Wands”.
A warrior at his post, young of body, but weary in features. He is cast in shadow, as one of many along an expansive border, watch towers fading into the distance. The gate he guards is made of nine thick branches, strung together with rough leather. This card is turned so that it faces Fever from across the table, the exhausted expression on the stallion’s face gazing off across her shoulder.
Finally, a maiden, thrown over her lush silks and bright pillows, languishing as three swords cross through her chest. Her face is twisted in sorrow as silver tears stream down her cheeks, inkwells and parchment are strewn, as if she has received some horrible news that has overcome her, flaxen mane staining red with the colour of golden blood.
Nefertari pondered these cards for a moment, fixating upon a particular pair before frowning. She pulled another card from the top of the chosen deck, laying it with the King of Wands and the Nine of Wands. Three performers stacked atop each other, a black Freisian at the base, hooves clustered to balance atop a large disk with a silver star embossed to it. His back cradles another disk in copper, a white mare perched atop it, holding another disk atop her head in gold. A final performer, a fragile looking foal, balances atop this golden disk, silhouetted against a full moon. The bottom foreground is obscured by what seems to be an audience, as well as the card name “Three of Pentacles”.
The mare observed the cards now, seeming satisfied with this further clarification. She began to speak, her words a stream of consciousness as she acted as a conduit for the stars, for the fates and the universe itself.
“We all have a drive for something more, to hold that which we cannot have. Yours… yours is different. Whether prompted by a desire for wealth, or goods, or just a byproduct of your actions, it has caused you to make drastic change. Necessary change, to better yourself. You are seeing the fruits of that labour now. Coming into your own, commanding respect, and power, and reveling in those things you have fought so hard to achieve. And why shouldn’t you?” The clairvoyant cast her golden gaze up and down the mare before her.
“Just look at you. You are the epitome of all that powerful women wish to be. Why not flaunt all that which the gods have gifted you? All that you have sacrificed to become? Queens are not made from fairytales and sweet dreams, but blood, sweat and tears. This you know well, and you have accepted that is what you must do to hold that which you desire. More than mere fame, or fortune, or recognition, but power, true power. The respect deserved by a woman who is not cut of the same cloth as those around her. Yet here…”
Nefertari pushed the collection of three cards forward across the table. “Here you are, basking in the glory that is yourself, and you are pushing away all those who are designed to aide you in what you seek. You have worked yourself to the bone in order to obtain this gift of recognition, and yet you use it to alienate those who may assist you in your journey. You did not come to me to know things of vague importance as told by the stars, no no. You came to this tent seeking one answer, and one answer only, and these here.” She drew attention to the trio again. “These tell me that you are pushing away your only chance of truly getting to know the answers to those questions that rip you apart at night. You had to claw your way to the top and in doing so have forgotten that you must work with others to achieve higher goals. You cannot do everything on your own, and to act as if that is the only way, as if you must, as if those around you are not good enough, will only push away the people who are there to guide you on the path to answers.
“You may not be cut from the same cloth, but darling, we are all woven as part of the same tapestry, and the more you fight that very fact the harder it will be for you to ever progress beyond where you are now. This is only the very beginning of your journey, and if you continue on this road…” The fortune teller shook her head, pushing forward the last two cards.
“You will only find heartbreak. Things are not what they seem, and the answers you seek are not the ones that you wish to hear. You must consider if knowing the truth is worth the pain, if fighting to see beyond the lies and the bullshit is worth it, even if it will not bring you any joy, or healing. You can continue to seek these answers, because it is in our very nature to desire knowledge, to know that which might destroy us. We are funny creatures that way.” The mare gave a sad smile.
“I cannot tell you whether you must turn your back on this journey or to follow it to the end. That is your own choice to make. But you must decide if the pain that will come, because there will be pain, that I can assure you… you must decide if that pain is worth the answers. Will you sleep more soundly to know the truth when you lay your head down to your silks at night, if you know? Or will the pain consume you and rot you to the core? That is what you must consider. And if you choose to pursue it?”
She lifted the Three of Pentacles so that it hung between the two of them. “You must learn to collaborate. To listen, to work with others. To create a balance. You cannot continue to be a one-woman show all your life. You must learn to accept the help that is offered you, and not push those away who might be your greatest ally, just because they differ from you.”
As a bright, young, and incredulously intelligent mare, there were very few subjects that Fever found herself unaware of or at a disadvantage – as slaves were not allowed to indulge in literature while housed at the manor, the speckled minx had taken advantage of her time outside of the walls and immersed herself in many books. Volumes of war and battle tactics, tomes that contained the history of her Kingdom, scripture of the Gods and their followers, gigantic encyclopedias that defined the flora and fauna of all in these lands – hell, even a dabble into the magics of the world.
She briefly recalls sneaking back over the wall, rushing to her mother Temper, so eager to share the knowledge she accumulated while on her adventures.
***
“Mama! Did you know there are birds that set themselves on fire to be reborn from their own ashes?”
Temper winced with the morbidity of the idea before a soft smile was placed on her lips. “My love, you shouldn’t be sneaking over the walls. You’re going to get caught –“
“Mama, they cannot be burned.” Fever’s childish eyes glittered with an unintelligible glimmer.
“That’s very interesting, Fever. Sounds like this bird has been blessed by gifts from Solaris.”
Fever hesitates as she curls up to her mother.
“Do you think we are blessed by Solaris? Do you think we will ever be reborn not as slaves?”
***
The Gods, the fates, the invisible strings that a great and mighty puppeteer pull on all the people of the world rendering them hollow marionettes –
These were the things that made Fever feel helpless and uneducated. And as she listened to the pale gold and lilac woman, an unescapable dread plagued her heart. She felt at the mercy of Nefertari as she spread the cards.
Each image didn’t mean anything to Fever, so she felt herself grow with anticipation, a nervous sea-sickness of tumultuous emotions bubbling in her gut, her jaw tensing as she silently grinds her molars to try and soothe herself. Each card placed down was briefly glanced at, but not the focus of her attention; Fever was watched Nefertari instead, analyzing her face, attempting to decipher the complexity of her smoky lips and gilded lashes, seeking for any hints that might tell Fever her fate before the fortune reader announces it.
A young filly afraid. A sunflower draught. A nature embedded stallion. A ghost of a mare crying golden tears. A King draped in jewel tones and furs. A white antlered horse surrounded by children of her kind. A battle-worn warrior.
None of them struck Fever as particularly tale-telling. But the second to last card revealed felt like a stab in the heart.
A woman thrown across pillows in agony as three swords penetrate her breast. Her face contorted into the shape of sadness and blood stained her hair. Fever could not justify a reason or understand the logic, but something about the image made her even sicker.
The mare’s eyes would rise back to the other’s face, just in time to catch the curve of a frown. Instantly, Fever’s ears pinned and her brow would furrow. She felt compelled to speak, even opening her mouth to do so, to demand what that slain lady meant, yet she kept her tongue in place as Nefertari laid down one last card.
As if this last card provided clarification, Fever observed the other woman relax, her soft gaze reading the cards. For just an inkling of a moment, Fever admired the confidence in her refined features – it was beautiful and effortless to her, as if she was really born to be a conduit for all heavenly and astrological bodies.
At the mention of powerful women, Fever couldn’t help but sit even taller than before, her whole body erect at stories of being made from blood, sweat, and tears. It felt strange to be recognized and read. Yet just as quick as she was to glower in the feeling of respect and worth, her temperament would turn bitter as she was told she needs to work with others and that she cannot be as independent as she’d like to be. In typical Fever fashion, she was tempted to leave the table and insist that she didn’t need the fortune teller to tell her to play nicer.
And then the discussion of heartbreak: the answers you seek are not the ones that you wish to hear.
Nasty and hostile words sit on her tongue like venom, she narrows her eyes like an unsheathing dagger, insidious and intrusive thoughts threatening to run rampant.
Did that mean her mother was dead?
She sits patiently as her fate is concluded, a wildcat in waiting, coiled and poised to attack – whatever she was insinuating, Fever was furious that she had the audacity. Was she purposefully toying with her emotions? Testing her will to contain her anger? Because wrath was a fast-moving poison and Fever had visions of throwing the table, of tearing up those painterly cards, she imagines a wildfire instantly decimating the entire tent.
Or perhaps it wasn’t anger that threatened to misshape her poise, but a pain of a wound so old that it would force her to lash out.
Fever’s gaze falls to the card, a grumpy scowl on her face, her blinks long and slow as if she contemplating her next move. “Learn to collaborate, huh?” she hisses under her breath, as if realizing in this moment her predicament might be some sick test. Leisurely, her face completes a metamorphosis back into a neutral expression, if not a hint bittersweet. Her voice is now hushed and tender, as if sharing a private secret.
“I do have a tendency to destroy things.”
Destroying her mother through indirect actions. Destroying herself by cutting her cultured and sanctified hair. Destroying relationships by ghosting those who care most.
Bound to destroy Solis’s court if her mother should not be found alive.
“You are well versed in your craft. I appreciate you sacrificing your time for me,” Fever pauses, a coy smile beginning to curl up her black lips. She reached into her coin purse to grab a handful of coins as a tip. “It would please me to know your name.”
“You said you are from Solterra?” she asks, quick to change the subject, eager to get away from her warring temper as to not make a fool of herself in this tent. “I owe you a drink when you return home.”
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