*Weekly updates* "There are no leashes now, no bindings," she says, her voice a dark lullaby in the flickering candlelight, "and it is their sacrifice that gave us this. Nothing can ever repay it. No one can ever take it from us. So now, in this hal...
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The council convenes in a drafty, faded antechamber, speckled with dust and filled with creaky chairs.
It has been a while since something of this magnitude has happened with outsiders in our midst, Tara surmises, because of course they cannot hold this meeting in the Hoorim—not with Hiran, Engle, and other non-council members in attendance. Amidst the coughing and sneezing, the chamber feels full, and Tara wonders if the last time this was used was when Dost ascended.
She stands now beside Hiran, glancing around, mug in hand, counting the colors she sees, tallying those in attendance. Through every count, every sip of mead, she searches for a painfully familiar insignia—the falcon crest of her home, the Center fields—on the coat of an appointee or, Tara hopes, the cloak of a courier with a long-awaited letter in hand.
"It's coming," Hiran tells her, because that last thought must read on her face, plain at least to him. "They'll send their blessing."
It is a kind sentiment, but as well as he means it, the words don't bring Tara much comfort. There are things outsiders do not understand—from the feelings evoked in titles such as Sharaf to the weight of traditions like their coming of age rite, the Jin—things that can't be conveyed in words but have to be felt, experienced. For all the love she bears toward him, his words carry less weight than they would from someone who understands what this appointment would mean and all that will be taken into account for it.
But even as this wells in her, she spies a familiar face in the crowd and starts as the young man slips toward them.
"Felix!" Tara cries, and the lanky, chestnut-haired man grins, embracing her.
Two years, she thinks, hugging him tight, thinking about the Gauntlet now, of meeting him and the other Roften nominees beforehand, how fast of friends they had all been. They break apart and Tara takes a moment to kneel down and scratch the chin of the large, tawny cat that twines around his legs.
"Knew you'd be here," her old teammate says as he shakes Hiran's hand. "There's talk all over Roften of your return."
"I didn't expect to see you," Tara admits. "They selected you for Center East then?"
"Yes," Felix says, grinning. "I'm not the only one from Bear's Spear."
Tara stops scratching the cat, who yowls in protest.
"You'll see," Felix promises. "Home made a big deal out of it. They appointed me to the conclave right after and then old Farrod stepped aside for me as soon as the banners flew for the Moot. Wanted someone fit to fight, should we want to go for the throne."
"Fight?" Hiran echoes, because this is an element of the Moot Tara has yet to explain to him. "There's fighting?"
But the Nature-caller's question fades into the background as Emil, another one of Tara's Gauntlet companions—a dark-haired woman with sea-blue eyes—emerges from the crowd and embraces all three of them with a laugh.
