He is heir to the throne... And she is the broken rule he must erase...
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In the Kingdom of Vakythia, power cleaves the populace into two distinct classes: the Blessed, wielding gifts granted by the Ember, and the ordinary citizens, devoid of such...
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Village of Wrm
Beneath my nails, traces of dirt linger from my daring descent down the chimney of the brick-layered fabric store two nights ago. The worth of that venture now weighs on me as I sit in the dimly lit room of the same establishment, anticipation reading through the air.
Gloves hastily conceal my hands, shielding them from the prying glances of the passing servant-evidence of the undeniable dirt beneath. Leigh's disapproval echoes in my mind, her scolding for tarnishing the hands she meticulously softened with rose water and lavender. Yet, this sacrifice is a necessity.
Having confirmed the lady of the fabric store's shady dealings, I make a silent vow to secure an abundance of fabric for Leigh's creations. I can already envision the vibrant blue of her eyes gleaming as she sways across the worn-out rug in our modest apartment, fabrics draped over her frame. The vision unfolds as she imagines the countless dresses and corsets she could craft.
Unlike Leigh, I never indulged in the whimsy of dresses, skirts, and all that societal frill. Hand me leather pants and a well-honed knife, and I'll raise a toast to the Ember in your honor.
On the table, two cups bear the remnants of tea, wisps of steam occasionally escaping into the air. Despite being told of the Tailoress's absence, the lingering evidence of shared tea moments before my arrival tells a different tale.
The servant deceived me. He asserted the Tailoress wasn't present. Seated in contemplation, I mull over inventive ways to carve intricate patterns into his skin with my dagger, his blatant dishonesty leaving a sour taste in my mouth.
I gracefully wave my hand in the air, beckoning his attention once more. The lad before me is a ruddy-blond vision, wearing in a crisp white tunic and a green jacket. With his appearance, he could have been a perfect elf, if only he sported long, pointy ears. However, his face mirrors the hue of a ripe tomato, his nose upturned, and lips pressed into a thin line. A curious blend of elfin charm and boredom.
He approaches the table, a wooden tray clutched beneath his arms. "How can I help you?" he monotones.
"I secured an invitation from the Tailoress. We're slated for a rendezvous," I declare, a cautious smile playing on my lips. He better not attempt any tricks again, or he might find himself short a finger.
Earlier this morning, an invitation had been dispatched, with hopes that The Tailoress caught sight of the letter and instructed the boy to be vigilant for my arrival.
His eyes flutter rapidly, and he awkwardly presses his wrist to his head, as if seeking information within. "Raven Falency?" he inquires, and I nod with a wry smile.
