The Fall of the Riders

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Orien shuffled closer to the door, though he kept his eyes on Hardeep, who didn't seem stable enough to potentially carry on a conversation with the woman without stabbing something.


When Hardeep's mother had died, he'd gone numb, curled up in his room and stared at the floor for hours on end, waiting for something to happen. For the sky to open up and drown Nuru. For the ground to crack and swallow up the city. For his father to storm in, raging against the gods themselves, for them to descend from the heavens and give him an explanation.


None of these things happened.


Instead, the impossible did.


Hardeep had heard his father crying at one point, hunched over his mother's shrine in their room, his shoulders shaking. It had felt like a dream, an illusion, a trick. His father did not cry. His mother did not die.


He'd crawled over to Balin that night, curled up next to him and cried with him, staring at the small painting of the woman that had been his mother, with her soft curls and her kind smile and a glimmer in her eye that had faded too soon, too early to be fair.


This time, he was alone to mourn his father.


No matter how much the slaves grieved, no matter how much they intended to kill the guilty, they would never understand what it was like to be raised by Balin, to be the only thing that linked them to the house, to be the one that was supposed to guide him. Hardeep was supposed to look after Balin, care for him when he got older, show him the grandchildren he was supposed to create and make sure his back didn't ache so much from flying. Balin was supposed to tend to Malliah until the dragon grew to be an adult, to watch her find a mate and care for eggs that would birth dragons for the rest of the family.


But he was dead instead, gone within a moment, a moment that Hardeep had not borne witness to.


He was not sure which of his parent's deaths was worse; the one he saw, or the one he did not.


He hadn't even said goodbye when Balin left that morning.


"Perhaps it would do you good to see him?" Orien asked quietly from where he stood, somehow outside the bathhouse.


Hardeep lowered his sword and turned towards his old friend.


He hadn't noticed that his face had gotten wet and when Orien took his arm carefully and began leading him away, he did not consider anything but the thought that his father was gone.


"Sir," a guard said timidly, when he had walked only a few feet away.


"What?" Hardeep said, exhausted by his outburst earlier.


"What do we do with the newcomer?"


He was silent.


"Take her to the cell. Get someone to take care of her wounds. Leave her there."


"Yes sir," the guard responded.


He walked the rest of the way to his home silently, with Orien holding his elbow carefully.


"Someone shot him," the slave said slowly, "in the side of the head. The white robes confirmed it. They believe that it was not the slave because--"


"I don't care what they believe," Hardeep said, his voice rough. "I just want to see him."


Orien fell silent and led him slowly through the house, up the steps, and to the room. Hardeep finally turned to glance at the other slave and notice the blood.


"You are hurt," he murmured, touching Orien's cheek and turning his face slightly to examine the oozing wounds.


"The slaves are grieving," was his response.


"As you should be, too. Leave me. Go get your wounds tended to."


"Thank you, sir."


"Don't thank me. Not for what has happened."


There was dead silence for a moment between the two of them.


There was a lot of things that had happened between them.


Orien bowed and left a moment later and Hardeep stared at the blood on his back and wondered how he was supposed to run a household that was already tearing itself to shreds. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he stepped into his father's chambers and approached the bed where he lay. The white robed were standing on the side, their hands folded and clasped and incense was burning to mask the scent of the dead. He walked slowly towards the white sheet that hid his father's corpse and lifted it up to examine his face.


He looked like he could be sleeping.


Hardeep allowed himself to cry then, to sob in great heaving bouts and let his knees give out from underneath him.


His father was dead.

 

[Lenaara]

Silence stretched on, heavy in the air.


It was warm in the bathhouse, warm and dim, the candlelight casting a soft orange glow on those who stood within the small building. Light flickered against the purple armour of the dragon rider, slid over the crimson stained sword in his trembling hand, cast the man’s face in shadows that made it hard to tell how old he was. A soft breeze entered the room, carrying sand and a smell of iron with it, the smell of blood spilled on the cobblestones of the ruined road outside the bathhouse. Light danced then, softly trembling on the candlesticks.


Balin’s son could not have been much older than Irene. He could not have been older than thirty.


So close to Irene in age. A man in his prime, who had already built some life for himself. And still, not of the right age to lose a parent. Irene knew that well.


In that moment, the differences between the rider and the slave vanished. They were just people, both close in age, both warriors, and both sharing an experience of having lost a family member.


Orien’s soft voice from the doorway had broken the silence. Sound came flooding back into the bathhouse. There were whimpers outside, someone was crying softly, sniffling and chocking on their tears as they tried to hold them back. Stone was pushed, someone’s footsteps echoed heavily against the ruined cobblestone road. Clothing shifted. Someone spoke words softly under their breath.


Irene still stood by the entrance to the changing room of the bathhouse, the palm of her hand gone numb from clutching onto the comb. Metal reflected the sunlight as the rider lowered his weapon and Irene realized that she had forgotten to breathe in that moment. Slowly she took a deep breath, feeling her heartbeat calm within her chest once more.


Mountain and the Gods above and below them.


He believed her. The rider believed her. It was absurd. But he believed her.


Though it was not the realisation that she was still alive that made the muscles on her shoulders loosen, that made her knees straighten and the hold on the comb ease. It was the eyes of the rider, the way they looked at Irene. He still did not come to terms with his father’s death.


People mourned differently. Some, refused to accept the loss. Others, like Irene, ignored it, let it become a part of their history, something to remember on long sleepless nights, sometimes with tears.


I’m sorry.


The rider had left along with Orien, whose shadow was seen stretching across the stone floor until it disappeared from the doorway. Another shadow entered the bathhouse, a guard. He crossed the room, his gloved hand reached towards Irene and grabbed her by the elbow. The folds of her gown were wrapped around the comb as she still held onto it, the only item resembling a weapon in her possession. The only item in her possession.


They passed the courtyard together, the guard’s hold like steel on her arm. The outside of the bathhouse was a mess – the road had been ruined, the cobblestones plucked out and thrown across the path; there were small dents in the walls of the bathhouse where the stones landed and then fallen onto the ground, littering it; the door to the bathhouse had also taken some damage, its surface scratched here and there. And there was blood. Blood on the cobblestones leading to the bathhouse in miniature droplets (Orien’s, or from the rider’s blade?), blood splashed on the path away from the bathhouse. Pieces of linen stuck to the drying blood, the cloth swaying in the breeze. To the sides lay bodies of those unfortunate to have been caught by the blade of the rider. Some were still moving, whimpering from pain as they were carefully turned over or helped to their feet. Others were still, their bodies angled awkwardly on the path, their backs and limbs slashed open by the razor sharp blade; their eyes were lifeless and murky, opened as if from shock of having been cut down. Now those eyes stared into nothingness.


The guard was tense at her side and did not look at the servants as they cried on the path, clinging to either the dead or those who were lucky enough to have moved away from the path of the angered master of the household.


Irene was tense, too, and felt bile rise in her throat at the sight as her eyes skirted over her surroundings. Some of the servants stared back at Irene, their eyes full of such anger that the woman involuntarily adjusted the grip on the hidden hair comb.


Their destination was not far from the bathhouse. The guard had lead Irene towards the building where she was dragged into upon arrival – the small one storey building with the room of smooth polished stone walls and floor. The guards at the doorway opened the door, and the one who still held onto Irene had pushed the woman into the building. Door slammed behind her so loudly it shook on its hinges.


The rest of the evening was uneventful.


During the hours of being locked up in the building Irene paced around like a caged animal.


At first, when the guard had nearly thrown the woman into the cell – she figured it was used as one, for there were no windows, the room was bare of furniture save for the chair, and the guards were posted outside the entrance – and then locked the door behind her, Irene walked towards the chair in the middle of the room and slumped down onto it. She ran a shaky hand through her hair, let her fingers contract with the braid at the back and leaned her head back to stare into the darkness above.


Just a moment of peace. Just one moment, enough to let the chaos in her mind calm down.


Too much had happened and too quickly.


Slowly Irene leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, her hands intertwined around the comb that she refused to part with. The pale bone reflected the only few rays of sunlight that could be seen through the narrow slits between the door and its frame.


The comb was hidden in her hair. The dusty brown locks hid the small comb well as she pushed the braid around it, roping the long hair around the comb to pin it closer to the back of her head. That was the first thing she had to do – hide the only weapon she had, the only thing that could be used in case the angry mob of servants attacked this small building. Even the guard could not be trusted.


With the comb safely hidden from sight – Irene slid her fingers over the spot where the hair roped around the comb at least four times – the woman began to walk around the room in circles. She paused at the doorway and pressed her ear to the small opening, listening intently for the sounds outside. It was calm. Only a small part of the courtyard could be seen, and people moved there, going about their daily tasks that had grown tenfold with the road to the bathhouse ruined and their own people slaughtered.


The guards on the other side did not speak to one another, but Irene could sometimes hear their armour shift around them, their swords clang against the protective metal strapped to the men.


With a gentle touch, Irene pressed her fingertips against her ribs where the gown had been ripped open by the corner of a cobblestone. Nothing was broken or fractured, and thankfully the skin was not cut open. Still, it hurt each time she pressed against that sore spot. A bruise, definitely. The same action was repeated with the other spots on her body where the stones had found their mark – her ankles, the side of her neck (where a small cut was formed), her back. Nothing was broken, but the bruises would soon be forming as it hurt each time her fingertips grazed the skin. More bruises added to the already existing ones from Hisraad’s and Uma’s beatings.


As Irene checked for the state of her own body, she continued to stand by the door, close enough to almost press her forehead against the cool stone of the wall. From her confinement she could only see a small part of the path, which was empty spare for the guards who stood vigilant by the cell’s entrance. Servants from the bathhouse were nowhere to be seen or heard from. No angry mob came running to lay siege. Good.


When the door finally opened some time later, letting light pool into the dark cool room, Irene was sitting on the chair, her elbows on her knees, her fingers twisting and turning the linen of her torn gown. There was nothing else to do. The waiting for news about her fate was torture in itself.


The past two years had been full of work, of uniform days that guaranteed her something to do. Now, with her being locked up, Irene felt out of place. There was nothing to do.


So Irene watched the small strip of light move across the floor, the only indication that time was still moving and the day was passing by slowly outside of her confinement. Hours must have passed since the riot at the bathhouse.


The sudden sunlight had blinded Irene at first and she raised a hand to cover her eyes, blinking away the blindness. Clothing shuffled, the sand scrapped against the floor, something heavy was put down. A servant had entered the room, the dark cotton tunic loose around her miniature frame. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, her unruly hair cropped short and her eyes a bright amber that reflected the light behind her. With one hand, the servant carried a wooden tray, with the other a bucket with a washcloth resting on its rim. The bucket was put down, water sloshed within it, threatening to spill onto the floor. The tray was put down moments after, the clay bowl and the mug sliding against the rough wooden surface of the tray as it tilted when the servant lowered herself ever so carefully. There was some clothing on the tray as well, a piece of cotton folded carefully and put on the tray’s edge.


The servant’s eyes darted to Irene, who had gotten up from the chair, and then the woman quickly reached towards the door. Irene expected the woman to step outside the building and close the door behind her, but instead she let the door stay open, letting the light flow into the room through the crack.


No words were exchanged between them that evening. The woman carried the bucket to Irene and helped her take off the bloodied gown. It was thrown on the floor unceremoniously. In the dim light Irene could see the servant’s lips purse, her eyes narrow at the sight before her. It was not a pretty sight. Bruises and scars covered Irene’s body, overlapping and tinting her skin. Bones protruded where her hips and ribs were, the muscles vivid on her arms and core.


The servant helped Irene wash off the dried blood and dirt, and by the time they were done the water was pooling under Irene and remaining water in the bucket was tinted browning red. Her hands were rubbed raw, as were her feet, and the skin stung where the rough washcloth was rubbed harshly to get rid of the grime. With no more dirt clinging to Irene’s body, the blood and sand scrubbed away, the servant urged Irene to sit by pointing to the chair. When Irene sat down, still naked and damp, the servant reached up to loosen Irene’s hair. The moment that Irene felt a tug against the pinned up braid at the back she lifted an arm and took the servant by the wrist.


“I will do that myself,” Irene said and let go of the servant. They left it at that.


After the servant had checked Irene’s bruises and cuts, pushing her fingers over the spots where the miscolouring was most vivid, the woman left, leaving the items in Irene’s cell.


The new set of clothing was a short tunic of a light brown colour, secured at the shoulders by leather strings. The tunic reached to Irene’s mid-thigh, and was secured at the waist by a cloth belt roped into the fabric of the tunic at the sides. The material was thicker and much softer against the skin. It was a pleasant change. There was one issue, however. It had a low collar. The black curves of the ink – at which the servant had raised a brow and stared at for at least a minute when Irene had stripped earlier – peeked out vividly from beneath the cloth. But there was nothing to be done. Balin’s son would have gotten wind of the Mark sooner or later.


The rest of the evening Irene spent with washing her hair and hiding the comb in the folds of her tunic, just beneath the belt, and making that spot on her clothing as inconspicuous as possible while her hair was drying in a damp curtain around her shoulders.


No one else opened the door that evening. Not even to get the tray with the bowl and mug, that Irene had emptied quickly and nearly moaned in delight at the taste of the warm broth, or the bucket of murky water. The sun had vanished outside, leaving the cell without any source of light. It was dark and it was unnerving, so Irene had stopped her pacing and sat down at the far side of the cell. Armour shifted outside, someone grumbled some words under their breath, and that was it. The guards had probably changed shifts.


As Irene sat by the wall, her back drinking in the coolness of the stone, her knee pulled up to her chest, she wondered how long the waiting would last. A day? Two? A week? Or worse, a month? The thought of being here, forgotten, for a month in a cell of no windows and only a chair to keep her company, sent shivers down her spine of cold spidery legs. She pushed away the thought. The comb was braided into her hair. Before, she almost managed to escape while only armed with a kitchen knife.


People did foolish things when driven by despair.


The night was long and full of terrors.


Nightmares plagued Irene’s mind for hours. In her dreams, Balin died over and over, always shot in the head by a weapon which she had never seen. Those dreams ended the same – with her arriving to his household, accused of murder, and then executed as she screamed, claimed that she was innocent. No one listened. No one cared. Just as no one cared when she claimed her innocence three years ago.


But visions of Balin’s murder was not what made the woman empty her stomach twice during the night.


Hisraad, that wretched farmer, appeared in her dreams turned nightmares. When Irene woke up she could still feel his touch, always forceful and painful, or the aching in her side where the hit collided with her body in the dream. It felt too real. It made her nauseous. So she vomited into the bucket twice during the night, retching above it as she held onto the smooth surface of the wall, panting.


It would take some time for the farmer to be forgotten, if he ever would be. Irene hoped she’d forget him. Forget his sly face, thin and angular, with that round nose and thinning hair, shining with oil. Forget his touch that lingered on her body still, recalled by the nightmares.


The door opened the next morning when Irene lay with her back to it, on the floor, her arm under her head as support. She was woken up the moment the lock turned and the door swung open, allowing the bright and warm light to enter the room. Someone halted at the door and groaned, their arm moving to their face. When Irene turned and sat up she could see the guard grimace as he glared at the bucket.


The floor was cold; the walls were cold. It was freezing in the room during the night, so Irene had to curl up into a ball to retain some warmth. The thin cotton of her tunic provided little warmth, and the bloodied gown was taken away by the servant before she left. But this was not the first time that Irene had fallen asleep in a freezing environment. Before, in her previous life, she spent entire nights in forests covered in a layer of soft snow during winter times. In this life, she spent more than one night in a barn as punishment for some small mistake or another.


People usually drifted into deep sleep gradually, falling into it slowly. In Irene’s case it was like plummeting into a deep ravine, falling asleep immediately and waking up just like that as well, suddenly and full alert. This helped her sleep through the freezing winter nights of Riverside, and the cold Crubian nights spent in a barn.


So when the guard stepped into the room, closing the distance between him and the woman by the wall, Irene was fully awake. She was getting up, moving her numb limbs with no small amount of effort. The guard did not wait for Irene to pull herself up and, instead, took her by the elbow and hauled the woman on her feet. There was a dark blue bruise over the guard’s neck, and he was wheezing through parted lips when he yanked Irene up by her arm and dragged her out of the cell.


It was not morning, as Irene originally assumed. The sun was high up in the sky, scorching hot as it shone upon the stone household beneath. It was noon, or nearing it.


They headed to the main building, following the stone path beneath their feet. Servants moved about their daily tasks, most heading towards the direction of the bathhouse. Some stopped to look at Irene, now clean of blood and dirt. Others, halted for a moment and continued on their way. Though all shared the sneer, the anger in their eyes, the distrust.


At the back of her mind, Irene wondered if this was truly a better alternative to Hisraad’s estate. There, in the very least, she held some authority. Here, she’d be lucky not to get killed by the servants themselves if the head of the household chose to spare her.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep had spent the night by his father, having found a chair to pull up the candles that he remembered from years ago, when he was eleven, hauled out and placed around the body to be lit. He'd stared at Balin's still face, the shadows of the flame making him look more alive and more dead than the simple light that spilled inside from the windows. The white robed men changed their ranks every now and then, their heads bowed and their hands clasped before them. They would hold their vigils as well, as they did every day when one of the officials or riders died.


Hardeep had never thought that they would be holding one so soon again in his home (his, completely his now. He had no one but himself to share it with, no family, no lover, no friends).


The day ebbed away to night and he fought to keep his eyes open, worn and weary and barely awake. His father's chest still did not move though his eyes tricked him once or twice when the candles flickered over the mound that was his body. He would sit up a little straighter, run his fingers through his hair, act like a good son in case Balin was still watching.


When the day broke again, Hardeep had not wept again. He had already done so once, shed tears over the shell that was his former guide. Tears would not bring his father back, nor would blood or wrath or prayers. The dead remained that way, buried to be forgotten and left behind by the living. Or was it the living that was left behind?


The house began to stir as the sun rose, moving this way and that, working as it usually did, forced to move on because the world did not pause for very long, even when a good man died.


A good man.


Good men died just like bad men.


Some sort of bitterness filled Hardeep and he shoved himself upwards, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes and moving out of the room. The robed men bowed lower, their eyes never lifting to see him as he descended the steps, making his way to the kitchen where he could smell food. There was bread and cured meat and vegetables lined up waiting for him and the servants continued to move, glancing at his face on occasion.


"Where is the newcomer?" he demanded to know.


"Still in the room you sent her, sit," a servant answered, shifting nervously.


He wondered how many corpses had come of his father's death.


"Do you know if she's been fed?"


"I believe the Makhai's handled that, sir."


"Good. Send them a basket of fruit as a thank you."


"Yes, sir."


And he was alone again, with his thoughts.


How could Balin have died like that, on a dragon without any fight, without any conflict. It was like someone had descended and decided that he ought to die, had chosen that moment without any consideration for Hardeep or the household. It wasn't fair, had never been fair he supposed. The nature of death was that way.


The sun continued to rise as Hardeep made his way through the rounds of his home, numb to anything happening. He heard footsteps near the door and nodded at them until he realized that they had stopped in front of him.


A man, wearing robes of some white linen with gold embroidery stared at him with a scroll in hand. Hardeep took it gingerly, wondering what the hell they could want out of him at this hour, barely a day past his father's death.


He read it with angry eyes and snapped at a servant to get a guard to bring the newcomer to him.


He trotted down the long hallway, scroll in hand and entered a fairly empty room. There was only a flag with his family sigil staring back at him and a rug thrown before it, a place to stare and contemplate that he had created for himself. He sat himself down on the rug and waited, knowing that he'd have to speak with the slave and the decision he was to make.

 

[Lenaara]

The guard continued to lead Irene down the path towards the main house. Servants parted, some glaring at Irene, some hissing, some looking away quickly as if in terror. Even with the blood and dirt gone, it seemed the servants were still afraid of the newcomer. Of the Murderer and Killer. Irene felt an invisible tug on her skin where Balin’s blood coated her body the day before. That feeling would not leave for a while.


Through the main doors they went, and the guard continued down a hallway. The man’s gloved hand on her arm did not waver, the grip did not loosen in the slightest even as he pulled a set of doors open. Irene did not resist the hold and only tugged on her arm, shifting it beneath the beefy hand of the man squeezing the skin painfully. Neither did she speak up to ask him that he released her, that she knew well enough how to walk and follow, and that running now would be suicide.


Word would not have made the guard loosen the hold. Not this guard, in the very least. The bruise on his neck was, after all, Irene’s doing. She did not remember the face of the man who had grabbed her when she arrived with Balin, but she remembered other things. Like how his armour sat on his body, how the sword was angled, how exposed his neck was without a neck-guard. If she dared move her hand towards the man’s neck now and press the flat of her palm against it, the bruise would fit perfectly against the bottom part of her palm.


So Irene was silent and let the guard do his job.


Another set of doors, and they entered an empty room. No, not so empty. There was a flag hung up on the wall, a symbol of the family’s household, Irene guessed as she had seen it before on the piece of cloth strapped to Balin’s armour and etched onto the collars of his servants. And there was a man, seated on a rug.


“Sir,” the guard wheezed and bowed low, his armour clanked as it shifted on his frame. “I brought the slave.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

Ahanti Makhai


Mentioned

Zyrell Makhai


Mentioned

The sun rose as it always did, its rays stretching across the blue sky and reaching every corner of Crubia. The desert stirred awake as heat flowed back into the limbs of the dragons that lay on their mats of cool straw and the other skittering creatures moved about, hurrying to find food before the sand burned them alive once more. The houses of the dragon riders, however, had not quieted during the night, full of confusion and movement as they struggled to understand the death of one of their own. The Makhai's house was no different, far more alive than dead and full of action. The eldest child, Ahanti, strode through the grounds, her head held high and her eye sharp as she watched the servants scuttle about. She had heard of the riot that had caught her youngest half-sibling and the slave that she had thought would have been eaten already, and she was not going to let it happen within her own residence. She was queen her, ruler with an iron but just fist. She might not have been beloved by all or wholly feared, but she was not crossed. A servant or slave could come to her with a complaint and she would see that it be fixed, unless the complaint was truly drivel or wasting her time. The servants and slaves knew that if they did not fail in their duties, Ahanti would do her best not to fail in hers.


A servant had dropped a vase while transporting it elsewhere that morning and was scrambling to pick up the pieces, nicking their fingers. Galene was there already, scolding the individual and had come with a dustpan and a broom, muttering about the blood making it harder to piece it together. The servant appeared knew and fearful, confused as to why a young girl seemed unperturbed.


"Galene," Ahanti said sharply and the young girl turned, a somewhat irritated expression on her face.


"Yes?" the slave asked.


"Leave him to clean up his own mess," the rider said. "I have business with you."


Galene looked somewhat confused but followed the master of the house, the glint of the sun already reflecting off the woman's armor.


"Is this about the riot?" the slave asked.


"No."


"Is it about me eating the dates?"


"You ate the dates?"


"No, Kydoimos gave me them and I ate them," the slave said, her voice calm.


Ahanti rolled her eyes. She knew that her half-sibling held a soft spot for the slaves and servants, Galene especially. If something went wrong and it was the young girl's fault, Kydoimos would step in to help. If Galene had done something that crossed the line, Kydoimos would step in to lessen the punishment. Her half-sibling was infatuated with the slave for whatever reason, though they had yet to notice that their desire to drag her along was out of more than just boredom or friendship. Galene, for that matter, had yet to notice as well. She seemed satisfied in not being cooped up or managing to duck out of whatever troubles she had found herself, and lately, themselves, in.


For that reason, Ahanti had decided that Galene would be best to bring along. No matter how much of a headache the other girl gave her, Ahanti could not deny that Galene was a very well-rounded slave. She knew how to read, write, was fearless (bordering on stupidity), knew how to sew, how to bind a wound, how to shoot an arrow (an interesting revelation), and much more that the slave had either not told them or only told Kydoimos. She was tougher than most, less eager to grovel, and had fists of iron. If she was not a slave, Ahanti would have gladly allowed her to be a wife to Kydoimos and produce heirs to carry on the Makhai name. But alas, Galene was dirt to them and there was no need for more of it slathered onto the Makhai name.


"It is about a letter from the government," Ahanti said.


"The government?" the slave asked.


"Yes," Ahanti said, "the place where all the men with too much money gather to spend their time."


"And run their mouths," Galene added.


"Indeed," Ahanti agreed.


The rider led the younger girl to the main building, five stories tall and made of some white limestone polished to gleam and blind. Galene had fallen into step next to Ahanti, a habit that irked the rider. The slave ought to walk behind her, at least five steps, and remember her place. But Kydoimos had spoiled her and Galene was good with the dragons and bad tempers so she could not be sold. Or at least that was what Ahanti told herself.


They entered the tall building and walked past the main entrance, where a shallow pool was. There were a few green plants floating on top, a few fish darting beneath the blue. A man with hair as dark as her own and hair that rolled down to his shoulders glanced up, smiling sadly before turning back to the pond. Galene said nothing about the way Ahanti did not return the smile, their marriage strained since the third time their sheets had been stained with blood. The younger slave had learned not to ask questions about events such as those, instead ducking her head and continuing on with her duties as if she had never seen anything, washing the sheets silently next to the older slaves that wagged their tongues and clucked them.


"Am I being sold?" Galene asked calmly as they walked up to the second floor, towards a great oak door that she knew held the an oak table with elaborate carvings and a rich, deep red tablecloth made of soft cotton. She had been in there only once before, when she had first been bought and it was a meeting place for the riders that had entered the Makhai estate.


"Do you believe you will be?"


"As opposed to being murdered? Yes. Over dates? No. You did not sell me over the dragons. Or perhaps because of them."


Ahanti opened the door and ushered Galene in. Her parents had long since left to go to the government square, to question the men that made the decisions that rippled out to touch every corner of Crubia sans the riders. Zyrell was seated on one short end, his hands folded, while Kydoimos was facing the two that had entered, glowering. The symbol of the Makhais hung behind them and a soft, plush rug lay beneath the table. A bowl, glittery and silver, lay in the center of the table full of bright apples and oranges and grapes.


Ahanti sat across from Zyrell and motioned for Galene to stand behind Kydoimos. For once, the slave obeyed without too much trouble.


"Kydoimos," Ahanti said, staring at her sibling. "You have read the scroll, have you not?"


Galene peered over the rider's shoulder at the pale parchment clutched in her friend's hand.


"I have," they said, their response short and sharp.


"Then you know that they have requested we go to the Mountains of Veneshia for safety."


"I know."


"Why?" Galene interjected.


"Quiet," Kydoimos hissed.


Galene frowned but said nothing more, clearly sensing something wrong in the air if a simple statement was not even accepted by Kydoimos.


"We cannot all leave and let the estate fend for itself, especially since there is little doubt that the Passi's while require us to look after theirs, as it would be wise for Hardeep to leave after what happened to his father."


"So I will go," Kydoimos said, their voice flat.


"Yes," Ahanti agreed.


There was a pause.


Kydoimos' chair gave a shrill shriek as they shoved it backwards, Galene jumping to avoid the impact. They stood up and stormed out, fists clenched and face pinched and the door was ripped open before it was slammed closed once more. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the wall and Galene shuffled her feet for a moment before hurrying out of the room and opening the door herself.


"Galene," Ahanti said sharply, causing the girl to pause. "Look after them."


She nodded before scurrying out, spotting Kydoimos' back and hurrying to catch up.


"Why are you so angry over this?" she asked, taking their wrist and glancing down at the scuffed knuckles.


"They want me out of the way," they said angrily.


"So?"


"So," Kydoimos said loudly, whirling around to stare at her, ripping their wrist from her grasp. "So they don't want me around."


"At least they didn't sell you," Galene pointed out calmly.


They seemed angrier for a second, their fist balling up and their feet moving a step back as if prepared to land a punch on her face.


After a second of Galene staring at them levelly, they calmed and sagged. Galene stepped forward and placed a hand on their wrist once more and peered up into their face. "Look," she said, "I know that it must be hard for you, especially since they haven't been open to you your entire life. But you can't spit in their faces and assume that anything will change because of that. At least they're not selling you or sending you to some far off land."


Her voice had a tinge of bitterness in it.


"I am sorry," Kydoimos responded.


She shook her head. "My past is messy and doesn't concern the present," she said firmly. Her free hand reached up to touch their cheek lightly. "Look at the bright side," she said gently, "at least I'll be there."


A half-smile ghosted across Kydimos' lips.


"Yeah," they agreed.

Ming Xia was paying attention to the shadows that danced across the ground in front of her, huddled against a sturdy rock, her bow and arrow in hand. She slipped the arrowhead into the string and pulled it taunt, rising up from her position to stare down the shape that darted across the snow. The movement halted for a second and the arrow sailed across the land, imbedding itself into the neck of the creature she had been watching. Unfurling herself from her position, the lanky teenager walked over with steady and quiet footfalls towards the small rabbit she had skewered. She pulled out a knife, hooked at one end, and freed the arrow from the flesh. She worked quickly and swiftly, doing her best to spill as little blood as possible lest the others come find her and the sweet smell of death and meat.


After skinning the creature and tucking the pelt into one of her many leather pouches, she removed a few organs that she would not eat, tossing them into the forest for creatures that would use them to consume. She collected her meal and hurried back to her campsite a few footfalls beyond the rock and started on a fire once more, using a piece of metal she had traded for and a hardy rock to cause orange flames to lick at the dry wood she had managed to scavenge.


Ming Xia had barely started roasting her meat when she heard sounds of another coming towards her. She seized her bow and arrow, stringing one through, and whirled around to see the shape of her mother walking towards her, lips in a fine line and a crown of leaves in her hair, a symbol that she had met with those that lived below the mountain. Ming Xia did not lower her bow until her mother had raised both her hands. Even then, her eyes remained on the older woman.


<<I am not fragile,>> Ming Xia began, a statement she had told her mother a thousand times.


<<I am not here to convince you you need help,>> her mother said, raising a hand for silence. Ming Xia frowned, knowing that "help" probably met a mate to create children with. A husband as her mother would put it but they did not have any lavish rituals. They simply decided that one other person was to be the father or mother of their children and stayed with them, building houses and nurturing children. A mate. Like the animals they lived alongside had.


Her mother presented her a scroll with slightly yellowed paper. Ming Xia narrowed her eyes.


<<The people of the desert are coming here with their great beasts,>> her mother said.


<<Why?>>


<<They are dying.>>


<<Do they want to die faster?>>


Her mother gave her a level and stern look. Ming Xia only stared back blankly, blinking.


<<They predict that here, their enemies will not find them.>>


<<They will find new ones.>>


<<They want you to look after some.>>


<<Will I get food from this?>>


Survival was Ming Xia's goal. Nothing more, nothing less.


<<You will get coins,>> her mother responded. <<You can use them to barter and trade.>>


<<Metal will not get me meat.>>


<<It will get you meat when you do not have any,>> her mother said, her eyes narrowing. <<It will get you pelts when you cannot catch them, it will get you a sword to defend you when your bow breaks.>>


<<If my bow breaks, I'll make a new one.>>


Her mother sighed heavily. <<You should not refuse this, Little Flower,>> her mother said, using a nickname that Ming Xia always rolled her eyes to. <<It will garner you wealth to use when your bones slow.>>


Ming Xia was silent.


<<And I have already accepted my part. You must accept yours.>>


The meat was finished. Ming Xia ate it in silence, staring at her mother with tired eyes, ones that had seen too much too soon and could not forget, would not forget. <<My part has been lost to the winds,>> the teenager said between bites, <<I will not carry children nor take a mate nor stare out into the darkness with fear anymore.>>


<<Perhaps this will be your new part.>>


Ming Xia took the scroll offered to her and unraveled it slowly, her eyes moving across words that she struggled to decipher, so different from the ones she had seen before.


<<Perhaps,>> the girl mused. The forest was silent for once.

Hardeep Passi

"Good," Hardeep said to the guard, standing up and turning to face the slave. "Leave us."


He glanced at the slave uneasily.


"Leave us," Hardeep snapped and the guard bowed low before leaving, shutting the door behind him. Hardeep beckoned the slave forward and tilted his head slightly at her.


"I do not believe you, not fully," Hardeep began. "There are many ways you could have wanted to kill my father; tricked by a master, done so a debt could be paid off, as a noble sacrifice. And there are many ways you could have done it; a struggle, my father distracted, poison and then a bullet to lead us astray. But most consider that you have not done it."


Hardeep moved so that he was inches from the slave's face, his eyes blazing with some deep, dark emotion. "Did you do it?"

 

[Lenaara]

At her side the guard seemed reluctant to leave. A grip on Irene’s arm was hard, uncomfortable, the gloved hand of the guard squeezing the lean muscle hidden beneath the sleeve of the slave’s tunic. When Balin’s son spoke, ordering the guard to leave without as much as glancing at the bruise on the guard’s neck, the hold wavered for a moment only. Then it hardened, a squeeze that could have carried a warning or a threat, or be devoid of meaning altogether, and the man let go.


A side glance was thrown at the guard as a response, the woman’s expression a cold mask. An equally cold stare was thrown at Irene by the guard before he turned. The guard glared at Irene from the corner of his eye as she bowed as well, though much less than the other, with her back still straight and head inclined forward and down, and straightened before she was spoken to.


Lovely. He wants me dead too.


No wonder. That bruise would take a while to heal, the man would be wheezing for days still.


Irene turned her attention to the man who, she supposed, was her new owner. The door behind her was closed and she was left alone with Balin’s son. His words were cold, harsh, accusatory almost as they reached her ears. The relief that he believed her the day before was gone.


Any other slave from Hisraad’s household would have fallen onto the floor, their faces pressed against the cool ground, probably trembling in fear with tears streaming down their faces in rivers. They would have begged for their lives to be spared, for the new benevolent and wise master to be kind and forgive the poor souls. She had seen such a display before.


But instead of begging for her life or trembling in fear, instead of looking away and stepping back, Irene held the man’s gaze as he spoke to her. He stopped in front of her, his face so close she could feel his warm breath against her cheek when he asked a question that was surely on everyone’s mind.


“No,” she said, her voice steady and cold as were her eyes. “I do not kill.”


What else was there to say? Everything was told to this man just the day before. Someone must have informed him of how Balin met his end, what the hole in his head was from.


“Poison requires preparation, one that I did not have. Your father chose to buy me on a whim. Hisraad took great care in hiding me from prying eyes of the riders.” The Mark in her chest was visible over the low collar of her tunic, hiding it was useless. This man would have found out of the tattoo’s meaning sooner or later, anyway. “Neither have I ever held a gun, or seen one. Whatever the size of that weapon, I suspect the Lord would have seen me carry it onto his dragon. And if I did want the Lord’s demise, it would have served no purpose. Killing him would guarantee my own death. So I would have chosen to go after his sword or distracted him to throw him off the saddle. The location would have been different, too. The desert sands would have been the optimal location; they would have hidden the bo–”


No, these words were wrong. Too wrong. This man, Balin’s son, surely did not wish to hear all the different ways how a slave could have ended his father’s life. Her words were enough to imply that she had considered the murder, planned it even.


So Irene looked away from the man, her lips pressed together tightly and sighed.


“I see nothing noble in killing, whatever the reason,” she continued and added, “My Lord.” It still felt odd to address the dragon riders with a title reserved for the nobility and royalty of other nations.


She shifted her gaze to look at the man again and raised her hand to put over his elbow. It was a light touch but she hoped it to be a comforting one. What was there to lose? If this man wanted her dead, he did not need a reason to end her life. Reasoning with this man was pointless, no evidence could be brought up to back her claims. Perhaps, a different route had to be taken.


“I know what it means to lose a loved one, to lose a father, a guide.” Her eyes were focused on his. The silver was not cold any longer, and instead her gaze and words seemed genuinely warm. They were genuine. “I know what it means to feel helpless, clueless, not knowing what to do or whom to blame. So I would never take the life of another, no matter who they were, to me or to others.” The image of Hisraad flashed before her eyes and Irene stifled a wince. The sadistic farmer was close to crossing that mental line. “I did not kill your father,” she repeated the words from the day before, “and I don’t know who did.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep tilted his head at the first response the slave spoke of. He did not believe her. He had learned not to believe many people, from his father when he promised his mother would be ok, to the government workers who assured him that her death was accidental. He had learned that anyone and everyone would lie to further their own cause, including himself, and he had learned that tongues were a traitor to words.


Her next statements didn't help either and his temper flared, boiling red. If he was sane, he would have seen that she was also intelligent but for the moment, all Hardeep thought of was the fact that she was mocking him, poking fun at the pain he was in, in the reasoning he had developed. He thought about her head rolling on the floor, the sword heavy against his hip.


It was when she cut herself off that some sane part of him noted her intelligence in the situation.


Her touch was unwelcomed and he glanced down at it with a pinched face. He did not want comfort from her or anyone at the time; he wanted silence and a place to grieve. But that was not what he could be offered so he had to take what he could get. He glared back at the slave but no movement, no change to show that he understood what she was saying.


Her words were empty to him and he did not care for them.


Still, he wasn't willing to have a riot occur on his grounds once more.


Hardeep watched her demeanor shift slightly as her words carried over the small expanse between them and a sigh left his lips.


"I do not believe you," he said firmly. "But I have no reason to kill you, either."


He turned away from her and walked to the opposite side of the room, staring out of the windows, gazing at the mountains beyond.


"Tell me, have you lived in the desert long?" He turned around to look at her. "Where we are going next, you may not like."

 

[Lenaara]

He did not believe her. Again. It was as if no amount of reasoning or comforting could make this man, the son of the one who saved her from Hisraad, look at Irene in a different light. Look at her as anything but his father’s killer.


Irene wondered for a moment what she should be feeling, what appropriate reaction could be. A series of emotions passed through her mind – frustration, annoyance, anger, and, finally, relief. Stubborn or not, the unwillingness to hear what Irene was saying did not cloud his judgement. Yet.


The sword hung at the man’s hip, both a warning and a lure. Ah, how close it was. All Irene had to do was reach out, grab the hilt and pull the weapon out of the scabbard. She knew she could do it quickly, probably even before this man would realize what had happened. The surprise would have left him dumbfounded for a moment and then—


She cut off the train of thought. The sword almost beckoned to her, it’s pommel suddenly the only thing that she could see in her peripheral vision. But she kept her eyes locked on the man’s, her hand still on his elbow until she moved it away as the man stepped back and turned.


At least you are alive, Irene told herself. For now, the grim part of her mind added.


A sigh was all she had given as a response to the man’s claim that he did not believe her. There was nothing else to say, nothing that could prove her innocence. The small part of Irene, the one that offered genuine comfort, had closed up once more.


His following question had surprised her, however, and she quirked a brow at him.


“Two years and three months.” 817 days. “I have spent some time in Crubia before, too. I used to travel a lot, so I have been pretty much everywhere.” This information was known to Hisraad, too. Either asked by him or yelled at him by the man who spun all those different idiotic stories of the legendary spear wielder that he claimed Irene to be. That man did not lack imagination.


“My Lord, if you don’t mind me asking,” Irene said, “where we are going? Where are we going?” Why should my opinion even matter?


After the incident with Balin, she expected this man to either kill her or sell her. If not for the sake of the homestead – who would wish to have a potential murderer living among them? – then for her own.


As she spoke her mind thought of all the different places where they could go. It had to be beyond the desert. Izmar, then? No, it would take at least a month to reach it; and she was not allowed back. Traveling to Riverside would take no less than three months, even if on a dragon’s back. Vanguard, then? Further south? Or, maybe, across the mountains?


“Before you sell me, don’t you wish to know what I can do?” Apart from possibly having the ability to kill a dragon rider.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep raised an eyebrow. He could question her more, but it would more than likely lead him no where and he was running short on time as is. He needed to sort out his affairs; give proper permission and guidelines to whoever it was that he wanted to look after the household and begin investigating the necessities he would need to head to the mountain.


"My father's death was not the first," Hardeep told the slave. "Nor will it be the last. Lately, there has been a string of dead bodies among the riders. All from guns. All from afar, some in their very homes and by these windows." Hardeep gestured to one behind him, glancing out it at the same time. "Some on their dragons, their bodies found days later under sand from where they had fallen." His eyes seemed distant then, remembered a time when he had been flying and something had felt amiss, glancing down at the sand and seeing scarlet instead of gold.


"They fear something bigger is at work here. As such, I have been asked to leave this land for now, until those that are pulling the triggers can be swept away. For the time, I will live on a mountain. They worry for the Passi name. Otherwise, I would not."


He leaned against the ledge of the window and tapped his fingers against it, staring down the slave.


"My father was a kind and generous man," Hardeep said, though his voice was devoid of affection. A dead kind and generous man. It had not saved him in the end. Nothing had. Some of the dead riders were murderers, only free because of their powers; others potentially worse, assaulters of the worst kind that no one could stand against; some were kindly and had spent gold on others; some were not and had burned down lands to take their rich crops and slaves. His father was among them.


It had not mattered if they were good or bad. They had all died because they were riders, a dragon by their side and a sigil stamped on their chest. It had not mattered.


"So I will not kill you. Not yet, at least." He let the threat dangle.


"The mountains are far and cold, I have been told," Hardeep said. "And that is where we will go. I take you because I do not need a riot here in my absence. Orien comes, too. He is one of the few that I can trust. A guard may join us for protection but that is it. There needs not be more trouble."


He tilted his head at her last statement. "What you can do?" he asked. His eyes narrowed.

 

[Lenaara]

As the man spoke – his name still unknown to her, and she made a mental note to ask Orien or some other servant who did not want her dead – she listened. To Irene’s surprise, this man told her more than she ever hoped to hear. The reasons for the leave, the suspicions about the murders that plagued this nation, the possibility that Balin had been killed by the ones who were targeting the other dragon riders. A civil unrest was starting, one that could easily spiral out of control if not taken care of. How many people knew of this? Did Riverside and Vanguard catch wind of what was happening in Crubia?


Irene looked out the window behind the man, feeling odd at being able to see a different landscape now that she was out of Hisraad’s estate, and quirked her brow for a moment. Apparently the information that some riders were shot through the windows of their own homes did not bother this man. The bodyguard in Irene wanted to advise the man to move to a different part of the room, preferably beneath a shadow, but she stayed silent.


The information was offered so easily to her that Irene wondered if this man realized himself of its value. If one of Crubia’s rivals found out of the murders, then an all-out war could begin. But this was not the court of some Crown. She was a slave, one that could not share this information with anyone. Not unless she escaped.


Their eyes locked on each other, Irene shifted slightly to hold the door in her peripheral vision as well as the window and the man across the room from her. A habit.


Other information, more trivial, was offered as well. This man seemed to be the only heir, or, in the very least, one of the few. Balin had no daughters, and he mentioned only one son. And Orien was close to Balin’s son; she assumed as much, but it was pleasing to have her guess be confirmed.


The threat lingered in the air and with it the future course of action solidified in the woman’s mind.


Escape. Run. Balin had freed her from the cage that was Hisraad’s estate; he reminded her what freedom felt like when they soared through the skies atop his dragon.


Escaping the desert was hard, with the sands providing little cover and the water sources too scarce and too spread out. Mountains, however, was a different matter. They offered protection, sustenance, shelter. It would be foolish to wait for this man to decide Irene’s guilt. She would disappear before his mind was made up.


Her expression offered no clues as to her thoughts. Irene continued to look at the man, eyes focused on his, and when he told her of his plans, Irene merely inclined her head forward, ready to thank him for thinking of her safety even if it was not his true intention of bringing her along. But his question made her pause and she looked to the side, wondering where to begin.


“Yes, the skills that might benefit your household. Is that not what a slave,” the word was said with a tint of disgust to it, “is supposed to be for? Your father bought me for…” Irene paused, searching a correct word and couldn’t come up with any apart from what Balin used himself, “intimate reasons, I suppose.”


I can kill you with the comb in my hair. Though I doubt you wish to know that.


“I can take care of the household, clean and do the laundry, bring the water from the well and distribute it through the homestead. Cooking is something I am not good at, so I have been told.” Unless you want a roasted on a campfire rabbit. “I can plough the fields, sow seeds, tend to the harvest and collect it. I know how to use the watermill or windmill, how to take care of the gears and keep them in a working order. I can sew and broider, make clothing from fabric or leather, or fix it.”


Irene chose to go over the skills that a slave needed to know. It felt odd listing them but the words were flowing without a pause, as if she had given little thought to what to say. She merely remembered all the tasks given to her by Hisraad and his wife.


With such skills listed she moved on to the abilities acquired before being sold into slavery.


“I know six languages fluently, and am able to read and write in four of them. As a child, I have been educated in history, mathematics, music,” she chose not to elaborate on the fact that her governess gave up trying to teach Irene how to play the pianoforte after the third lesson, “and philosophy. I can also use an abacus.”


It was not the end of the list. It was best not to tell this man that she could throw a spear from a distance of twenty paces or disarm a foe whilst being unarmed herself. Throwing daggers and knives was also taken off the list, as well as taking care of the various kinds of weaponry. Anything that could point to her background as a mercenary was carefully weeded out of her list of skills. Any hint, any indication that she had killed before for coin would be enough to give this man a reason to suspect her even more of having ended Balin’s life.


So, Irene fell silent, her eyes drifting from the man and towards the window, as if thinking of any other skills that she had forgotten to mention. That man in the slave market two years ago had done a much better job at listing the woman’s skills and abilities, spinning them all into some story filled with either deeds that were impossible to perform or that were romanticised to the point of idiocy, all to grab the people’s attention.


There was tension in the air, making it heavy and silent. Too silent. So Irene did not continue speaking, choosing not to add that she knew how to hunt and build traps and snares. It seemed that he wished not to hear of it, either.


“People wanted to know of my skills when I was sold. I thought you wished to know what I can do, too. Even if the Lord did not care for such details.” The entire time her voice was steady, quiet.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

"My father did not care for your skills when he bought you," Hardeep snapped. His father bought slaves because he needed strength first. If he wanted skill, then he usually went out into the city; if this woman had been brought in on the back of his dragon, then that meant Balin had set off into the desert that day.


"I will judge if your talents are true or not," Hardeep said sharply. "You may tell me as much as you want, but I will not believe it at this time. There is little for me to believe."


He stared at her for a beat more.


"We will leave within the next few days," he said, changing course. "You will have apt time to prove yourself then."

 

[Lenaara]

Despite knowing not to care, not to give the man’s words much of a thought, Irene’s brows furrowed for a moment. She suddenly felt so utterly…irrelevant. It was not the first time that this feeling of being useless, not being important, had crept its way into the woman’s mind. The same situation happened years ago, when she was standing in that bloody slave market, being ogled at by various brothel owners and other slavers, their pouches of gold at their hips and their eyes all focused on the woman that used to mean something in another nation.


Irene pushed the memories away. Fair enough. She was a slave; he was a dragon rider whose father just died, and she was the one accused of murder. Unless she could point out to the one who had taken his father’s life, Irene doubted that any of her skills would be useful to this man.


After being dismissed by Balin’s son, to which Irene had muttered an obedient and silent “Of course,” bowed with her head inclined forward and down, her back once against straight, she was led away from the main house and towards the servant’s quarters. Another guard had escorted her, one that deemed it unnecessary to painfully clasp her arm in a steel grip, and did not say a word until the doors to the servant’s quarters were opened.


It was an empty room lined with uniform straw mats, all placed a foot or so away from one another, with little bundles of clothing at the heads of each of the mats. The items of each slave, Irene assumed. She was pointed to one of the mats, one at the corner, and then told to speak to a servant to get a task assigned to her. The guard had left her there, going back to his post, perhaps, and Irene was left alone in the small building adjacent to the main house of the family.


It was much larger than the resting quarters given to the slaves of the Hisraad Malak’s estate. That building was but a small shed connected to the kitchen, with a straw roof and thin walls through which the wind howled during most of the nights. It never proved to be uncomfortable to Irene, as she had slept in much worse conditions, but having a place to sleep that seemed so…welcoming was a nice change.


On the way towards the mattress that did not have a bundle at the top Irene moved close to the wall, rasping at it with her knuckle to check for any hollow spots. It had none. No hidden doors, then, or any weak spots in the walls that could be torn down; not that she had noticed, in any case. The walls were solid, made of stone instead of the shabby wood that lined the shack of the resting quarters of Hisraad’s homestead. There were also no crevices beside the wall or beneath the mat, so no potential hiding spots for items; the mat proved to be too thin to hide anything beneath or within it, either. The comb would be hard to hide, then.


So the comb remained in Irene’s hair, hidden beneath the dark ashy brown locks that she roped around the bone handle of the comb. It would be hard to hide when using the bathing house, but that could be worried about later.


After having checked the servant’s quarters, careful not to disturb the bundles or the mats, Irene had left the building to find some servant or another to give her a task. The day suddenly seemed so…empty. Yes, empty, hollow, free. Without a task of tending to the fields, the house, or the master of the house, Irene felt herself wanting to fill in the hours before sunset, to have something, anything to do. The want was a terrifying one. It meant she had accepted the life of a slave, of a servant, ready to be told of another task to complete.


The first servant had turned and scurried away before Irene could as much as near the poor woman carrying a bucket and a washcloth. The second servant had ignored Irene and almost trembled, either from fear or anger, and did not say a word to the newcomer. The third servant, a man whose collarbone protruded through his tunic, barked at Irene that if she spoke to him again the Murderer would be dealt with promptly. She arched a brow at the man as a response to his threat and left to the next servant that had caught her attention.


It took a while, but a task was given to her. To go fix the cobblestone road. The entire time Irene tended to it, her hands busy picking up the rocks and bringing them to a pile to be used to rebuild the path towards the bathhouse, she kept looking over her shoulder in case some other brave – or stupid? – soul tried to hurl a cobblestone at the newcomer dubbed Killer.


The sun beat down upon Irene’s unprotected head for a while longer and then the shadow moved, covering the woman in its protective cool embrace and Irene tended to the road in silence. It felt awfully close to tending to the fields. She assumed more servants would be dealing with the road, given how many stones were yanked out of the ground and thrown, but the entire time no servant dared to even come within fifteen feet of the bathhouse. But the silence was good, the absence of others welcoming, and the amount of work gave Irene something to do to fill in the hours of silence.


The silence had almost made Irene forget that half, or more, of the Passis household wanted her head on a pike. A reminder was a discovery of a stone in the bowl of food given to her.


A pebble it was, dark and polished, taken out of Mountain knows where, and put into the bowl of broth prepared and given to her when it was her turn to receive the rations. She did not even know the hours when the servants were being fed, and would have gone a day without food, had she not noticed some of the servants moving across the courtyard in smaller groups, all heading in the same direction.


Irene had received her share without thanking the older woman who had handed the bowl to her. The bowl was warm, the broth smelling and looking pleasant; and it had been barely a half of what the rest of the slaves received. Again, Irene’s response was a mere arch of her brow at the woman, and a look of I-know-what-you-are-doing was given to the older woman who was intent on ignoring Irene, her gaze and hands focused on the large pot from which she distributed the rations.


To say that Irene attracted the attention of the mess hall where the servants ate, some chatting and laughing, others gossiping or being utterly silent, would be a monumental understatement. All watched as Irene sat down at the free table, all watched as she quietly but quickly ate the broth. All watched as she winced and took out the pebble out of her mouth. She inspected it silently as it lay atop her palm and then turned it before her eyes as she raised it, held between her thumb and index finger. At that moment the chatting in the mess hall stopped, interrupted by a hiss that could have been a curse, an insult or a threat.


Her steps, usually silent and soft, echoed through the mess hall when Irene got up and headed back towards the woman who had given Irene the bowl of broth. The woman was sitting at one of the tables, surrounded by other servants that she had seen the day before, but most of their faces were unfamiliar to her.


Clank


The sound of the bowl being placed on the table’s surface sounded much louder than she intended. In the corner of her eye, she noticed the guard who had trailed her from the bathhouse and to the mess hall, the same guard with the bruised neck. The man was standing by the doorframe, his hands clasped behind his back, and he shifted uncomfortably when Irene spoke to the older slave.


“I have found a pebble in my bowl,” Irene said, her voice calm.


“Really?” The older woman raised her eyes at Irene, they were dark and had a gleam of amusement to them.


She is either bold or stupid. Or both.


“Really.” Irene’s voice had gone from cool to cold.


“How horrible. Are you blaming me? I gave the food to everyone. You should complain to the kitchen staff.” There was absolutely nothing genuine in the woman’s words, apart from a tint of amusement to it. And anger. Not a single speck of fear.


Stupid, Irene decided.


“I believe you,” Irene responded calmly as she turned the pebble in her dirt stained fingers, the grime stuck beneath her fingernails from having dug out larger holes for the cobblestones to fit in. Some of the soil was smeared over the pebble as she inspected it.


The woman stared at Irene. Irene continued, shifting her gaze from the pebble to look at the woman below.


“I will tell of this incident to Orien.” Irene glanced around the room, wondering if she’d notice the man. It was low to involve him in this, but she had no other choice. “This is the kitchen staffs’ responsibility. Ah,” she threw the pebble up a couple of inches and it landed back in her palm, “I should ask him to mention your name. And maybe others’ too, because one of you might encounter the same problem. This is such a horrible situation. What if more stones are found in the food? With what happened to Lord Balin, perchance this is a ploy against his son.”


The gleam of amusement vanished from the servant’s eyes and she shifted back. “You don’t need to go to such extent. The kitchen staff also makes mistakes,” the woman stammered, watching Irene and then looking away from the cold silver gaze that pinned the older servant to the bench upon which she sat.


“I suppose. I was also mistakenly accused of something horrible.” Irene let the words linger in the air, as cold and harsh as were her eyes, and then broke the silence by releasing the pebble. It fell into the half-finished bowl in front of the older servant.


Needless to say, that action did not win Irene any favours. Not that she was aiming to get into the servants’ good graces in the first place. Only a few days. And then, the mountains. All she had to do was survive until then.


When Irene left the mess hall, the guard followed her, staying a respectable distance away from Irene. She returned to the ruined cobblestone road and continued to work there, the guard standing vigilant at the wall of the nearby buildings, his eyes darting from where Irene was kneeling on the ground and to the courtyard where the servants soon continued their daily tasks.


“A week,” Irene said as she passed the guard, her hands carrying a bucket of water with a washcloth draped over its rim. The stones were not all yet put into the road, but the blood stained some of them and had to be washed off.


“What?” He rasped at her after turning his attention from the courtyard.


“Give it a week and the bruise will go away,” Irene clarified as she put down the bucket.


“Is that from experience?” The guard eyed Irene warily from the corner of his eye as he placed a hand onto the pommel of his sword.


“No. It’s common sense. Bruises like that go away after a while.” It was best not to tell the guard that she had intended for the injury to be just that, a bruise. If any more force was applied, this man would have had troubles breathing and might not have survived unless immediate medical attention was provided.


The guard was silent for a while, the silence interrupted only by the water splashing as Irene washed the road. Then, his hoarse voice tinted with anger and suspicion broke the silence. “You reacted quickly.”


“Yes, having a pebble nearly break your tooth gives you enough motivation to demand answers,” Irene said and brushed the washcloth over the road, washing off another smear of dried up blood that had seeped between the cobblestones.


“No. At the dragon pen. When I grabbed you, tried to restrain you, you hit my neck before I realized you attacked.”


The movement of the washcloth did not stop but Irene looked up nonetheless. “I was panicked.”


“No, you intentionally—“ He looked to the side and stepped away from the wall, waving a gesture at the servants who moved closer to Irene, their hands clenched into fists. Not the first group to have tried to approach her during the day, but the guard had kept them at bay so far. Perhaps, assigned by Balin’s son, and surely not standing watch over her out of the goodness of his heart.


“I had no idea what was happening. A lot of people tried to grab me, I defended myself but it was pointless. Your neck will heal.”


***


The next two days were eventful, to say the least.


The weather was the same, with the sun bright and scorching, warming the rock of the Passis homestead, spreading warmth even to corners where no light reached and the windowless rooms. A clear blue sky stretched above them, the bright disk of the sun a blinding dot of light that threatened to burn those beneath its rays. In the fields the scorching rays beating down upon the slaves were numbing with their heat, driving the workers into a state of a daze when they scarcely noticed the time passing by. They worked, ate and slept. That was their life. That was Irene’s life for over two years.


It would have felt welcoming to wake up to a day of no fieldwork awaiting her, had Irene actually slept the first night.


The straw mat was comfortable enough, the corner where it lay was warm and bordering private. The other servants, however, were not as welcoming as the warm bed which waited for Irene at the end of the day. No one dared come over to her, but they looked and whispered, and some even cursed loud enough for her to hear.


Mountains bury me.


She trusted herself to wake up if any threats were made against her person, if anyone dared to harm her as she slept, but against a room full of servants half of which wanted her dead, Irene did not want to take any chances. So she lay on the mat, her back to the wall, and waited for the night to be over. Some of the servants did not sleep, either. One outright cried during the night, muttering something about Gods sparing her soul for having offended them that she is now living under the same roof as a murderer. Irene’s fingers brushed against the comb hidden in her hair, her arm propped under her head as a pillow.


The next day was again filled with work. This time it was not rebuilding the road, but rather tending to smaller tasks. Cleaning, washing the floors. At the end of the day the guard – she found out his name to be Warren from when another of the servants had called him – had told Irene to go to the laundresses and work there. It was easier to keep an eye on her there, he claimed.


That day no more stones were found in her food, her portions still much smaller than the other slaves were given. More threats were whispered under shallow breaths, more glares were thrown, and the slaves seemed to be trying their hardest to stay clear of Irene unless they tried to approach her as she worked wherever Warren told her to go. She had spotted Orien once or twice, but the work given to her had taken most of Irene’s attention; the work and the constant need to look over her shoulder to check if a cobblestone flew her way.


Irene allowed herself to sleep that night and woke up well before dawn. A habit. Working the fields was easier before the sun rose.


***


“You’re not working with the laundresses today,” Warren’s voice reached Irene from the entrance to the servant’s quarters. Slaves darted past him as the man entered the building and neared Irene’s straw mat. He held a bundle of clothing under his arm.


Irene did not reply to Warren and instead continued to coil her long braid into a bun, careful to keep the back of her head facing the wall behind her, least Warren caught a glimpse of the pale hair comb.


The guard released the bundle and it fell at the foot of her mat. Irene quirked a brow at the bundle and did not reach for it.


“Put this on and go to the dragon pen,” Warren said and did not walk away. Indeed, he continued to wait by the mat, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes focused on Irene. “I am to lead you there.”


The braid was secured at the back, tied tightly into the bun, and Irene reached for the bundle. It was a pair of cotton trousers of a dark grey colour and a jacket of the same material and colour; it far too big for Irene, with its sleeves being long and wide, and the hem reaching all the way down to her knees.


“Going to watch me?” Irene looked at Warren as she got up.


“Not interested,” he grumbled back and did not turn away.


“I know. Those glances you throw at Orien each time he passes by is enough of an indicator.” Irene pulled on the pants, leaving her tunic on and unfastened the belt securing it.


“Not your business,” Warren said sharply.


“Never intended it to be one.” Irene shrugged, a barely visible action as she pulled on the jacket at the same time, and tied it at the waist with the sash. “Though it won’t be his, either, if you keep avoiding him.”


“You should worry about yourself. Sir Hardeep can still come to his senses and find you guilty.”


Hardeep. That was the name of Balin’s son, then. She had heard it uttered by some servants but it was no more than a whisper, hidden amongst the curses and threats directed at Irene that she had learnt to ignore.


“You find error in his decision?” Irene adjusted he collar of the jacket, wanting to move it over the collarbone. “You think me guilty?”


“It is not for me to decide.” Warren jerked his chin at the door and Irene followed the guard as he escorted her out of the servant’s quarters and began to walk in the direction of the dragon pen.


The servants scurried about and those that were too close to Irene were waved off by the gloved hand of the guard, who, as usual, marched through the courtyard, one hand resting upon the pommel of his sword, chest puffed out with confidence.


“The Lord’s decision or my guilt?” Irene ran her fingers over the braid at the back of her head, checking that the comb did not peek through the strands.


In the sunlight Warren’s hair shone like a crown of deep auburn, with short strands poking out here and there at odd and awkward angles. More than once he slid a hand over the top of his hair in a poor attempt to flatten it. She had noticed him do the same gesture each time Orien was in the vicinity.


“Sir Hardeep has his reasons to keep you alive and I honour his decision,” Warren finally replied over his shoulder.


“Even if it goes against your own belief?” Irene looked away from a group of servants who had been eyeing her. One of the servants spat on the ground.


“Even if.”


There was an unusual commotion around the homestead, with the servants carrying bundles of clothing and other items that Irene could only glimpse before the servant turned or entered a building. It seemed normal from a point of view of an outsider, but to Irene, who had been watching the servants intently – and who watcher her back with the same determination – she noticed the change, however slight.


“I did not kill Balin,” Irene said with a sigh, already tired of repeating her innocence.


“Sir Balin. I honour Sir Hardeep’s decision and his wishes to keep you around, but they are based on lies. My neck is an example and reminder of what you are capable of.” There was sharpness to his voice, coldness that did not fit the image of a loyalty driven guard who almost kissed the ground on which his masters walked upon.


“Will you ever believe anything I say?” Irene halted to a stop, standing a few feet away from Warren who had stopped by a wall by the dragon pen, his hands once again clasped behind his back, facing Irene and watching her as well as the servants moving about.


“Doubtful. Will you ever admit that you intentionally attacked me?” He said and eyed her for a moment, a shadow cast over his brown eyes.


“Doubtful.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Hardeep Passi

Orien

Hardeep had spent the next few days discussing the upcoming changes that would need to be made. He had to give control of the estate over to the Makhai's, given that they were the ones that his father and he had been closest to. It was still painful, walking the oldest Makhai's across the roads he had run down as a child, staring at the stone buildings he had known that he would have until his last breath. Now, he was not sure what would be waiting for him when he returned. The painting of his father still loomed over him whenever he entered, staring at the face of a man that would never walk the halls again.


He still felt empty.


He knew little about the mountain and what information the Makhai's gave him was fragmented and difficult to grasp. Hardeep was not sure if that was his own hazy cloud of judgement, of pain still masking his ability to reason, but he had difficulty understanding what they meant by thick clothing, by snow, by cold. Sure, he knew that at night, the air grew crisp, biting. If a man thought the sands were scorching in the day, then he would freeze at night when the sand bit the skin out of chill. But when they spoke of the cold, they spoke as if it was something all consuming, that the night that Hardeep had grown used to was nothing. Every now and then, he'd catch a glance at Galene's pinched face whenever they remarked about the chill.


He made a note to bring for her a jacket as well, as there was little doubt that the head of the household would not let a slave with a sharp tongue take something of value from the home.


Hardeep still did not understand Yulink Makhai, a man as elusive as the wind. He seemed to do everything with a sense of begrudging acceptance that it was what he must do, not something he wanted to do. It was that way with naming his daughter heir, bringing in Kydoimos as family, and sending the half-slave and Galene off. He did it as if the world was forcing him to, with clenched fists and a thin mouth. When Hardeep walked alongside him, he could sense that Yulink was simply staring at the surroundings, trying to gauge what was most important, what was most fragile without taking into consideration what Hardeep was actually saying. It reminded him of his position among dragon riders. An orphan.


Finally, the day arrived. Hardeep had commanded the servants to hunt out as many blankets and clothes as possible and to begin to load Syltha with them. She snorted at him as he entered the pen, casting a glance at the other dragons that were resting, their nostrils flaring. He swallowed and patted her reassuringly.


He stepped out and spotted Orien approaching, wearing thicker linens and a supposed pelt tossed over himself. He stared at Hardeep levelly.


"Why am I truly here?"


"I trust you."


"You do not trust Irene."


Hardeep was silent.


"I do not trust the others here to not kill her or make a fuss," Hardeep said finally.


Orien nodded sharply, seemingly accepting the statement.


"Where are the other two?"


"Waiting, I suppose."


"Get them."


"Yes my lord," Orien said, and not for the first time in those few days, there seemed to be a tinge of bitterness in his words.


Hardeep chose to ignore it.


Orien found Irene and Warren standing outside the pen and raised an eyebrow to them. "Are you prepared?" he asked them both.

 

[Lenaara]

Warren continued to stand by the wall, ever vigilant. He did not speak to Irene but eyed her warily and she ignored his stare as much as she ignored the stares of those servants that the guard had waved away. The gesture, however, seemed not to have been working as much as he intended. More than once he had to step forward, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other reaching towards the hilt, his brown eyes narrowed and expression that of cold anger. That anger did not suit his features at all, giving them a much harsher look that appeared foreign. The stare and the change in the usually calm and confident demeanour was enough to ward off the slaves.


“Stay here,” Warren said coolly as he stepped out of the shadow and neared a slave who had been crossing the courtyard to them, clutching a traveling bag with a bundle laid on top of it. It appeared to be a blanket woven from dark wool.


The bag changed hands, some words were uttered that Irene could not hear, and the slave avoided looking at Irene the entire time the young man and Warren spoke. Warren returned a short while after, the traveling bag slung over his shoulder and the blanket pressed between the strap across his chest and the bag on his back.


Irene arched a brow at the guard and gestured at the blanket and the bag with a wave of her hand. “This is?...”


“My clothes. I’m coming to the mountain.” Warren took the position by the wall once more and adjusted the strap, letting it rest across his chest in a way that the Passis symbol was visible to all. “Sir Hardeep must be protected at all times, so I traded the duty with another guard and—“ There was a sudden change to Warren’s words. His lips were parted in words unsaid, eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his gaze fell to the ground and he looked away. He raised a hand to run through the messy dark nest that was his hair.


She recognized the gesture.


A look to the side was enough to confirm her suspicions. Orien was approaching them, dressed in clothes similar to Irene’s, meant for a colder weather.


“Yes,” Irene replied at the same time when Warren muttered something under his breath.


“I…uh,” Warren stuttered and did not lift his eyes from the ground, appearing to be interested in the crevice between the stone wall and the ground. His hand ran over his hair once more and rested at the back of his neck. “Blanket, a change of clothes, then I think I brought a dagger but—“ The words were quick and quiet. Warren was mumbling. It was an entertaining sight in comparison to his otherwise serious demeanour.


“He is ready, too.” Irene nodded at Warren and could see the guard’s gaze lift up from the ground to shoot a glare at the woman. “Lead the way.”


“How is ah…” Warren stumbled for words when he looked away from the slave and shifted his attention to Orien. “I mean, you were stoned. I did not have the chance to ask you and—“


Irene snorted. “How is your back?” She asked for Warren.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Orien

Hardeep Passi

Ahanti Makhai


Mentioned

It had been a strenuous few days.


Hardeep's demeanor had changed sharply and Orien felt his own shift as well. There was irritation between them, barely there respect on both said, restrained anger. It was as if all the wounds that they had inflicted on each other purposefully or not the past few years had been ripped open again, leaving them more like bitter ex-lovers than a master and a slave. Hardeep was firmer, more commanding, shifting into his role of master and head of the house. He did not pick up Balin's kindness when he took up his father's position, instead ruling with a decisive and unflinching tone. Part of Orien knew this was because of the fact that he was alone in the world, the last Passi living in a home built for many. But there was still bitterness within him, too. Orien snapped more easily at Hardeep, irritated that his master seemed to think he was the only one suffering, that he was refusing help and closing himself off like he had to Orien years ago. Hardeep, to Orien's surprise, did not bother to snap back or even punish him. He simply let Orien stew, almost as if Orien's rage and irritation was being validated.


But he was a slave and it had not been validated years ago. There was no reason for Hardeep to allow Orien the luxury of rage and emotion after the death of his own father. What was the reasoning behind it?


Learning that Warren was going almost answered it.


Orien had had the suspicion, for a while now, that the younger man was somewhat infatuated with him.


Galene was quick to correct, with a scrunched up nose and a Kydoimos who was trying very hard not to laugh in the background, that it seemed as if the young guard was a lot infatuated with him.


"About as smooth as a camel's back," the young slave would put it.


Perhaps Hardeep was allowing Orien some rage and emotion now so that he could blow off steam and handle the guard up on the mountain more easily. It would make sense in a way. Snapping at the younger would not do anyone any good and having pent up emotions would certainty not help in closer quarters.


Of course, it had to start the instant he found the two, Warren already reverting to his usual demeanor and Irene looking as though she was enjoying this too much.


Great. He'd have to deal with Galene, Kydoimos, Hardeep, and Irene all staring at him, as if he was supposed to fix this situation.


Warren was easy on the eyes, yes, but Orien had not romantic love set aside for the younger. He was a good man, a loyal man, but his loyalty almost made him stupid, a reason why Orien had strayed away from him.


"My back is fine, thank you," Orien said gently. "The bruises will fade with time, I am sure."


He pushed open the wooden door once more and stepped into the dragon pens. There was a cobblestone path out to the open square in the middle, where Slytha was seated and being loaded with supplies by many servants and slaves. A few glanced over at Irene but remained silent. Hardeep made it clear that if someone dared voice that they believed that Hardeep had been wrong in keeping her alive, or at least implied that with their accusations, there would be blood.


Orien had been disgusted with Hardeep for the first time when he had seen his rage at that and his reaction. The grinding sound of metal when his sword had been drawn had made Orien turn his head.


He approached the dragon with the other two in tow. There was a new saddle, one with several seats for each of them.


"Warren," Hardeep said, turning to stare at the guard. He was dressed in heavier clothing as well, a pelt of a wolf draped over his shoulders and layers of fur over his armor. "You will sit in the rear. I will sit in the front. Orien and Irene, figure out your seating arrangement. We are to meet Kydoimos and Galene out in the desert before heading to the mountain, as we have been assigned the same plot of land and guide for our time."


As if on cue, Ahanti appeared by the doorway as well and the servants and slaves scurried to let her through.


"Your father did not come?" Hardeep asked lightly.


"You know as well as I do what he thinks," Ahanti said tartly.


Hardeep nodded firmly and offered a hand for Ahanti to shake. The woman took it firmly and their hands moved before Ahanti pulled Hardeep closer and hissed something into his ear. He nodded and stood up straight.


"Assignments will be given out for the day," the woman said. The slaves and servants looked around, staring at Hardeep then her.


"She is your temporary master. Obey her."


They moved once more, their heads ducked and faces pale, seemingly finally realizing that something was shifting, and not something good. Hardeep moved to Slytha and hefted himself up into the first seat. Orien moved forward next and turned to look at the other two, waiting for them to follow.

 

[Lenaara]

“Mm. Good. Good. That’s good,” Warren mumbled on, his gloved hand kept patting a bang that refused to smooth down. The constant running of his fingers through the messy hair had resulted in the already smoothed locks to be upturned and stand on end, sticking out here and there. Warren resembled a ruffled up bird.


Irene continued to watch Warren, her arms crossed over her chest, lips curved in a barely visible smirk. The guard fell silent then, his lips still parted and he took a deep breath as if to say something else but did not, and instead continued to look at the wall. She could almost see the gears of his mind forced into movement in a vain attempt to think of something, anything, to say to Orien.


But Warren said nothing and by the time that the guard looked up, Orien had turned and headed into the dragon pens.


“What?” The change in Warren’s voice was sudden and immediate. With Orien out of earshot – and sight – the guard snapped back into his ever-loyal-servant mode.


“You’d assume talking to a supposed murder would be harder than to your crush.” Irene moved her right shoulder in a shrug and turned.


“Oh, shut it,” Warren grumbled under his breath and followed Orien through the wooden doors.


The moment that Hardeep was in sight, Warren stopped a respectable distance away and bowed so low that his traveling bag slid an inch forward and to the side. Had the bow been any deeper, the strap of the bag would have completely slid off the polished metals of Warren’s armour, and the bag would have ended up on the ground of the dragon pens. He did not reach out to the strap to adjust it.


Irene would have rolled her eyes at the show, had she the humour for it. As it was, she chose to bow as well – the usual slight incline of her head – and then straightened to look at the dragon.


Last time she had been in the dragon pens she arrived with Balin’s corpse and had nearly fallen off the beast as it turned berserk at the death of its master. The memory was uncomfortable and she pushed it away. It was not hard to do, too, as the dragon that awaited them was enough to grab the woman’s attention. Its scales shone like amethysts in the sun, so akin to Balin’s dragon, and its saddle was large enough to be occupied by more than just the rider and one passenger.


We are flying there.


Of course, they were flying there. But it was the realization that they were flying on the dragon that was pleasant. Somehow, Irene thought that the dragon would be carrying a cage or something as morbid in its hind legs. It simply was hard to believe that Hardeep would risk flying on a dragon with the Murderer sitting beside him. Perhaps that is why he chose to sit up front.


Warren had glared at Irene from the corner of his eye when she straightened before Hardeep had finished speaking, but did not snap at the woman, either trusting Sir Hardeep to take care of the slave’s lack of manners personally, or wishing not to overstep his bounds.


The guard straightened then and bowed to the second rider, the bow as deep as the previous one and the blanket beneath his traveling bag slipped, about to fall to the ground. Warren stood up straight before his items toppled over his shoulder and adjusted the bag as he eyed the saddle. There was a shadow cast over his eyes as his brows furrowed.


Ah. Of course. He was deciding if he wished to sit with Orien and let the Murderer be seated beside his master, or sit with Irene and, thus, farther from the one who made the guard stumble for words. A choice he did not want to take.


“Go,” Warren said as he jerked his chin at the dragon. “You will sit in front of me. Sir Hardeep should not be forced to look over his shoulder, fearing for a dagger in the back.”


Irene chose not to state that she had no dagger on her person, or any weapon for that matter apart from the comb hidden beneath her braid, and quirked a brow at Warren as a response. So, loyalty won over his infatuation with Orien. Or, perhaps, the reason why he chose to sit with Irene was because of Orien. Given how the guard stumbled and stuttered when the male servant was in the vicinity, there was a high chance that Warren would slip off the saddle mid-air if Orien said or did something.


“You, ah,” Warren cleared his throat as he followed Irene to the saddle and glanced down at Orien for a moment only, his hand once again lifting towards his hair. “You don’t mind, right? I mean, she is a—“ A wary glance was thrown at Hardeep and Warren stilled his tongue. “You and the Sir are better protected with me watching over the…erm, newcomer. And, ah, I thought that she should not be so close to—“


Irene had thrown an apologetic glance at Orien. “Please say that you don’t mind the seating arrangement,” she said as she stopped before the dragon.


Behind her Warren had also stopped, his hands gripping the ladder to climb onto the saddle. There was a hint of fear in his eyes but not directed at the great beast before him. Rather, Warren stared at the saddle as if it posed some sort of a threat. He even slipped a hand over the belts that secured the saddle around the dragon, checking to make sure that they were well tied and there were no malfunctions. At that moment he completely forgot about Orien.


Patiently, Irene waited as Warren got onto the saddle, positioning himself at the back, and adjusted the strap of his traveling bag. His gloved hands gripped the saddle for dear life, the leather of the gloves stretched to show the knuckles beneath. Warren’s face had turned pale, all colour drained from his cheeks and lips.


Irene waited for Orien to climb onto the saddle and then followed suit, her movements fluid and confident, eager almost to get on top of the dragon. She did not so much as bump Orien or Warren with a knee or an elbow as she seated herself on the saddle.


Behind her, she could hear Warren’s shallow breaths.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Orien

Hardeep Passi

"I am fine with the arrangements," Orien said in an effort to spare Warren, who was clearly floundering. He didn't seem comfortable sitting on a dragon, either, which was a concern that Orien would have brought up in any other context. But Hardeep was already aboard Slytha and he was dead silent. Orien sighed and made his way up to the seat he had been given and they took off into the air with a firm kick from Hardeep.


Orien glanced down at the estate as they pulled away, watching the land grow smaller and smaller as they ascended. He could not see the faces of the people he had lived next to clearly, their bodies already moving as they went about the day. He watched as the great tower that was the main building rise up to greet them as Slytha made it up into the air and pelted forward, aiming for the mountains in the clear blue sky.


Orien wasn't sure what to do now, waiting patiently for any sort of conversation to crop up. In reality, however, he was probably the one best equipped to say anything at the moment.


"I heard about the fuss in the meal hall," Orien said finally. "I apologize for not being there to aid you in it. The servants believe what they want to."


Hardeep shifted in front of Orien and his eyes narrowed but he said nothing more as the hot wind washed over them.

 

[Lenaara]

The warm currents of the wind brushed against Irene’s skin as the dragon moved, spreading its wings, and then soared into the air. It sent a ripple of excitement through the woman’s chest and stomach, making the latter turn pleasantly at the feeling of being weightless. It was enough to make Irene forget about the lack of air in her lungs as the wind hit her in the face and chest, it was also enough to make her forget about the distance between the dragon and the ground below.


She had not realized how much she missed this feeling. The feeling of freedom. True freedom. To soar the skies, to feel the wind carry you up into the air from where you can see all that was below, all those golden desert sands and the mountains in the distance as you neared the clear blue sky and the sun’s bright beating disk that made the scales of the ever moving dragon gleam and glitter in the rays.


And then, Irene felt a tug on her waist and the force snapped her out of the daze.


Warren’s arms wrapped around the woman from behind, clinging to her for dear life as his fingers dug into the fabrics of the jacket and the tunic beneath. Irene stared at the armoured arms as if she did not believe that they, indeed, were wrapped around her frail body. She almost reached towards the man’s hands to pry them off before the realization hit her and Irene leaned back, one hand on the saddle and the other rested on her thigh.


“Are you afraid of heights?” She asked in surprise.


Warren had leaned so close to Irene that his chest was against her back, the metal plating hard against her shoulder blades. His face was hidden between his shoulder and Irene’s back, turned to the side and down to prevent himself from looking at the steadily moving away ground below.


“Are you not?” Warren’s voice was muffled and his grip tightened when the dragon beneath them moved its great wings once again.


“No. Not at all,” Irene replied calmly and looked to the side, eager to look over the dragon’s side. Warren’s hold, however, kept her still and when she leaned over the edge Warren pulled her back, his grip tightening.


“Don’t move,” he ordered.


Irene snorted but did not move. Warren continued to cling to the woman, though after a short while his grip had loosened and Irene was given a bit more freedom to look around and enjoy the hot wind against her skin and the way the loose clothing slapped against her body with each movement of the dragon beneath them.


When Orien spoke Irene felt Warren’s grip loosen until he no longer held the woman, but instead clung onto her clothing at the back.


“I took care of it,” Irene said with a shrug, to which Warren had hissed something behind her and tugged on her clothing. A silent command to stay still and not move. “The servants are toothless; it was a prank, nothing I can’t handle on my own.” Though I did drop your name. “The slaves at my…previous master had been much bolder.”


“What, they added dirt to your food instead of stones?” Warren spoke from behind, his voice trembling ever so slightly.


“No. They beat you up if you did not give your share of food to them.” Irene said coolly.


“Oh. That happened often?” The guard’s hold loosened on Irene’s clothing but continued to hold the back of her sash. The conversation distracted him enough to ignore his fear.


“Not after I broke the guy’s nose with my plate. Those slaves were much less civil than the ones in this homestead.” Irene’s gaze shifted from the sands flowing below them and she looked at Hardeep from above Orien’s shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, Orien. But I can handle a few servants. Had you been there, the effect would have been different.”


Warren was silent for a moment, the dragon turned, the current pushing the beast further up and the guard’s hold on Irene’s waist resumed.


“Did the others give you trouble, Orien?” Irene asked, aiming to resume conversation so that Warren would move back once more. The armour plating was painful against her back. “For helping me at the bathhouse.”

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Orien

Hardeep Passi

Orien said nothing as Hardeep turned his head to gaze out beyond the neck of Slytha, trying to see something in the distance. Orien himself was looking out to try and find the bright red scales of the dragon that Kydoimos flew; they had agreed to meet up before they made it to the mountain so that Galene could receive more protection. The usually chatty slave had been strangely quiet the few times Orien had seen her, making him assume that she was apprehensive about something, her eyes constantly flickering and her hands in fists. Or perhaps that was just the effect being so close to the eldest man in the Makhai family. Galene could not snap as easily to him without getting a fist to her head or her stomach or chest and the man made clear his disdain for her waggling tongue. He had called her colorful names before, his eyes rolling and his back straight. Galene could try to cut him down but Kydoimos always shushed her and Orien thought that was for the better; if Galene started a fight with the master, no matter how useful she was or how much the rest of the family wanted her around, she would be sold. Or beaten.


Or worse.


There were rumors that the reason Kydoimos was born was because that his mother hadn't even been aware that she had been with the master. There were rumors that their father performed heinous crimes, even by dragon rider standards, in the dead of night, where no one could see or hear him do so.


Another reason for Galene to keep quiet.


Orien was relieved to know that the girl was coming with them to the mountain; she would be out of arm's reach of the man and any of the other servants that thought a pretty little girl would make a good meal. Ahanti had told Hardeep and Orien had overheard that a few servants seemed bolder, more eager to break rules. They seemed more keen to steal, to take what was not theirs. Only Galene seemed the same, though a bit more cautious, especially with the shifting atmosphere.


It made Orien uneasy.


He had missed Irene's comments, too busy trying to find the red dragon. He only snapped back to her when he heard his name.


"They are what they are," Orien said calmly. A few older ones had attempted to "put him in his place" with their fists and feet and stinging blows but Hardeep had intervened, angry. They had scattered after that and he had regained his place as someone with the blessing of the dragon rider that owned all of them. Hardeep was fiercer, after all, with swords.


"They seem a bit more rowdy, but nothing has transpired," Orien said. "I was concerned that their anger and seeming growing dishonesty had led them to be bolder to you as well."


He had reason to believe that the incident with the older slaves and the mayhem that was starting to arise in the Makhai household were linked. Through Balin's death, through false courage through the death of riders, or something more he did not know.


Slytha, at that moment, turned sharply and craned her neck to dive downwards. "Hang on," Orien called over his shoulder as he gripped the sides of the saddle. A flash of red appeared on their left side and Orien turned to see Cordath diving next to them and a flash of armor on board.


After a few moments of diving, the dragons flung out their wings and rightened themselves, landing softly in the sand by beating up a storm to slow themselves.


Hardeep slid off easily, followed by Orien, who glanced behind to make sure the other two were alright.


"Come," he said, beckoning them, "let us see our neighbors for the rest of the time we are trapped on that damned mountain."

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

It had been an eventful few days for Galene. And a test to her will and whatever lessons of courtesy her parents had managed to cram into her mind before she was taken away to be a servant forever.


The bastard Yulink had glowered at her for days on end, his teeth gnashing together and his tongue loose from alcohol. He snapped at her, asked if she was warming Kydoimos' bed yet so that there could be another bastard to slather the Makhai name.


She had muttered that he was the bastard slathering the most mud over it to another servant who had gone red from trying to stifle their laughter.


Kydoimos seemed as irritated as she was, constantly glaring at their father who seemed to be more drunk than sober, slurring about this or that. She didn't understand most of his sentences anymore, speaking of times before and how glorious they were. She heard something about ruling the skies and the great fires that dragons could start being snuffed out now, and what a pity it was, wasn't it?


Galene had muttered about what a pity it was that his fire was now embers and that no one had bothered to grant him the mercy of being doused out and a slave had tutted at her while Kydoimos had bit their lip to avoid laughing.


The man had made it a point not to give her clothing, to send her off in sandals and linen tunics that would cause her to freeze. She knew the mountains, had hunted on them back home, and knew that they would not offer her protection or cover. They were black, for the love of Purbuk. She would appear like a sore thumb out in the mountainside. When she brought this up to the man, he had simply stared at her and snorted.


"You're already black, girl," he had snapped, "clothing won't help."


She had been tempted to break his goblet and stake him through the heart right then and there, but she had no where to run if she did besides out the window. Besides, he was a dragon rider. Even if he was a rapist like they murmured, he would get a burial, they would weep and wail.


Unjust.


Actune would be the only one that saw clear, but she was not in Vanguard and he had no clue of her customs, having taken her name, her clothes, her books, her nation away. He had tried to strip her clean, too, but she had bit back and he had relented. She was of royal blood, of blood that had been there from the beginning. Her house was ancient and he could uproot her but not take it away from her, not break her down. No one could.


The bitterness and anger did not subside as they left, her fingers digging into Kydoimos' hips as they rose up and up and up, staring down at Zyrell as he waved good bye to them.


"Relax," Kydoimos said. "You have flown before."


"It is not flying that I am so enraged about."


"Ah."


They understood.


"He is gone now."


"It is unfair that they have not attempted to kill him instead of Balin."


"It's because he's a lazy ass that they can't make the effort to kill because they need shock," Kydoimos offered.


"Shock? They wouldn't need shock; half the slaves and servants and riders would shake whoever killed Yulink's hand if he was assassinated. They would garner massive approval!"


"Don't say that."


Galene stared at the back of Kydoimos' head at that response. "You don't love him."


"I do not. But Balin died on a dragon which means that they saw him. Who says they cannot hear you?"


Galene fell silent, pressing her cheek to Kydoimo's back and sighing heavily. They let one hand go of the saddle and found one of Galene's pressing against it gently, their fingers moving to intertwine with hers.


"It will be alright," they murmured.


"Of course," Galene said sarcastically.


Kydoimos sighed, nudging Cordath along as Galene shifted so she was pressed against his back, the wind pulling at her hair. In truth, she wanted to be on a horse, riding across the fields, laughter ripping from her throat as her brothers chased her, always slightly too slow out of kindness or out of her skill. A dragon was like a horse, yes, cutting through the sky in a way that humans could not and she did not fear them. But a horse was what she had known for fifteen years until she had been plucked and placed in Crubia, where they had dragons, not horses.


After a moment, Kydoimos told her to hang on and her arms wrapped around their waist. Their hand had not moved from hers and squeezed as they dove downwards. She lifted her head and gazed at the purple shape next to them, both aiming for the ground.


Her heart was in her stomach and she laughed slightly at the sensation, her shoulders shaking and her head tossed back, the air gliding over her as the dragon cut through it.


Finally, they arrived and Galene slid off gracefully, detaching herself from Kydoimos and turning to look at Hardeep, who had a sack tossed over his shoulder.


"This is yours," he said crisply and Galene took it with thanks, opening it and pulling out thick close-toed shoes first, the same ones the others wore. She kicked off her flimsy sandals and put them on instead, shrugging on the jacket as well. She'd change fully elsewhere.


"Who did you bring?" she asked as Orien appeared and she waved to the other man.

 

[Lenaara]

Warren was shaking. Through his gloved hands and the metal plating attached to the leather of his armour, Irene could feel the man tremble in the seat as his grip on the woman in front of him tightened. The man was terrified and clung on to possibly the only person aside from Hardeep who did not mind being atop the dragon in the slightest. But even Warren’s shaking was not enough to distract Irene from the feeling of soaring through the air at great speed when the dragon dove down towards the ground.


Somehow it seemed too fast of a journey. At the back of her mind, Irene wished that they soared through the skies for a while longer, even if they were planning on making a stop to meet with someone else. But the mountains were still ahead and that meant more flying. It was enough to lift her spirits, even if for a moment.


Warren’s grip had brought uncomfortable memories. Memories that Irene wished to forget. Hisraad and Uma still appeared in Irene’s dreams, accompanied by the faces of the slaves who challenged her through the past two years. The past two nights she had not vomited her dinner out after waking up, covered in a layer of sweat, but the nightmares were there, haunting her mind. It would take a while to forget. But she will.


She had to forget. Only like that would escaping be possible.


So Irene did not say a thing to Warren as the guard loosened his trembling grip and waited for the man to dismount. One arm had been lifted to her face to protect from the disturbed sand. It flew up chaotically around them, a whirlwind of gold, and coated the riders with a thin dusty layer over their clothes and hair. While Warren dismounted, Irene had patted her clothes. Warren staggered off the back of the dragon with the grace of a farmer trying to fight a fencing master. Limbs trembling, arms flailing, face pale and devoid of colour. The moment his feet touched the ground he ground them further into the sand, as if afraid that the ground would vanish once again, and his knees shook. If not for Hardeep and Orien being nearby, Irene guessed, Warren would have fallen to the ground and kissed the sands.


Irene slid off the dragon, careful not to touch its scales, and landed softly onto the sand.


“Never,” Warren panted as his hands gripped the belts securing the dragon’s saddle, “speak of this to anyone.”


“Are you shamed?” Irene snorted, her hand sliding over her arm and patting off the sand from the sleeve of her jacket.


“I clung to you like a child would to a mother’s skirt. To you.” He looked away from the dragon and turned to Irene. “How can you be so calm? Do you realize how high up we were? How long of a fall it would have been? Dear ancestors, do you fear anything?”


Warren’s voice was trembling, tinted with fear. The shock had engulfed him, bringing him to be unusually talkative, perhaps as a way of forcing himself back to his usual calm state of mind.


“Is that what you wish to know of me? My fears? You did not ask for my name yet.” Irene slid a hand over her hair; it was matted with sand. The comb was embedded deep enough into her hair, as she had braided it differently in the morning – two thick braids going down from her temples and down, meeting at the base of her neck to turn into the thick braid that usually fell down between her shoulders and towards her hips, and beyond. The harsh wind current had loosened the bun and Irene reached up to free it.


“I was told of your name. Your calm attitude is bordering daftness, or a lack of personality.” Warren stepped away from the dragon and shook his head, akin to a dog, shaking out the sand that matted his dark hair in a dusty curtain.


“I enjoy your company too.” Irene said over her shoulder and followed Orien, her hands gliding over the braid that she pushed to the front, patting out the sand.


They followed Orien, Warren’s hands still trembling and the colour was beginning to return to his face. He stopped a few feet away from Orien, avoiding the other’s gaze, and bowed deeply in greeting to the rider atop of the red dragon. Irene had done the same, the bow not as deep and her hands still holding onto the braid. A greeting was muttered under his breath when Warren had noticed the other servant, and then he straitened to stand behind Orien and Hardeep, his hands clasped behind his back. Ever vigilant, even in the middle of nowhere.


A familiar voice floated to Irene’s ears and she straightened, tying the brittle end of the braid into a knot, her fingers working swiftly and with experience. She looked up and noticed the young servant, a girl whom she had met before in not most pleasant circumstances.


“Hello, Galene.” Irene looked up and seen Kydoimos, the one atop the dragon. It was hard to see during the descent, and she had caught but a glimpse of the ones seated atop the red dragon, the one behind the rider clung onto them, differently than how Warren held onto Irene for dear life. “Sir Kydoimos,” Irene added and inclined her head down once more, a sign of respect that held none of it. Her hands pushed the braid behind her back and began to coil it into a bun once again, tighter this time.


So, it was the odd duo – a slave with a chipper attitude and a rider who allowed it. At her side, Warren looked at Irene quizzically, no doubt wondering how Irene knew of Galene and Kydoimos.


“You’re the, ah,” Warren stuttered, a glance thrown at Orien, Hardeep and Kydoimos in turn, “new neighbours?” When the question was formed like that it sounded ridiculous.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

"Hello Irene," Galene said waving at the woman as she appeared. Galene's own hair was simply bunched up in the back in a ponytail, wisps of curls flying everywhere. She clearly either did not care enough or had given up. "It's nice to see you again, in one piece as well."


Kydoimos sighed on the back of the dragon, shaking their head tiredly. "We should hurry to the mountain."


"Hurry?" Galene asked, turning around to stare at them. "The mountain will be cold, colder than the desert for sure. There's no need to hurry and freeze our asses off."


"There is no need to delay here either," Hardeep said sharply. "Get back on your dragon."


Galene turned back around to look at Hardeep. "What's up with you?" she asked.


"I don't think now is a good time to ask that," Kydoimos said, motioning for Galene to once more get on the dragon.


"We need to make it to the mountain to set up camp and meet our guide," Hardeep said, staring levelly at Galene. "We will have time to organize duties up there."


Galene looked ready to say something else, but Orien shook his head slightly. For once, she obeyed and her mouth closed with a click.

Orien

Hardeep Passi

Hardeep was in a bad mood. One worse than when they had left and Galene, in her usual way, was starting to test him. Orien believed that Galene would never be felled by Hardeep's sword but that did not mean that harm would not come to her. The dragon rider seemed more antsy as the hours moved on and he was not about to deal with two infuriated dragon riders if something should happen to the other slave.


Galene turned to limb back on board Cordath, the dragon snorting a bit as Galene climbed her way into the saddle.


"We were just here to exchange items before we made it to the mountain," Hardeep explained to his party. "I've been told the individual on the mountain does not know how to speak our language, so we will need to spend as much time as possible dealing with that and I don't want any extra commotion. Let's go."


With that, Hardeep boarded Slytha once more, Orien rising an eyebrow in his wake but obeying as well. It all seemed rather pointless to him.

 

[Lenaara]

When Galene mentioned the mountain Irene arched a brow at the statement. Cold. That explained the clothing given to both her and Galene, and the furs draped over Hardeep’s armour. It was not the first time that she had thought the mountains to be unpleasant, surely colder than the desert, but the way Galene spoke indicated some knowledge of the place where they were headed. In her memories, Irene searched to find the location and ended up with several possible destinations. One of them being where she had spent half a year when she was a teenager.


Thankfully, Warren was standing behind Irene and did not notice the momentary change in the woman’s expression that showed recognition. The less the guard knew of her, the better. The man was suspicious enough as it was, watching Irene intently and cautiously. Even the way she slid off the dragon seemed to alert Warren.


Or maybe, the sane part of her mind spoke up, you’re being paranoid.


With the chance to escape being so close, the paranoia was not surprising.


While Hardeep boarded his dragon, Warren bowed once again and held onto his traveling bag tightly this time, lest it fell onto the sands. He straightened only to allow himself to turn, and bowed to Kydoimos as well before retreating towards Hardeep’s dragon, the usual marching steps less confident now. He would have blamed the sands, but everyone knew better – the man was reluctant to climb into the saddle.


Though no offer was given to change seats and give Warren the spot wedged between two people, as opposed to exposing his back to the nothingness that was the skies, Warren had thrown Irene a glare that she ignored and nodded at the dragon as a response. The guard looked up at the dragon, squared his shoulders, set his jaw, planted his feet on the sand as if to remember the feeling of solid ground, and climbed up into the saddle.


Irene followed with a slight shake of her head, already expecting to be grabbed the moment the dragon lifted into the air.


Her suspicions proved to be correct. Once the beast’s wings spread and the wind current lifted the dragon into the sky, fast and intent, flying up into the skies, Warren’s arms clasped around Irene so tightly she stifled a wince. The damn metal plating dug into her spine. The current was harsh and hot, pressing against the exposed skin of the riders, and Irene held onto the saddle and pressed her legs against the dragon’s side not to fall off the saddle. With Warren’s weight pulling her back, Irene’s muscles strained to remain a steel hold on the saddle.


Once the current no longer pressed against the riders and they were flying through the sky at a steady pace, high above the ground, Irene leaned back and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to hint that Warren could let go. He did not.


“Let me go,” she said calmly as she glanced at the guard over her shoulder. Warren did not reply and the grip did not loosen. Irene sighed inwardly and looked around, her gaze shifting over the passing golden sea of the sands, the blobs of colour that showed all sorts of settlements and fields. In the distance she had spotted a small oasis, its bright blue pool a bright dot of colour amidst the greenery that surrounded the source of water.


Time passed by slowly and Warren’s hold did not loosen. The silence did not help the situation, either. Usually Irene would not have minded the silence, and instead immersed in the view of the desert sands stretching over the horizon, but Warren’s hold had made it hard to enjoy anything. The guard needed a distraction, something that was enough to take his attention back from the feeling of nothingness between him and the ground below.


“Warren?” Irene asked as she looked down at a slowly passing beneath them field, its ground fertile and dark with freshly sewn seeds. “Do you know that many people think dragons to be a myth?”


It was the best thing she could come up with, the only topic that did not in any shape or form point to her background. Dragons. It seemed appropriate to talk about them, seeing as they were flying on top of one, and she wished not to disturb memories of years ago, searching for some amusing story to tell just so Warren would stop trembling in the saddle.


Warren remained silent, but he did not tell her to be quiet, either. So, Irene continued.


“I heard many stories of how dragons came to be. People talk, you know. Especially traveling merchants.” The field below gave way for another, a much smaller one, with a windmill built before it to stand adjacent to the farmer’s estate. “It all depends which religion you’re looking at, I suppose. One of the merchants, this thin man from far east, tried to impress me with a story that his family have been dragon hunters in the previous generations, when dragons roamed the sky in flocks and blocked out the sun. He claimed that dragons were beings created from primeval forces, namely fire. Rising from the embers of the dying fires, the mighty beings roamed the sky, terrorizing the creatures of intellect that lived below, using primeval fire’s strength to burn everything in their path. Then his family, whose name I cannot remember Mountain help me, grew tired of the oppression and rose against the beasts and hunted them to extinction.”


Irene paused for a moment, glancing at Orien and Hardeep ahead. Neither seemed to have reacted much to the story that spoke of the death of the ones they considered almost sacred. Warren had taken the pause as a que to speak and he shifted, loosening his grasp on the woman’s waist by an inch.


“He lied. There are many dragons,” she heard him grumble the words under his shallow breath.


“So I’ve seen. That man was so proud of his legacy. Claimed to have a grand armchair made of a dragon’s head.”


“Barbarian,” Warren said.


Irene snorted. “Barely. A short man he was; barely reached my waist. Had the story been true, he would have gotten lost in the armchair. His mount was a pony for a reason.”


The attempt at humour – as dry as it sounded – paid off and Warren released the grip even more, his shoulders jerking up as he chuckled under his breath, a barely audible sound against the wind currents. He did not say anything, however, and Irene continued.


“Another claimed that dragons were beings made by his God. He was very religious, you see. Apparently, his God had created the dragons from clay and fire, and gave them the task of guarding the human nations from outside forces. Realizing the corruption within the nations, God ordered the dragons to turn against their charges and burn everything to ash. This would have given the God a clean slate to build new territories, where corruption and greed would not exist. After having completed their task, the dragons left, as they, too, were corrupted by greed, and scoured all surrounding territories for wealth and riches.”


“Huh,” Warren muttered.


“There was this another man, a colleague of my—“ she cut herself off before she uttered charge, “acquaintance a few years back. He advocated the idea that dragons were ancient forms of today’s lizards and snakes. That man was adamant about the idea that dragons had become extinct due to their environment being changed drastically by humans. They drove away all the prey, made the beasts change environment and grow low in numbers. Truthfully, I doubted the existence of the dragons until I have seen one.”


“These theories sound like ramblings of either religious fanatics or crazed philosophers to me.” Warren’s weight against her back shifted. Good. He had sat back and clutched at Irene’s sash at the back with one hand, the other snaked around the side of the saddle.


“All stories told to me were about the same. Bad dragons hunting good humans, or good dragons turned bad by human greed.”


“Where did you hear all this?”


“I was not born into slavery, but sold into it. I met many people.” Irene glanced back to see Warren staring at her, his eyes dark beneath the furrowed brows.


“Barbaric people?”


“Those too.” She looked away from Warren, thinking it was a mistake trying to lift his spirits. The man was distracted, alright, by the woman whom he suspected of murder even more it seemed.


Hours passed by.


The sun continued to beat down upon them, warming the riders as they were enveloped in the cool currents high above. Warren did not cling to Irene anymore and did not speak for the longest time. They spoke at some point again, asking Irene something about the estate where she was bought from. The guard’s questions were given one sentence’s replies and mostly consisted of Yes or No answers. After about half an hour of weeding the information out of the woman – how she worked in the fields, what food was given, was it good, did anyone stop by the estate for long periods of time, where was she bought from, and more – Warren gave up, not getting anything of importance. Fieldwork was harsh; food was given, it was enough; yes, and no; Nuru. Perhaps the story hour at the beginning of the flight had given Warren false hope that Irene would share more of her background with him, enough to piece together enough evidence to use against her in proving her involvement in Balin’s murder. Times of stories shared was long past. Maybe once, Irene would have changed topics, entertained Warren with some story of another just to keep his mind off from putting together accusations. As it was, she was silent and either ignored Warren’s questions altogether or gave him answers that he himself could deduct.


By the end of the day, when the sun was setting and colouring the sky a vivid blood orange colour, the mountain was towering before them. Its peaks were covered in snow, with a forest of evergreens breaking the white carpet, and smaller settlements littered the mountain surface here and there. It looked familiar, with its grand forests and snowy peaks, dark lakes and miniature villages. Irene had been here before, fifteen years ago. She only hoped that no one remembered the passing by skilled warrior in his late thirties and a young girl of twelve years of age traveling with the man, both clad in purple fabrics and both carrying short spears. They stayed in some of the villages – the names of which she could not recall – for a number of months before continuing beyond the mountains.


“Are we to stay here?” Irene asked as she pulled the jacket closer to her body. The air had become chilly, cold biting her skin even through the thicker fabric.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Li Ming Xia

Li Hui Hua


Mentioned

<<They are coming soon,>> her mother told Ming Xia. She was seated around a camp fire she had created, staring into it absentmindedly.


<<Yes, mother.>>


<<You should prepare.>>


<<I have.>>


Her mother walked over to examine her appearance. Ming Xia lifted her head up to stare at her levelly. She had recently spotted a rather large bear, moving towards its slumbering den in order to rest for the rest of the winter and had followed it silently into the cave, waiting for it to fall into slumber before slinging an arrow at its neck and scrambling up into the nearest tree, where she waited for it to follow her to about halfway up before firing another arrow into its left eye, causing it to be disoriented and fall. The impact had clearly shattered a few bones and it had lay there, still. Ming Xia had watched carefully before making her way down, a dagger drawn and prepare to take more action if necessary. But its chest was still and she made quick work of it, skinning it as quickly as possible and moving fast to create a pelt, knowing that the scent of a large felled beast would make the true monsters begin crawling out to feast.


She had taken with her a few limbs to use as meat, wrapping them in dried deer skin and bringing them to her campsite where she had pulled out a container of salt that she carried in her large pack with all the other items she could not very easily put on her self when she went hunting. Her pack was usually slung over one of the highest branches she could reach or climb to, making it more difficult for thieves to get to, not to mention more difficult to see.


<<You have a pelt and meat,>> her mother said. <<For yourself.>>


<<I was told I would be receiving only a few people.>>


<<A few dragon riders, Little Flower. They will no doubt bring with them slaves and guards.>>


Ming Xia was silent.


"Bastards," she spat and her mother frowned at her, her hands folding over her chest.


<<I know it when you swear in their language.>>


<<They still are,>> Ming Xia said, a scowl slowly etching its way across her face. <<They need to be explicit.>>


Her mother was prepared to say something when she turned her head and pointed. Ming Xia turned around and spotted two shapes coming for them. One was red and another a dull purple.


<<Dragons.>>


Ming Xia grunted her agreement and turned around to stare at those she would be forced to care for, folding her own arms over her chest. She was ill equipped to deal with so many people, not because she could not hunt for them.


It was just that there were so many people. And her patience had never been long-lasting.

Galene

Kydoimos Makhai

As they neared the mountain, the conversation and light banter between Kydoimos and Galene gradually grew stale. They were still mulling over the decision to let them, and them alone, leave. Galene could only think how foolish it was to come here, with little more than a jacket. She had not been on the mountains in so long, not since she had been taken from her home, but she still remembered the thick pelts and furs her parents would layer upon her when they went to visit the edges of life. Galene knew the biting cold of snow and winter in the mountain, knew that horses sometimes froze where they stood if they were not warmed properly. She could only imagine what happened to dragons, that burned of fire, when they were exposed to the chill.


Dragons. Did the people in the mountains here know of them? Back where she came from, in Vanguard, they did not. Dragons were fables, old legends that people whispered to their children. She had been told that they were the creations of Osla at first, great winged beasts that roved the sky until Enreus found them and seized them, infusing his own rage and desire to conquer and turned them into flaming beasts which were then banished by Osla. They had been thrown into the darkness to ride beside Enreus, to be burned by the sun and be pummeled by the moon.


Until they had come again, with flames of fire. They had come to Vanguard and scorched the land with mouths of flame and people on the backs of them and it had felt like a dream, like watching Enreus appear in the sky and destroy.


Galene did not know who had escaped and what had been repaired. She could only remember a hand seizing her and pain before waking up in a slaver's cart, crammed between two others who were weeping and dying like she was.


She had not thought of the mountains in so long, not since she had given up the hope of leaving when only dragons could fly far enough to bring her home.


It loomed before her, chilling and unmoving. It did not flinch when the dragons came to it nor did it bow to the riders. Galene could see others already there, the movement of great shapes within the barren land above the trees.


For a brief moment, Galene almost thought she could go home, away from the blistering sands.


But she wore so little and the cold was so harsh that she knew she could not, that her name had been torn from her and flung to the winds, that her silks were probably burned and her house as well. If any of her family lived, it would be a miracle.


They landed in what felt like a biting hail, the wind harsher and colder as they dove downwards. It was cruel and had nails that dug into her skin and ripped it apart and screamed in her ears as they arrived.


Cordath billowed fire towards the sky once they did, his tail lashing across the snow. Kydoimos shouted at the beast as Galene rolled off, yanking out the thicker linen dress and pulling it on top of her clothing. She had forgotten the chill.


The dragon continued to bellow and rain ashes down upon them and she moved, eager to get away from the creature not used to the chill. She noted a campfire up ahead and moved towards it, spotting two figures standing by it. Both were taller than her and covered in various furs and pelts, their feet in pale boots and a bow slung on the back of one. She could see leather ropes and bindings holding knives and daggers into place and she paused before them.


One seemed tired and old, dark circles underneath her eyes and her hair limp against her face. Her mouth was thin and unsmiling and her eyes seemed to speak of some dark other that they had seen.


The other seemed like a middle-aged mother, smiling when she spotted Galene and turning to search through a large tanned pack behind her, producing what appeared to be a thick black pelt.


Galene accepted it graciously and tossed it over herself, smiling at the woman and nodding in appreciation, unsure of what to say. Would she understand what she said?


Before she could make any more movements, the snow crunched behind her and she turned to see Hardeep and his group hurrying towards her, Kydoimos in tow. Slytha and Cordath had vanished again, but a gust of cool wind told Galene that the dragons had taken off once more, to reach the skies and the warm sun.


The flame sputtered and the taller individual swore loudly, turning and tending to it immediately. Galene tilted her head at her and spoke cautiously.


"Hello, my name is Galene."


She received only a grunt in response.

Orien

Hardeep Passi

It was cold.


Much colder than what Orien had thought.


Galene had not been lying when she said there was no need to hurry. The sun had already set and the chill was biting as Slytha dove to a landing, the usual warm rush of air freezing and feeling like the gods were spitting at him. He turned his head and pressed it against Hardeep's back to avoid the blasing wind but it still pulled at his hair, whipping it back. Hardeep shouted something as Slytha landed next to Cordath, who seemed greatly unhappy.


Slytha joined her companion in billowing at the sky and Orien scrambled off quickly, glaring up at the creature.


"It's too cold," Hardeep shouted. "They will not live here."


"Send them to the sky," Orien offered. "Let them enjoy the sun for at least a little."


Hardeep stared at him for a second before sliding off and unfastening the supplies, tossing them at Orien to carry. Irene was handed nothing but Warren was given a few. Hardeep and Kydoimos slung a few bags over their own shoulders, Galene having already run ahead.


The dragons tossed themselves into the air the second they were able to, kicking up dirt and twigs and stone and chill. The wind around their wings made Orien's teeth chatter and whipped across his skin. It was cold. Much colder than he was used to.


"Come," Hardeep said. "We must hurry."


This time, Orien knew why and walked quickly towards the small fire and the three figures standing around it. Galene had found some dark pelt to drape over her shoulders and offered a side of it to Orien. He shook his head, causing her to frown but turn back to the one kneeling before the fire, poking at it.


"I Hardeep Passi," Hardeep said, his sentence simple and causing Galene to raise an eyebrow. "Here to stay."


A grunt was the only response they got. The other woman standing may have offered a response, but was staring at Irene, her head tilted and her mouth in a thin line. Her eyebrows were scrunched together and her eyes narrowed, as if trying to conjure up an image or memory.


"Need warmth," Hardeep offered after his first few sentences garnered little response.


He received the same reply.

 

[Lenaara]

Wind bit Irene’s skin relentlessly during the descent.


Orien and Hardeep had taken the blunt of the hail, as Irene only felt a few stray icy needles touch her exposed skin. At her back, Warren clung onto Irene’s sash with one hand and waist with the other, seemingly careful not to wrap his arms around her any longer. Still, he hunched forward and tensed up, and had Irene looked back she would have seen him wincing as if from pain, with his eyes tightly shut and lips pursed.


When the air had stopped pushing against her, threatening to push her off the saddle, the cold was felt more prominently. It was freezing, a numbing touch against the exposed skin of her neck, hands and feet. All consuming it was, wrapping around the riders in a thick blanket of icy hail and howling wind. But Irene had little time to even acknowledge the cold, as the dragon beneath them billowed at the sky in discomfort.


Warren’s grip released on Irene’s sash and the man slid off the dragon, landing with a loud clank onto the ground. He lost his balance, slipping on the half frozen mud, and stumbled forward until he fell onto both of his knees and hands. Losing face did not bother Warren in the least, however, as he had been panting heavily, his breath gathering in misty plumes before his face.


“Thank the ancestors, we’re on solid ground,” Irene heard Warren mutter when she slid off the dragon and landed softly onto the ground.


While Warren helped Hardeep unload the items from the dragon, Irene pulled the linen jacket closer to herself, pushing the collar all the way up to her jaw, and hid her hands beneath the long sleeves that she had rolled up before. Irene stood beside Orien and Warren, who were given supplies to carry, and waited for her share. She was given none.


It was an odd change. Had this been Hisraad, Irene would have been given most of the supplies to carry.


She did not protest or offer to carry something, however. It was best that Hardeep continued to view Irene weak – if he even had any opinion formed of her – and frail; as someone who could not have killed Balin, or capable of running away.


The harsh gust of wind that hit their backs as the dragons flew up into the skies made Irene frown and turn to her side to make herself into a much smaller target. It was getting progressively colder, so she looked around to spot any shelter or a campfire.


There was one a short distance away, a bright orange dot that lit the environment in a warm and welcoming light. With her arms still wrapped tightly in the jacket, Irene headed towards the fire.


“It helps if you move,” Irene said as she stopped by Orien, “to retain warmth.”


A shadow moved behind them, armour gleamed and reflected the tongues of flames. Warren had halted to a stop as well, placed the supplies given to him down onto the ground, and pulled out the blanket from under his traveling bag. He offered the blanket to Orien.


“I don’t need it,” Warren began, his face pale and damp from the melting hail. “It’s warm in this,” he tapped against his chest plate, “so I thought…I thought you’d need this more.” He was getting progressively better at talking, Irene noticed. Or, maybe, the cold distracted the guard enough to let him speak without stumbling as much for words.


Irene stepped closer to the fire, attracted by feeling its warmth spread through the air. At her side, Galene had wrapped herself in a dark pelt of thicker fur. Across the fire, through the curtain of hail, Irene looked into the forest. Shadows drifted within it, the canopy of evergreens and bare branches of oaks and willows moving and creaking with each gust of wind. It was almost…good to see a forest once again. To feel anything but the scorching sun against her skin or the sand beneath her feet and hands. To feel her hair and exposed skin damped when hail melted upon contact with the warm body. Irene was sure that the pleasant feeling of nostalgia would pass soon – when the cold would creep under her clothes and seep into her bones – but for now, she enjoyed the change, the traveling.


When Irene shifted her gaze from the forest she looked around the clearing to spot a village or at least some huts. There were none. Only the clearing, with nothing but forest and damp ground and snow all around.


Hardeep spoke, slowly and carefully, and Irene looked at the ones to whom he was speaking to, as if they were some sort of uneducated peasants. The younger one, crouching by the fire, was obscured by the flames and Irene could only see the dark hair and the pelts wrapped around the body of the wearer. The other one—


Mountain bury me under a landslide.


The face of the middle-aged woman tugged at Irene’s memory, aiming to pair the face up with a name long forgotten. Last time Irene had seen this woman was over a decade ago, when Irene was but a child who was eager to train and prove that she could beat her uncle in a sparring match. Back then, this woman by the fire struck Irene as beautiful bordering gorgeous, with strong features and an equally strong personality. Even Leon was stricken by that woman, his expression and voice softened when he spoke of her. What was her name?


Hui Hua, her mind remembered.


They stared at one another, one with an expression of curiosity and caution. The other, with a set jaw and tense shoulders. Irene’s eyes widened at the realization that this woman had recognized Irene, or in the very least was close to.


Should I speak to her?


The snow melted beneath Irene’s feet, seeping into the flimsy shoes given to her. The thin clothing did little to ward off the cold and Irene felt shivers run up her arms and back on spidery legs. Perhaps, having Hui Hua recognize Irene was not that bad of a thing. Fifteen years ago even Irene had little idea whom she wanted to be upon reaching adulthood. Reminding this woman of their past might prove useful.


“Hui Hua?” Irene’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire. A wary glance was thrown at Hardeep, as if making sure that she was allowed to speak. The two by the fire did not seem to have paid any attention to his words.


<<Do you,>> she searched for the right words of the language not used in years, <<remember me? Leon daughter, Irene. Stay here,>> she counted in her mind the right number of years to make sure that the word used was correct, <<fifteen summers back.>>


Unconsciously, Irene moved the collar of her jacket closer to her neck to hide the slave’s collar, ashamed of its presence.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Li Ming Xia

Li Hui Hua

Ming Xia was ignoring the people attempting to speak with her, more focused on nudging the fire back into full flame. They could wait, after all. They needed her; she would rather not have them around and at the moment, they were being irritating, speaking to her as if she was slow or dull. Did they think that she did not know their language? That their words were foreign to her? How do they think she was chosen for this task? She tsked beneath her breath; they were all idiots, assuming that because she did not fly great beasts or sit in towers made of stiff rock, she was stupid or uncultured or barbaric or whatever it was that they wanted to call her. She had heard a few traders mutter words to her that they thought she could not understand, remarking how dull she was or how plain. Her mother was called different words that twisted beauty into something to spit out, something to make fun of. Her mother always handled it with the back of her hand meeting their cheeks sharply, blazing eyes and sharp knives reminding them that she could hear them, that she could survive in the harshness while they could not.


Ming Xia noted that the first girl had turned to a man in armor with a shield etched onto his chest and offered a part of the bear fur. He stepped into it graciously, removing the pack from his shoulders and pressing up against the smaller girl, who shuddered and snapped at him because of the cool armor.


She rolled her eyes. Idiots.


Another armored man had turned to another that seemed rather lightly clothed and offered blankets. The armored man received a gentle, "Thank you, Warren. I didn't expect it to be this bad by any means."


The one named Hardeep turned to stare, frowning at the scene. Ming Xia kept to herself, huddled by the fire and continued poking it without any indication that she was aware of what was happening.


It was then that the woman among them spoke, in a harsh, grating way of their language.


Hui Hua straightened up, as if remembering.


<<Ah yes, Irene,>> she responded. <<I do remember, yes. You were just so much shorter and smaller than before. Well, this one was too,>> her mother said, nudging Ming Xia's back with a foot, causing her to glare up at the older woman. <<Perhaps you remember my youngest daughter? I do remember I attempted to hand her over to you several times; it is difficult to slay beasts while a child is constantly screaming for you.>>


Ming Xia stood up then, turning around to face the crowd, the fire finally roaring. She tilted her head at the woman named Irene, trying to place the name and face.


<<Leon was your father?>> Hui Hua asked, sounding surprised. <<I would not have guessed. I thought he was your mentor, teacher. Forgive me, but you two didn't look anything alike," she continued, and laughed a little as if it was a joke.


The other members of the ground were shifting, staring at the woman in confusion. The first girl spoke; "What's going on? Do they need more firewood? Is that one pissed at Hardeep already?"


Ming Xia turned her head to look at the girl, who only waved her fingers, barely noticeable above the dark pelt. "Hello," she said cautiously.


Ming Xia turned her head back to Irene and said nothing.


<<I am surprised to see you here again, among the riders. Is one of them your charge?>>


Ming Xia raised an eyebrow at that language. Charge. As in someone to protect? That could not be. Even though she was wearing many furs, Ming Xia could tell the woman was not a warrior, at least not anymore. Her shoes were far too thin and the amount of clothing she wore was not enough if she intended to dart into the forest. If the woman had been there before, as her mother had said, then she had long since forgotten the ways of the mountain.


Or perhaps, her next words would be a lie.