I was born for Skyshire.
Or maybe I’m exactly where I should be, after all, I may be a fae, but what place does a low-magic fae have amongst high lords?
“Is everyone unhurt?” Marvin calls, turning in a small circle as he takes us all in. I don’t know what he plans to do if we say that we are wounded. None of us here are paladins who are blessed with powerful healing abilities.
If there were a paladin here then that templar wouldn’t have died, but alas it seems all the holy servants are busy elsewhere. Fitting. Just like their Maker.
I reach down, rubbing at an area where the vine tore through my pants leg. My skin is a little red underneath, but what makes me the most upset is the tear. I don’t have nearly enough clothes that I can afford going around tearing them up.
I straighten, frowning when I see Byron is watching me. “What?” I demand.
He blinks. “Just making sure that you’re all right.”
“As all right as I can be all things considered,” I reply with a shrug. “You?”
“I suppose I don’t have much of a right to complain considering a man lost his life today. I’m far better off than he is now.”
“He’s in the arms of the Maker now,” Marvin says in a low tone. He is kneeling next to the girl and appears to be fussing on a light scrape on her wrist.
I glance at Byron, wondering his opinion on the matter. The way I see it, a lot of people either cherish and revere the Maker or have major abandonment issues from him. There is seldom an in between and what does exist is usually walked by the fae who believe themselves superior to needing a god to guard their steps.
“You’re assuming that he found the Maker,” Byron says sharply, which I suppose answers my question. He is in the abandonment issues department. “But I hope wherever he wound up he is at peace now.”
“Not that he deserves it,” the damsel says with a loud sniff and drawing our surprised glances her way. “The man failed in his duty and went off and died when I needed him. I could have been killed!”
“And yet here you are. Alive and complaining and he’s bled out beside a cave likely to become the meal of a bear… assuming the cultists don’t desecrate his body in one of their rituals. So, I don’t think that you really have a right to complain,” I reply sharply.
“It was hisdutyto protect me. His dying neglected that duty.”
I fold my arms as I stare her down. “How inconsiderate of him.”
Byron cuts me a hard look. “You’re not helping,” he whispers.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be helping so I settle for just glaring right back.
Marvin finishes tying off a bandage around the girl’s wrist. “Can you tell us your name?”
“Indeed, I am Istaria Everfair.” She replies primly, smoothing out her skirts although a second later the wind that seems to exist only where she is begins blowing again.
“This definitely looks like the works of dark magic,” Marvin says leaning toward her. He lifts a hand as if to touch the strand of hair that seems to be floating on its own.
Istaria moves back, her perfectly straight little nose wrinkling. “Oh really? Was it that occult ritual that gave it away?”
“Why were those cultists after you, do you think?” Marvin asks gently, not seeming to be bothered at all by her sharp words.
She sniffs loudly, raising a trembling hand to her face. I think a better question would be to ask what they were doing to her. Her hair and clothes are still blowing as if affected by wind, but the rest of the forest is still. It’s somewhat unsettling to behold. “I have no idea. I was simply traveling to meet my betrothed when they attacked us, killed my guard, and dragged me into their lair. I wasn’t there for too long before you arrived.”
“Your…. Betrothed?” Marvin asks, choking on his words. It’s the only thing that she has said that actually seems to have phased him. Odd considering all the other utter nonsense that has come from her.
She nods once, glancing down at her nails, which are of course perfectly long and rounded. “I am to marry Lord Menavillion.”
This causes me to choke. “Lord Menavillion?”
She looks up, narrowing her eyes. “Is there a reason that you two keep repeating everything I say?”
Byron leans closer to her, resting his forearm on his knee. “I believe they’re just surprised. You see, my family actually has had dealings with Lord Menavillion in the past. I was traveling to the Gilded Academy in the hopes of becoming one of his knights, actually.”
I stiffen at Byron’s words. They land only a little gentler than a physical blow. I knew that Byron was aiming for Menavillion. With his history with the fae, it wouldn’t make sense for him to try to become the knight of a different high lord. Yet hearing my suspicions confirmed only serves to make me feel as if I’ve been stabbed in the stomach. And the knife was then twisted.
