Through his eyes, I saw Syllavar as it truly was. Not a broken, struggling realm of uneasy council reports and looming death, but a living, breathing entity. Gardens flourishing in hidden valleys. People moving through torchlit streets. Children sleeping in beds that would never be raided by people seeking to extinguish their magical talent.
The burden of leadership lifted as I soared with my companion,his joy becoming mine. In our shared consciousness, I didn’t have to be King Trewyn, last scion of a dying bloodline.
I could simply exist.
Memories crowded in, trying to steal what little joy I could find in flight.
My father falling, blood spreading across his chest. My mother soon after, wasting away as a curse ate through her, her magic turning inward until nothing remained but hollowed skin and bones.
I pulled back from the memory, focusing on Gavelle as he flew and flew and flew, traveling farther than I could on foot in a day. And I coasted with him, absorbing the feel of the air, the scents, and the precious happiness I only found in these moments.
Finally, the cinderhawk banked, circling the southern quadrant where corruption had taken hold. Even from this height, I could feel the scars on the blackened land, the twisted, scorched trees with branches scraping upward.
The wasteland was being dragged across random parts of my kingdom by Skathes. This was the price of war and magical backlash, the physical manifestation of wounds that had never healed.
Gavelle started flying home, pausing when he was distracted by a thin heat trail below.
Catch the mouse if you want,I urged, and he dove down…
I broke the connection, returning to my own senses. Gavelle would feed and eventually return to me. By then, I would’ve completed a few more tasks.
I left my room, striding through the empty halls.
The armory smelled of leather and oil, stone and magic. Torches burned low, casting long shadows across workbenches where weapons and armor rested in various stages of completion.
Naveah looked up from her work as I entered, immediately setting aside the hood she was stitching. At sixty, she was the finest leatherworker in Syllavar, having crafted my father’s armor and now mine.
“Your Majesty.” She inclined her head. “An unexpected honor at this hour.”
“I require custom leathers.”
If she found the request unusual, her face betrayed nothing. “Specifications?”
“Female. About this tall.” I made a chopping motion a touch below my shoulders. “Thin but a muscular build.” I handed her a slip of paper with the measurements I’d estimated from observation. “Reinforced at the joints and vital areas. Full mobility is essential. I’ll eventually require five of your best sets but one from stock will do for now.”
Naveah raised a brow. “This is the first time you’ve asked for clothing for anyone other than yourself. Who is she?”
I didn’t answer.
“Fighting leathers, then.” Her spine stiffening, she studied the paper. “These won’t fit Kira.”
“I imagine they won’t.” I drilled her with my gaze until she looked away.
I was crafting protection for a woman who didn’t trust me. She would laugh if she knew I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I was going to give them to her anyway.
“Only the highest quality materials,” I stated.
Naveah nodded, already moving toward the cabinets lining the back of the large room. “I have some in viscalar hide that would suit. Supple but nearly impenetrable.”
“Excellent. Bring them for my inspection.”
As she sorted through the shelves full of battle clothing, I ran my fingers over the engraving on a small dagger lying on the counter. Exceptional.
She returned and laid the full set of leathers beside the dagger.
I examined them. Soft enough to allow fluid movement, but reinforced enough to turn a blade if struck at anything but the perfect angle.
