“I am a relic,” she says. “Broken. Unwanted. My journey with the Gliders ended long ago. I now live formyself. For knowledge.” She glances over her shoulder. “Do cease your pretenses, Rö. I am not the reason you remain here, and you know it well.”
She pauses in her movements, flexing her wings as though considering her next words carefully.
“The magic of the violet ribbon holds you tethered.”
I say nothing. Over centuries, I have learned. Silence is safer than truth.
Zora huffs softly.
“You felt it before you entered the city,” she continues, her blue eye brightening until it glows. “The pull of the Riven's vow. The heir is lost, but the magic holds.”
"Not lost," I correct her. "But the ribbon was not given freely."
I feel no surprise at how she reads into my mind. The Skywhisperer is a gift to the Nestings. A child of the four winds. Only one is born in a single lifetime. An old soul. Anything Elendria has seen rests within her mind as knowledge. In my time, I have known her predecessors. Though they have never been quite as rebellious as this one.
She turns to face me.
“You pretend otherwise,” she says, “but I have watched you circle the Sokâr like a storm bird that refuses to land.”
My wings shift against the rock at the implication.
“You watch her. For years now, you have left my side—the one you profess to guard—so you may track her steps.”
My grip on my glaive tightens.
“You follow her through the districts. Through the Commons. Through the temples.” Zora tilts her head, studying me. “Did you believe I would not notice when the Riven suddenly took an interest in the habits of a dying star?”
“She carries my vow, but it is not hers to hold.”
Zora snorts. “At last. Some truth from one who cannot lie. But remember, Rö, truth is what we make of it. Your words are bound in the chains of your belief. The vow does not make you right, only opinionated."
The glow in her eye dims, and she turns away from me. We continue our march, emerging in a ward chamber—or what remains of one. Runes fracture the walls, their ancient geometry cracked and powerless. An etched circle at the chamber’s center has been blasted apart, shardsof carved stone scattered across the floor like bone fragments in the wake of a hammer blow.
I crouch, running my hand across one broken glyph. The mana is gone. Hollow. The blast reached even this far, pulling from the earth's reserves.
"They have created an abomination with this magic," Zora says. "Your people."
"They areyours, too, Skywhisperer."
She shakes her head, her feathers flaring. "They are not. Especially not after this."
Bitterness in her words. Frustration. Though I am not invested in the wellbeing of these Glasswalkers, I cannot help but agree. The magic in the air tastes of the Sky, though I have never seen anything like it on this scale. Whoever worked with the Solutus this day took many lives without reason. This goes against the teachings of the Nestings. Battle is for warriors, not Crafters and merchants.
"Go home, Riven," Zora says, pausing at a turn in the winding passage. "Your presence here will only make things more difficult."
“The ribbon belonged to the Lioness,” I remind her. “I am sworn to protect the wearer.”
“And so you shadow the Sokâr like a thundercloud,” Zora mutters.
“She wears it openly.”
“Yes.”
“As though it were a trophy taken from the field of combat.”
Zora folds her arms.
“Or perhaps,” she says mildly, “it wasgiven, and she wears it as memory.”
