Buried madness into his skin.
Forced him into acts against his will.
Chained him into apathy.
My Kailorien.
My Resh’Agar.
But open war is useless in Krystopolis. The Doctrine is too vast to be burned out. The Flaeme holds souls and minds captive. The Reskala aretoo numerous, even for my magic. I am only a grain of sand in a vast desert.
But not for long.
I will claim my voice atop this tower of madness. I will find a way to show I am not small. I will break the silence.
And so, for now, I chant.
Hours and hours pass in mindless prayer. I lose myself within the ebb of flow of the words. A numbness takes hold. Almost comforting in its oblivion.
My body aches. The heat from the Estâr has not subsided. If anything, it’s grown sharper, heavier. Different, this time, from all the other decades I’ve endured it. I do not know if the ritual broke something inside me or if the affliction worsened suddenly when the Bond was rekindled with Kailorien’s return.
But ithurts.
It dulls my senses.
My mind drifts, and in this fog, I allow Lu’ma to lead me back to the Resh’Agar’s abode.
My friend.
Another soul I must protect.
A fragment of light I must guard against the dark.
She helps me rest on a stool, moving with quiet precision as she pulls the ceremonial gown from my body pin by pin, button by button. It must be returned to the Crafters at the Prismatum. All of the Sokâr’s dresses are borrowed, never owned.
When it is done, Lu’ma wipes sweat from my brow with a cool cloth. She says nothing, but I sense the tension in her body. As she braids my hair, her movements are practiced. Soothing.
I run my fingers along the golden braid at my shoulder.
Thessia…you swore you would find me, and I have sworn to carry this until I can return it to you. What would you say if you saw me now? Would you laugh at my weakness?
No. Never. She would clap a hand on my shoulder and tell me to keep fighting. Keep walking. Even if each step weighs more than I can bear.
Beside me, Lu’ma signs, ‘Your Radiance, will you go to the Temple in such a state? Your Radiance is unwell.’
I nod. “Yes. I must. Please bring my other gown and shoes. I will go without delay.”
She nods her head and helps me don another formal dress. The only one I truly own. Her hands are gentle but firm as she pulls the aged fabric over my shoulders. The fabric whispers as it slides down my arms—worn well past its prime. The stitching near the hips has come undone again. Lu’ma had tried to fix it the night before. Her fingers were deft with thread, but not perfect, and the hem pulls to the left. Unsightly in Krystopolitan standards, but it will have to do for now until my stipend is distributed.
One Gleam could buy another gown, though I am in dire need of more. I’dbeenin dire need for some years now. Months ago, I’d prepared all the necessary documentation to motion for a stipend increase. But I cannot present it unless I speak at Council. And I wasn’t ready. Wasn’t certain I had all the right pieces in play to stage a coup.
Now, I’ve grown tired of waiting.
Now, they will hear me whether they wish to or not.
I close my eyes at a wave of dizziness, bracing my palms on the stool beneath me. My head throbs with that slow, drumming heat. Relentless. Draining. My skin feels too tight for my bones, and sitting upright takes all of my strength.
Another flurry of gestures from Lu’ma. ‘Your Radiance is too warm.’
