Day 41 of the Suns season, year 2447

“Zé, are you all right? You never came back,” quavered Fayne. “I had to try on my own!”

The silver-haired teenage girl shook her head in disappointment.

“No, no! You know it’s better if I do it. They won’t dare chop my hand off for stealing. Worst case, I’ll get a sermon from my parents or Arlien.”

It was never just a sermon, but it wasn’t worth worrying Fayne with.

“I know,” said her friend, her gaze low.

“Please, next time, just wait for me.”

“So, what happened this time?”

“I was delayed. The details aren’t important. My Father wouldn’t have given us money anyway.”

She turned to the fierce-looking troxx and applied some herbal cream and a bandage over a gash on its flank. The animal thrashed a little bit and whined from the pain.

“Calm down, Shirah!” thundered Azéna.

She snapped her fingers just to be ignored.

“Hey!” called Fayne, whistling sharply.

The troxx fixed its attention on her and calmed down. Azéna could finally finish her task, cleaning, covering and protecting the wound just like her family’s personal healer had shown her.

“Whistle at her,” said the redhead. “She responds more to that sound.”

“Fine,” growled Azéna.

Frowning, she crossed her arms. Her eyes met Fayne's. The redhead seemed unimpressed.

“What?" the Kindirah growled defiantly.

“I see it's time for me to leave,” Leith said.

She walked toward Fayne and handed her the net of royal apples. The lowborn girl accepted the gift with a small but sincere smile. Leith climbed out of the hideout and left.

“I didn't even have time to say goodbye and thank her,” the Litfow mumbled.

Azéna lowered her gaze and felt herself resist a wince.

“Anyway, she's a stranger.”

“We owe her a minimum of gratitude. She helped us.”

“A few unimportant pieces of information, an apple net and a small rescue are by no means enough for me to trust someone,” Azéna replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course, it's all worthless to you. You're letting yourself get to your head again.”

The Kindirah girl knew she could get defensive and untrusting. She couldn’t help but feel insulted. She wasn’t weak.

“Tch! I’m watching over us, for our safety.”

“You scare away potential allies, which is very rare nowadays if you didn’t notice,” grumbled Fayne. “I don't know what's wrong with people, but they're anxious. Anyway, Leith’s been good.”

A tension and a heavy silence befell them.

“Come on, it’s time,”said Fayne. “We have to go back to the castle. They’re waiting for us for supper.”

“Can I skip it?" Azéna asked sarcastically.

She tied her hair in a ponytail and then pet Shirah’s head. The troxx stared at her bitterly and pushed her face with her long orange muzzle.

“You may not abandon me,” commanded the herbalist.

She watched them with a small smile on her lips. Shirah uttered a plaintive cry, demanding more pets. Azéna obliged.

“I know, pretty girl. Behave, eh? We’ll go explore the forest later when it’s dark!”

The teenage girls went to the surface and placed the grave over the hole so that their hiding place was out of sight.

“It's a good thing the castle isn't very far,” Fayne said. “We might make it there in time.”

She moved forward with haste, but she slowed down when she noticed that Azéna was dragging behind.

“I recognize that expression. You don't want to go back, do you?”

“Not even a bit,” the Kindirah girl admitted. “I've had enough of them, godsdamnit!”

“It's going to be all right. Don't even worry about it.”

She knew Azéna as well as she knew her own pocket. The two young women had been friends since their early childhood. Despite their strong friendship, Azéna's mood had been darker of late, especially since her older brother Sérus had begun courting Fayne. 

In fact, they had to go to the castle to celebrate the approval of the wedding that had been received a few days earlier. Fayne was aware of her best friend's disagreement and did not seem to understand why that was the case. That was understandable, as Azéna could not find the right words to explain it to her, which made her frustration worse.

A few streets over, they came across an older man in black and white robes. His presence made Fayne tense up.

“Ah, Lady Azéna,” he said politely on a joyous tone.

He had a large and fat leather pouch in his hand. He was pouring some coins in another.

“You should go home. It’s getting late. I’m just finishing some business myself and going straight to a safe place.”

He seemed way too happy. Usually, he was always visibly grumpy except in front of the Archpriest. Something was going on.

“Are those the tithes?” gasped Fayne with horror.

The religious man turned to her; his face sombre. Now, he was looking like himself.

“What if they are?”

“You’re stealing some.”

“It’s my pay. A man must live, as you should know. The Archpriest sure doesn’t support me while I bend over backwards for him.”

He hung the bags on his belt, grabbed the beautiful redhead’s arm

and prevented her from moving away.

“Say anything and your loved ones will pay for you, you cur,” he hissed with a poisonous tone.

Azéna felt the intoxicating and familiar feeling of hot rage snaking through her veins, making her blood boil. In that moment, she felt as if she was finally the one towering others. She adored that feeling of confidence, like nothing could stop her.

But she had to be careful, which is easier said than done.

She approached, making long smooth strides. When she was in reach, she tensed her muscles and squeezed her hand into a fist.

She saw red.

A flash. The gorgeous rising moon against a sea of darkness. From up here, the view was picturesque. But she couldn’t enjoy it for a sudden anxiety gripped her by the guts.

Everything was red. Her body was overheating. Her knuckles hurt from impact. She felt shook, but satisfied.

The priest was covering his face and running to the castle.

“You cursed child! You can’t hide your nature from us!”

Azéna felt her wrath subside. She turned to Fayne and helped her back up. She didn’t know what to say. It was going to be all right as long as Fayne knew she would never harm her.

“We’ll get through it together, as we always do,” reassured Fayne.

Azéna let herself be distracted by the singular mole standing proudly on her friend's forehead on the far right.

Fayne hates it, she thought. It's perfectly fine, in my opinion.

When the Litfow girl met her gaze, she blushed and smiled faintly.

“Let’s get going,” said Fayne.

With a series of smooth movements, Azéna gracefully slipped in front of her to block the way. Fayne almost bumped into her, stopping at the last moment.

“Watch out!” she squeaked. “Only Elysia knows how you can be so fast on your feet!”

“Please don’t marry my idiot of a brother,” begged the blue-eyed girl.

“You don't know him like I do,” Fayne replied calmly.

“Godsdamnit! I don’t care! Exactly! I've been his sister since the very first year of my life. He's always been manipulative and is two-faced. Do you understand what I'm telling you? When he's friendly with someone, there's a reason behind it. Being nice is a weakness to him, but also a role to play.”

Fayne went around her and continued on her way.

“Come along. Please let it go for tonight.”

Defeated, the Kindirah girl didn’t move for a while.

Finally, she turned around and stared at the huge castle. To evacuate a bit of leftover rage, she punched a tree with white leaves. To alleviate the sharp pain, she shook her arm hysterically while yelping.

On the way, she passed through an alley to get to her destination more quickly. A crusty rogue tripped her with his boot. She collapsed. The rocky ground scratched her knees.

“You’re not one of the Daughters of the Storm. Go back to your sticky old shack where your rat friends wait to eat you.”

Children of the storm was a nickname given to the inhabitants of Daigorn. The Daigornians were very proud of their origins. The tornadoes and strong winds of the region were part of the background of life for them and brought them a sense of nostalgia and peace. Azéna was physically different; she was far too young to have a silver head of hair, and for this she was harassed by almost every Daigornian who refused to accept that she was the daughter, albeit adopted, of their ruling Lord. Moreover, her adoption status, which proved that her blood was not highborn, only made her situation worse.

All that did not make her a witch; she could not even cast the slightest spell. It was ridiculous. She had never even seen magic.

She ignored the blood on her knees and ran toward the castle. She screamed, announcing her presence as she passed between the huge iron gates that separated the garden of the castle from the city.

“My Lady,” she was greeted respectfully by a City Guard.

She puffed her chest defiantly and ignored the two soldiers stationed at the entrance of the castle who stared at her in disbelief.

One of them sighed as she followed the trail of blood drips.

That idiot priest had been here. He probably reported the incident directly to her father. With a fire in her steps, she made her way to the dining room, but did not enter. Instead, she spied on her family with a watchful eye through a half-open door.

The priest’s trail led her here, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you want to come in, Lady Azéna?” asked the guard posted at the entrance.

“No! Noklyss! By all the Gods, be quiet.”

In the centre of the dining room, a large wooden table was resting, lulled by the heat emanating from the fireplace. The white stone floor was covered with an amethyst velvet carpet. There were pots of white woodruff everywhere.

Several carefully prepared dishes waited patiently to be eaten. Despite the small number of six people, it looked as if this feast had been prepared for an army of hungry men. There were many exotic fruits, a whole roasted pork, all kinds of fresh vegetables, Fayne’s apples and fresh breadsticks. To drink, there was a choice of water or wine, all kinds of wine.

At the end of the immense table sat a man in his thirties with a dark beard that traced his jawline. His wife, a tad younger, had taken her place to his right and was scanning the room for something. To the opposite side of her was Fayne and Sérus. To the couple's right were two young women, one who was still a child and the other who seemed to be in early adulthood.

Azéna listened closely.

“She's late again,” Sérus pointed out with irritation. “So are Gendrel and Ravon.”

“Let's start eating without them,” Lord Kindirah decided.

“A bit of patience wouldn’t hurt,” Lady Rivatha advised, placing her hand on her husband's.

“They’re all getting some punishment, some more than others.”

Fayne stared at her sweaty palms. Her concentration wavered from time to time and so, she avoided her lover’s gaze. She was clearly uncomfortable.

Tria, as per usual, tried to divert the attention away from conflict. She turned her attention to Argent, the second born of the family.

“You are a woman now. Have you thought about who you are going to give your hand to?”

“I wasn't thinking about that sort of thing at your age,” Argent chuckled warmly.

“We sure are aware,” Lord Kindirah grumbled, his features darkening.

The older sister paused, seeming uncertain. The younger one nervously evaded her father's gaze:

“Tria, leave your sister alone,” Rivatha gently insisted. “She'll talk about it when the time is right.”

Argent ignored Tria's sorry blue-eyed gaze. Her chestnut braid cascaded to the ground, something Tria had never been able to accomplish because her hair refused to grow past the middle of her back. She had inherited the features of her grandmother Edana Rueder, Rivatha's mother. The Rueders were known for their exquisite beauty: their deep grey eyes filled with pride, a few freckles on their nose and cheeks, their fair skin, their long face, their breasts of the perfect in between size and their warm smile. Argent had them all. Truly, she was gorgeous.

Tria looked more like her father and the Kindirah side of the family. They had thick black hair, slightly tanned skin and the women had flat chests.

However, both daughters were tall and sturdy. Bayrne often joked that they would make excellent warriors if they were born as boys, which seemed to please Argent and irritate Tria.

Hence, Tria had always been jealous of Argent. It was all so superficial and pointless.

Azéna wished so badly she had been somewhere else.

A deep sense of nostalgia flooded through her and suddenly, she was surprised to desire a place she had never seen. She was unsure of the origin of her feelings, but she had known for a long time that she Nothar, and even Daigorn as a whole, was not her home.

She was tapped on the shoulder. She turned around and there stood Serfie, a maid with long curly brown hair, staring at her. She nudged her forward.

“Godsdamnit, I’m going!” she snapped, pushing the doors open.

“Lady Azéna,” announced the guard.

Six gazes turned at the young lady who had just entered the dining room. She gulped, straightening herself. She had adopted a confident stride until the servant undid her ponytail.

“Hey!” Azéna shouted, noticing what was happening. “Leave that, damn you!”

She was ready to run after her, but Lord Kindirah motioned for her to come and sit down.

“Damn whore,” she grumbled, obeying her father.

“These are crude words for a Lady,” commented the lord.

Rivatha pointed the chair to Tria's right, and Azéna went to sit with her head held high. Sérus was the first to be uninterested in her and turned his attention to his sovereign. He expected the ruling Lord to say something, but Bayrne remained silent.

“Why are you incapable of respect?” the patriarch asked with a subtle touch of impatience that betrayed the calm of his voice. “What's your excuse this time?”

“Bayrne,” Azéna began, “I'm…”

“Father,” he corrected severely.

“If you must know, Father, I was disciplining these corrupted priests who run loose with unchecked impunity. Don’t get me started on the guards too.”

“Let's say no more about it,” begged Rivatha. “This supper is supposed to be a joyful event.”

“This is far from joyful,” Azéna growled.

Bayrne raised a hand to inform everybody that he demanded silence:

“You have no right to an opinion on the matter. As a matter of fact, all you have a right to a taste of your own medicine. Discipline you say, huh?”

His adopted daughter stuck her fork deep into the wood of the table, which startled Tria.

“I have an opinion and no one is going to take that right from me,”

she challenged.

“Little rebel, you'll talk properly to your father,” Bayrne ordered with a touch of irritation.

“Godsdamnit, you’re not my father!”

No one dared say a word. 

Azéna took the opportunity to gather her courage. Such words were considered an insult to a lord. One had to be crazy or very brave to commit such an act.

“Anyway, this is all a jest! We all know Sérus is vile. Fayne deserves better.”

“Azéna, please,” insisted her mother. “This is not for you to decide.”

Bayrne got up from his seat. His towering figure seemed to keep growing as he glared at Azéna.

“Enjoy your meal,” he seethed. “After this, you’ll be staying in your chambers for an indefinite amount of time. You will be guarded at all times, even when you sleep.”

The young rebel had to admit defeat, but she was certainly not going to show it. She clenched her fists and marched out of the room. 

As she was about to leave, a guard busted in aggressively, damaging the door.

“My lord!” he cried, panicked. “A dra... ga... ru…”

Bayrne’s face contorted in frustration.

“This better be good, son.”

The soldier took a deep breath and greeted his Lord properly, a fist to the chest as he straightened up, causing his plate armour to rattle.

“There’s a dragon at the western gates, my lord.”