22. Raia
RAIA
ONE MONTH LATER - CAERWYNATH - BELLORUM
It’s been precisely four weeks since I came to Caerwynath, and I am still nothing more than a husk of my former self. But, much to my dismay, life goes on.
And it is merciless. Caerwynath has proven to be as expensive as it is beautiful. The satchel of gold and silver coins I’d taken from Thessaly’s safe was only enough to last me for a single month of lodging.
Finding work is even more troublesome. No one is interested in hiring a flueratheurge with no references, and I’m too terrified of my father finding me to dare mention who I trained with as an apprentice or why they can’t provide a reference for me.
A cafe nearly hired me, but required that I provide identification.
Something that I obviously could not provide in fear of my father finding me.
Which is why I am now utterly fucked, and wandering aimlessly through central Caerwynath with little more than the clothes on my back.
Thankfully, the streets here are far safer and cleaner than those of Narudi—or any of the other larger cities I’ve visited in Selcarim, for that matter.
Since arriving here, I’ve only seen one other homeless person.
A drunken male.
In fact, he might not even be homeless.
Maybe he was just drunk and decided to pass out in the park’s hedges to have a nap with the hedgehogs—yes, that’s right.
Hedgehogs.
That’s how adorable this place is.
I want to stay here. And now that I’ve run out of money, where else would I go anyway? Back to the Atratusian continent, where being murdered or violated in the street is as common as buying bread?
I think not.
At least this place is safe.
However, if I’m going to stand any chance of getting a job and keeping my identity a secret, I need to get new documents. I need a new name.
Where does one even begin to search for such a service?
Where do criminals congregate?
Are there even any criminals in Caerwynath?
I can’t say I’ve seen anyone who seems even remotely suspicious. Everyone looks so... well off.
The sun has sunk beyond the horizon, casting the picturesque town in a twilight haze. I’ve deliberately wandered into Caerwynath’s version of a slum.
And despite all logic, my eyes scan every perch in hopes of finding Horus, by some miracle.
Again, I am met with disappointment.
Again, I want to cry.
But I’ve done enough weeping to last a lifetime.
The flames of an artfully designed dark green lamppost flicker to life just as a folded piece of paper appears before me and flutters down to the cobblestones.
My senses heighten, skin prickling as I lower my eyes to stare down at one of my middle names scrawled across the front of it in elegant Selcarimi text.
What in the sacred fuck?
My heart hammers and my gaze darts around the vicinity.
Has my father found me already?
Has Lucen?
But no one calls me Violette. Not since my mother.
My stomach is in my throat as I bend at the waist to snatch it up.
I hurry to open it, anxiety and fear ratcheting higher and higher with each passing moment.
Violette–
I know life, at times, has been cruel. I have watched every moment of it. Your victories, no matter how small. Your losses, and every tear shed. You, and your power, are far greater than you know.
I once asked you if you would change any of it, and after fleeting deliberation, you told me no.
You told me it was worth it and that you’d choose this path every time.
Still, it doesn’t make your journey any easier to endure, so I felt compelled to reassure you.
Life will get easier.
You will find your way.
You will find the love you long for—or rather, it will find you.
X
Tears splatter against the paper, smudging the ink, as I stare down at the letter.
Read it over and over.
As if it might reveal some hint of who wrote it and why.
It doesn’t.
And whatever gratitude I might have fleetingly felt bleeds away to anger.
Told you no.
Wouldn’t change any of it.
Chose this path.
Life will get easier.
Fuck all the way off.
My hands tremble as I finally crush the note in my fist. If there weren’t so many passersby, I’d throw this ridiculous note on the ground to stomp and spit on it.
I would never choose this torture.
My mind reels with who the fuck could have possibly sent something so fucking obtuse.
Could it be Azrael?
The urge to summon his pin to hand so I can confront him rises, but I squash it down.
There’s no one else it could have been... Perhaps his pin has some kind of tracking on it, like Lucen’s engagement ring. It seems the only logical answer.
Even so, the thought of disposing of it creates a vehement response. As if some part of me can’t bear the idea of parting with the singular thread connecting me to him—a deeply unsettling realization, but I’m much too distressed to linger on it.
Uncurling my fist, I carefully un-crumple the note to stare at it once more before neatly folding it and tucking it away in my brassiere.
Perhaps I can find a witch or sorceress to help me discern the sender.
At least that’s what I tell myself is the sole reason as to why I keep it.
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, my eyes return to my surroundings, and my mind to the seemingly insurmountable task at hand.
Lodging.
How am I going to find lodging with no money and no references to get a job?
Even in the poorest part of town...
The taverns are warm and welcoming.
The people strolling are well-dressed and clean.
Even the brothel whores look friendly.
Sacred fuck. How is this place so quaint?
My mind screeches to a stop as my eyes are drawn precisely to the front of the brothel house. The exterior is a clean, cream-colored dollhouse with red shutters and pink velvet drapes. Cautious feet carry me towards it, and the sound of a harp reaches my ears.
The amber glow beyond the pink drapes peeks through to reveal a nude harpist playing before a small audience. I venture nearer.
So near, I’m practically smooshing my face against the glass.
“May I help you with something?”
With a yelp of surprise, I jolt, turning to face...
A syrith.
Surely, this must be a sign?
She has iridescent wings, white horns, dark skin, and a long sheet of white hair that reminds me too much of Thessaly. The expression she wears is one of calm curiosity—as if she didn’t just catch me peeking into her brothel like some creep.
I straighten, trying to muster some semblance of nonchalance even though I’m alone, terrified of what my lonely future holds, and without a home or a cent left to my name.
The moment I try to speak, tears burn my eyes.
“I, ugh…”
I bite my lip to keep it from trembling.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do I even say?
Concern pinches the syrith’s features.
“I, um…”
Please, please, please be kind. I can’t take any more heartache.
Heaving a sigh, I quickly swipe away my tears as they begin to fall, despite my efforts. “I’m sorry... I don’t know why I came here.”
Discerning eyes study me in the way only someone who has a shared experience can. “Do you not have anywhere safe to go?”
Shaking my head, the tremor returns to my hands—a sign that my nervous system has endured far too much as of late.
The syrith steps closer. A soft smile curves her lips, and she offers me her hand—an oddly human gesture.
“My name is Syla. Might I have yours?”
My mind scrambles for a name. The image of the note sent to me from Akash-knows-where appears.
“Violette.”