 The sun rises over the kingdom I trespass in, the one the Beqannans call Loess. It glints off the wide, snowy expanse, much of it untouched yet (I will soon learn that few travel by foot, anymore). Tephra, he had said. West, they had pointed. Safe, my heart had thrummed. I pace the ridge I’d passed the night on in search of the easiest way down, squinting against the wintry glare.
I ache for them. It is a physical pain, like a vise gripped around my chest, pressing my ribs inward to overlap one another until every one of my breaths splits me open. When the earth had shook, when the cries of sickness, plague, and death had filled my ears, I had hoped that Set would come for me. Even Niklas, wicked as he is, would have been a welcome sight to my sleepless sight. I had followed their paths shortly after Magnus and Ilma had left me in the Field to contemplate my future, but had lost them amongst the rocky foothills of the mountains. No doubt both had briefly left the mortal plane, their magicks teleporting them elsewhere in Beqanna. Set had promised he would find me again in due time … Path located, I sink to my haunches, sliding down the rock face several yards, twisting to avoid several cacti jutting from the snow. On semi-level ground again, I shake my ink-stained coat out with a low groan. My throat burns with dehydration, my tongue a thick weight in my mouth. I had been so desperate to be rid of them, the shadow and the mage who had raised me. Now, in the face of uncertainty, I long for the only comfort I’d ever known.
Another day’s – or two, or three – journey and I am passing through a brilliantly colored forest. Though it is winter everywhere else I have been -- the white snow scattered with the old blood of, I can only assume, those afflicted by the sickness spreading – here the trees are still adorned in their autumnal glory. The trails are easy enough to follow, the boulders large enough to hide me from sight whenever I cross another.
I have lost track of time by the time the humid air of Tephra fills my nostrils. It reeks of Niklas. It is a pair of gold-flecked eyes that play in my mind’s eye though. Magnus. Remarkably, the stench of fire and brimstone fades, replaced by a distinctive musk, as if materialized by force from memory. I will refuse to address the small voice that mocks me, pointing out my weakness, my need for someone to lean on. Instead, I roll my shoulders, drawing myself up taller, blinking the exhaustion from my eyes.
He looks harried – I, of course, am clueless – and I have only a moment to admire his soot-licked frame before he notices me. When our eyes meet, I force an admonishing smile as I saunter toward him, doing my best to hide the exhaustion from the lines of my body. "You never said anything about a damn volcano," I greet, flicking my lava-singed tail, the lovely white now black and curled.
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