2407 Iclis 15, Daleth

Sera pursed his lips, knowing full well they wouldn't be out of that position any time soon. His eyes stared down the raised dais he and his family were slotted in. At the foot of the stairs attached to the clay platform kneeled a disheveled man with clumpy ocher hair and dirt smeared all over his skin, clothes, and face. A criminal. And he was being convicted in front of Sera.

He clenched his jaw and only let go until his temples began pounding. His fists stayed splayed atop his lap, betraying none of the conflicting emotions roiling inside him. Had been roiling inside him. After all, this was Lanbridhr, the territory of silence and oppression. And sitting here on a cushioned throne, staring passively at a convicted member of his race, the Fire Sprites, he had learned to keep everything still on the outside.

Deflect attention. In every way he could. That's the motto he had learned to live by ever since he had enough mental capacity to understand the kind of world he was thrown into. So far, it has stemmed into a lot of sub-mottos and practical methods and, so far, all of them have worked. If Sera would just abide by them now as he always did, he should be able to survive this trial.

"Hear the crimes of the convicted before you, Great Potentate," Adviser Ailun's familiar deep voice rang across the vast hall made from clay bricks that was the throne hall. "For speaking against the government, for slandering His Highness, and for spreading ill-will to others, the Cabinet sentences Oris Thana to a lifetime confinement in Gaimouth, effective immediately."

From his perch a few steps lower than the thrones in another raised ledge, Adviser Ailun turned to the Fire Potentate seated beside Sera in a separate throne. "Any objections, Your Highness?" the adviser asked.

Sera watched his father from his periphery. He saw the Fire Potentate raise a hand to scratch the lush beard covering the lower half of his face. His father's eyes stared at the disheveled man in equal passivity Sera had since the trial started. Then, with his raspy grouch, the Fire Potentate brought his hand down, resting his elbow against the armrest of his throne, and said, "No objections. Carry on."

Suddenly, the convict burst forward, throwing himself to the throne hall's polished stone floor. "Spare me, Your Highness!" his voice filled with evident fear rang across the room, startling Sera enough to make him flinch. "I won't repeat my errors. Please, spare me."

"Get it away from my sight," the Fire Potentate waved a hand in the air, two fingers raised. It was a dismissal. The decision was final.

Sera's eyes flicked to the red-armored soldiers flanking the foot of the stairs. With a swift move, they gripped the convict's arms at either side and began hauling him away. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to the man's flailing form and tune his ears away from the man's desperate pleading. The soldiers guarding the doors to the throne hall yanked the golden handles, the intricately-carved wood whooshing in their hinges in a smooth and silent move.

Once the convict and his escorts had gotten through, the other set of guards slammed the doors shut, the lock clicking into place with a sort of finality Sera had to force himself to get used to.

"Next," the Fire Potentate's command replaced the numbing silence left by the convict's exit. From a dark doorway to Sera's left, another set of soldiers grunted against another prisoner's squirming as they dragged her towards the same spot the earlier convict had occupied.

Then, it all began anew.

Sera, in all his days of attending court proceedings like this, had learned to tune most of it out and focus on other things. True, he couldn't work on his fictional stories outside his room but he could surely imagine what else would have to happen to his characters. Most of the time, he would become so focused on something he wouldn't even realize the time frame for the day had already passed.

However, there were days when even that wasn't able to distract him from the intrusive thoughts swimming in his head. Some of the prisoners being convicted, when their pleas to the Fire Potentate fall on deaf ears, would turn to Sera and do the same. They hope—against all odds—that Sera would be their salvation. Someone who would keep them from the terrible fires of Gaimouth. Someone with enough power to stand up against the Fire Potentate.

Of course, they both knew Sera wouldn't move. Not because he didn't want to help, to buy these people more time with their loved ones or give them enough time to clear their names. Not because he didn't care about his own people being oppressed. Sera wouldn't ever move for anyone because it was their heads or his. He wouldn't even lift a finger to go against the Fire Potentate's decrees because he was selfish. Because he was someone he had been afraid to become but did anyway.

Seravel Rovodia, the heir to the throne, was powerless.

As much as he hated being reminded of his place every time a set of despaired eyes flashes towards his direction, he craved it. Whenever he felt like the world was too easy to beat, those desperate eyes reminded him. They told him of what would happen if he opened his mouth and broke his silence.

And like the coward he was, he wouldn't dare. Not now. Not ever.

That's what he thought as he picked his way out of the throne hall after the proceeding had ended. Despite the discomfort in his gut and the way he glided unperceived among throngs of soldiers and advisers, he steered himself into the corridor he knew would lead to the Palace's exit. On the way, he passed by lengths upon lengths of tapestries boasting various geometric designs, the bright colors of red, black, yellow, and the occasional green pulsing in his periphery.

Sera ignored them as he had been for the past few years of his life. His footsteps echoed in the hollow corridor, his arms swinging by his sides in a way he couldn't ever stop. The windows, without any panes nor any sign of them being covered by veils, showed Sera a sea of brown and orange—things he was taught he would govern over someday.

He dusted the embroidered vest running down his form like a hardened shell. A dust-colored sleeve covered the length of his arm, hopefully enough to protect his skin from the painful assault of the sun and the sand outside. He gritted his teeth, letting the weak scratches of his cloth sandals dictate the way he walked and the way he would go out of the Palace. He would have preferred to wear just his vest but the warmer winds blowing through the desert today made him think otherwise.

Soon, the Palace's exit appeared, the limited scenery showed through the windows expanding into a full, panoramic view. Sera took the time to pause at the top of the stairs leading in and out of the Palace, soaking in the sight. The sky was strikingly blue, the wisps of white rolling over it too thin to indicate rain. Over the line where the sky met the expanse of sienna, silhouettes of mesas and canyons dotted the horizon. And nearing the spot where Sera stood lay the city of Calca.

Sera slapped his thighs and started tackling the stairs, one foot in front of the other. The steps met the huge, cobbled courtyard, the stone solid albeit a little dusty underneath his soles. Huge arrays of potted soil lined the space in regular intervals, flanking the width of the stairs, as if the rhenne trees planted in them were supposed to herald the people in entering and exiting the palace.

He craned his neck up as he walked, the humid wind shuffling his hair and the trees' dark violet fronds. Small, teardrop-shaped fruits hung from protruding stems, all ready for harvest. At least, that's what Sera's inner gardener told him. Out of all the plants accessible to Sera in this harsh territory, it was the rhenne's presence that delighted him. As trees whose roots spread deep and wide underground to access the water underneath all of the desert's sand, rhenne trees were one of the hardest trees to uproot. It symbolized strength and the perseverance to get to a good place—things Sera wished he had.

After a few minutes, he cleared the courtyard and came towards the tall brick walls guarding the Palace grounds. There, a small platoon of soldiers gather in groups of two or three, keeping an eye on the situation inside and outside, all within a certain radius. Nobody turned to Sera as he trudged through the open gates and burst into the busy city beyond.

It was a direct contrast, now that the thought had Sera's attention. The Palace was bordered by bouts of stillness and the only action happening was when someone made a sport of themselves by being difficult to arrest. Comparing that to the bustle and noises of the trading city lying outside it, Sera couldn't believe both places belong to the same territory.

Indeed, as he walked without aim into the crowded markets, the chatter, clinks and clanks of various materials, and the brays and neighs of riding animals filled his ears. Sera looked forward to hearing these knowing he couldn't bring it back to the Palace with him. The closest he had come was hanging out by the kitchens and he couldn't do it often since it was scorching hot during the day.

Sera tucked his hands into the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers, enjoying how his sandals scritched and scratched against the dusty but compact soil in the oasis. As the only place coined a paradise in the vast desert of Lanbridhr, Calca boasted a slew of merchant squares, residential houses, and even the Temple of Fire sitting a few distances away from the Palace's walls. He lost count of how many caravans filled to the brim with colorful wares and driven by colorfully-dressed merchants had passed him by.

By the time Sera had gleaned the huge lake in the middle of the oasis, the roads began to feel familiar, down to the balustrades of the balconies jutting from several houses' second stories. He blew a breath, stirring a hot cloud against his upper lip, and tore through the twists and turns until he came to a dim alley flanked by clay and brick parapets making up the buildings' back walls or something.

He looked behind him, checking out of paranoia if someone was tailing him, either from the Palace or some ill-willed fairy. Seeing as he was practically alone, he leaned against the first wall he could find and fished a stick of oshella from his pocket.

He stuck it in between his lips. Then, his magic flared to the surface to answer his prodding. With his pointer finger, he summoned a small column of fire into its tip before bringing it close to the stick. When the edge caught the flame and began to burn, the sickeningly sweet smell of oshella filled the airspace around his head.

This whole thing poked a molten blade of guilt in Sera's system. It wasn't illegal, wasn't not even taboo for fire sprites as it was for other fairy races, but somehow, doing it alone in a hidden alley somewhere away from his father's eyes made it feel that way.

Sera rested his head against the wall's hard embrace, the rough surface digging sharply against his scalp. He wouldn't be out here had his time at the Palace been pleasant enough to forget he had a tyrant for a father. Now, he treated these moments away from prying eyes and desperate cries for justice as the only way to stay sane.

"I knew you'd be out here," a voice bled from the alley's entrance, seeing as it had trailed to a dead end. "Again."

Sera lowered his head to meet a pair of recognizable blue eyes. Short, wispy golden locks sat atop his head in a messy mop, his tanned skin darker than ever for running rounds on the vast desert between the oasis and the next trading city, Gligan.

"Neylan," Sera blurted, drawing the oshella stick away from his lips and hiding it behind him. "I didn't expect to see you here."

His friend, and quite possibly his only one, smiled and brushed his hair off his face. Sera had always noted how unnaturally large his forehead was. "That's what makes us different," he tilted his head at Sera, a grin stretching his lips. "Right?"

Sera bobbed his head. "I guess so," he took a swift drag from his stick and blew the smoke into the air. "How did your deliveries go?"

Neylan shrugged and laid his palm towards Sera. Knowing what the gesture meant, Sera passed Neylan the extra stick he packed for himself. From the corner of his eyes, he watched his friend lean against the same wall catching his weight. A small spark lit Neylan's fingertip yellow. Soon, a second column of smoke joined the one coming from Sera.

"Ah, that hits the spot," Neylan sighed and took another drag. "As for the deliveries, I guess they went well. I'm still alive."

Sera raised an eyebrow. "Can someone die from being a merchant?" he asked. An ignorant question, really. "Also, slow down. You don't want to smooth your stick faster. I don't have any more."

Neylan glanced at him from the side, slotting his stick back in between his lips, ignoring Sera's warning. "Hey, dried leaves burn at the same rate," he said. "Shouldn't a fire sprite know that, out of all fairies? Besides, do you know the amount of versallis we merchants make with one round through all the territories?"

"I'm guessing a lot," Sera muttered under his breath. He didn't like how often Neylan's tone turned lecturing every time the topic touched something he's knowledgeable at.

Neylan hummed. "Correct," he said. "Imagine traveling with that kind of grena in your pocket," he scratched one of his eyebrows, his eyes peeling into the commotion happening beyond their quiet alley. Something about a cart's wheel bouncing off its axle and rolling down the road. "You're bound to be a target of thieves."

His friend turned to him then. "So yeah," he said. "You can die as a merchant."

Sera tucked his oshella stick back between his lips and left it there. His front teeth itched to pick at the stump. "I guess you guys could use a guard or two."

Neylan snorted. The fire in his stick sputtered to a stop even thoughSera's was still somewhere halfway, just like Sera cautioned him. "Ah, wouldn't count on it," he clicked his tongue in annoyance, with his sentiment or his vice running out, Sera wasn't sure. "This government doesn't care about its subjects and won't change any time soon. As long as that idiot's on the throne, there's nothing that will."

Sera's eyes widened. He looked around, eyes searching the roofs, the other backroads leading away from the opposite side of the road, and the bustling main road their alley had torn apart from. Aside from the people clamoring to chase the rolling wheel down the road, the merchant screaming at the top of his lungs in panic as he tried to calm his spooked aksaba, and the throng of bare-chested fire sprites gawking or passing by without a care, no one had their attention on them, two isolated fairies smoking hell in the middle of nowhere.

A small chuckle made Sera turn to Neylan. His friend still hasn't edged away from the wall, his shoulders slumped against his lanky frame. If anything, he looked at ease. "Hey, relax," Neylan said, throwing a slight punch against Sera's arm. In a twisted setting, Sera could technically claim it as assault and the soldiers would arrest Neylan without question. "Nothing's going to happen."

Sera narrowed his eyes on his friend. "They could arrest you for speaking against the government, you know?"

Neylan scoffed and averted his eyes. Sera watched them settle on a vague spot somewhere northwest. "Let him try."

Sera shook his head, leaving his friend up to the nonexistent, if not, quiet gods up there in Calaris. "I don't want you to get hurt, Neylan," he said. "You should take back what you said."

"I will when things get better for Lanbridhr," Neylan's gaze was sharp, almost as if he was angry. "How long will you stay inside that prison and pretend everything's fine?"

Sera knitted his eyebrows. His oshella stick sputtered to a stop, the fire almost scalding his lips. "Stop bringing me into this," he hissed. "Everything's fine back home. It's all good. What are you talking about?"

A blatant lie. Sera knew it, and, judging from the truth Neylan gleaned from his eyes, Neylan knew it too.

Sera pushed past his friend. "See you around," he said over his shoulder. He didn't bother waiting for Neylan's answer and burst through the main road and took the way back home.

Back to his cage.

That night, after a hazy memory of dinner and taking a quick soak inside the bathhouse, Sera collapsed to his thin mattress, a fiction tome in hand. He had been dying to read up to this part, mostly because the events were getting more and more gripping. The main character was now battling a mythical beast to get the final piece of the puzzle. If Sera finished this part, the end, and ultimately, the answer to the questions posed at the beginning would be answered.

He was a paragraph in, the Keijula koset familiar yet somewhat not, when he realized he couldn't concentrate. How many times had he read that sentence over the past hour? Also, why did his conversation with Neylan keep playing in his head?

Nothing's going to happen.

He set the tome down on a low table beside his bed and sighed. His arm draped over his eyes to block out the lantern's flickering fire. Nothing's going to happen, he said to himself. Nothing's going to happen.

As the night wore on, Sera was left to wonder how much longer could he keep telling himself that lie.

Nothing's going to happen.

Right?