Perhaps he had made a huge mistake, either that, or he lacked confidence in the State guard. Both, if true, were sour news to tell someone. How would one handle such oppressive words, from a king no less? He had broken the spirit of an already weeping mother, seeking a life to repay the loss of her flesh and blood. He had robbed the villagers of quenching their thirst for death, death by light. Was he to break another spirit?

He bounced his attention from Harmel, storming towards the young lady, and Alicia, declaring her tenacity before him. Their voices clashed in the empty, or nearly empty, throne room.

"Get out!" Harmel snapped. "Now! Before the guards escort you out!"

Drom coiled his toes, repulsed by the brutality in his hand's words. Empty threats were Harmel's trusted weapon. They often worked against commoners, but it slipped his mind that he was threatening a State guard with a reprimand from those who were beneath her in rank–in both position and power. Drom was aware, despite her misleading feminine frame, that no soldier could become a state guard without being a cut above their peers.

"Steady yourself, Harmel," Drom said, stepping onto the second stair that led to his raised throne.

"She has no place here," Harmel said.

"Everyone has a place here! You forget the reason for this citadel standing?" Drom answered. His voice carried forth with his father's liking– the others seemed to notice it as well. Harmel most of all, shuddered as if Arekin's Lightbearer himself had risen from the dead. But the fear was replaced by a bright look, almost involuntarily - this was the king he had hoped Drom would become.

He regarded Drom as a peer for so long that perhaps he had forgotten he was the king, perhaps he had forgotten his place.

"My apologies, sire," Harmel replied.

Drom swallowed hard, he hated the aftertaste of imposing his authority on others– an attempt to cleanse the venom from his tongue that laced his words.

"I accept!" Alicia interrupted. She clutched the hilt of her sword, hard. Drom read her face, deciphering nothing in particular. He tried to pin a reading, perhaps an emotion to her features but her expressions shifted with each glance. Was she afraid? Was she resolute? He didn't know, he had to go by her words.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, he had to. She looked like someone who never budged. He had to know what power was so strong to sway such a firm soul.

"Nothing," Alicia said, "I just thought it over, sire."

"Please," Drom said, stroking the armrest of his throne, "as I told you, just call me Drom." He did not mind repeating himself, he liked to make others at ease in his presence.

"But I'm glad you reconsidered," he said.

"I am not," Harmel's voice cut in. He approached the throne. He repeatedly flung his robe backward as he walked. There was no purpose to his act, only a compulsive perk in his behavior that compelled him, by some unseen force. That, and to always interrupt conversations.

"Do you understand the importance of this mission, miss..." he trailed off, mouth open and fingers fidgeting, waiting for an answer as he leaned toward the state guard.

"Alicia," she answered, halfheartedly.

"Miss Alicia," Harmel continued, "This operation has stakes tied to it that weigh the future of this very kingdom!" his voice gradually grew with each word, regarding the message not heavy enough and needing to be anchored by his loudness.

"Do you question her judgment? Or do you question her ability?" Drom asked, "Or do you still question both of mine?".

Harmel didn't look away from Alicia, his eyes fixed on her face, probing for something.

"I am questioning her readiness, sire," he said, finally turning to Drom.

Drom was a reasonable person, after all. However, in his spokesperson's eyes, his faith in Alicia was without reason, it was his burden to prove his faithlessness. He caught Harmel's apprehensive gaze, still trying to intimidate the unshaken, State guard. Drom scoffed.

"Alicia, what is the affinity of a Windweaver?" Drom asked.

Alicia was not a gifted, she was not a state-licensed scholar either, so she had the liberty to revel in this gold-valued information taught to her in her State Guard training. After all, she had not a clue how she could use it, she could not touch Weaving, neither could she teach a gifted to reach for it—a horse teaching a hound to hunt.

"The affinity for a Windweaver is freedom," Alicia said, pausing to take in Harmel's expression, "A Windweaver cannot exert his gravity on the Weaving if overcome by the feeling of freedom, lest he falls to the sickness of weavelash. They must touch the weaving with the feeling of confinement. Wind grants them the will to take for the skies, therefore they must feel confined,"

She recited it as if it were her second name. Drom smiled - maybe he was making a point, or maybe he liked the sight of surrender in Harmel's eyes.

"And what is the affinity for Flameweavers," he continued.

Alicia lifted her slightly lowered head, she relished this, it seemed. To shine her wit on someone who looked down on her–perhaps her affinity was pride and she needed control over it.

"Anger," she continued, "Flameweavers cannot exert gravity on the weaving if overcome by the feeling of rage, lest they fall to the sickness of the weavelash. They must touch the weaving with the feeling of calmness and tranquility. Fire grants them the will to burn the world without control, therefore they must feel at peace with the flames they harness."

"Earthweavers," Drom said, digging his back into his throne.

"Aversion, Earthweavers cannot exert gravity on the wea–"

"Okay enough," Harmel interrupted, scraping the heels of his leather boots on the marble as he turned to face Drom fully, " I get it. She has memorized a few pages from a scholar's notebook. That proves nothing,"

"Fine," Drom said, "Alicia, What is the rule of hunting in darkness and a place unknown,"

"Leave marks to track your way not to get lost, and, in the night, never use a source of light, it draws more than predators, use more than your sight," Alicia answered.

"How do you get hounds off your trail?" Drom asked.

"Do not walk against the blow of the wind. Circle your route to throw the hounds off, bathe in a stream to–,"

"This is pointless your majesty!" Harmel shouted, but not as loud as he'd wanted, "You're asking pointless questions, and for what reason?"

"Alright, "Drom pulled himself off his throne, "fine then..." 

He descended towards the two.

"Alicia, what is the first rule of spycraft?"

Alicia whipped her head about, swinging a strand of her chestnut hair that hung over her brow behind her ear, "Stay in the shadows, blend in with your surroundings, and reveal nothing about your true identity or intentions."

Drom caught her sly grin, she tried to wrestle it to obscurity, but it flashed long enough for Drom to appreciate it with a smile of his own. They were annoying Harmel out of his mind–and they liked it.

"A man slips through the records of the dead," he continued, "What is the first fault he does in his scheme to deceive the records,"

"He continues to live, sire," Alicia answered in a theatrical tone, "A person alive and thought dead, is still alive..." She sheepishly turned to face Harmel, a smile tugging her dimples as she spoke.

"... And as long as they are alive, they can be found,"

Drom joined in on her teasing, facing his spokesman as well and tilting his head.

"You two are insuffureable," Harmel said.

"Do you still doubt her readiness?" Drom asked, "Doubting her will be like doubting the teachings of Master Kishami himself."

Alicia's smile faded at the mention of her father's name, Drom sensed it and fumbled for words to not sour the situation further.

"He taught her everything she now holds to knowledge, Harmel," he said, peeking at Alicia through the corners of his eyes, noticing her smile reforming, "and he was the best hunter in our lands, and the most accomplished spycraft,"

The room fell silent, and in the loudness of the silence, they finally noticed the proximity of how close the battle of words had drawn them to each other—almost stepping on each other's boots.

"Your craft with the tongue continues to improve by the day, sire," Harmel said, the discomfort in the assemblage pushed him further from the two, "I hope you keep it sharp when the council comes. And I hope you make it sharper when Alvatrone senses your schemes,"

"Alvatrone is not concerned with matters of the council," Drom said.

"He has ears everywhere Drom, and even more eyes," Harmel said. He was always more sincere when he dropped the titles and called Drom by his name, in this, the young king knew he was authentic with his tongue.

But he was right. Alvatrone was the monger of information under his rule. He was the commander of the army, and a king of disclosure on the side. He possessed channels with which information reached him so elaborately that it genuinely scared Drom. If Alvatrone had wanted to execute a coupe and perch himself on the throne he would have done it, with ease. But Arekin, it seemed, knew the nature of his people, and chose not to gift the commander with the hands to touch the weaving. Thoughts of a coupe would be a distant dream that he could never speak of. But even so, that thought made Drom grow paranoid with unreasonable fear. Even if Alvatrone were able to touch the weaving, never in a thousand lifetimes would he stand against the power of a king—the power of god magic.

Drom eased himself, senseless paranoia was unbecoming of him. Or was it the thin line between his affinity and reality growing thinner? 

The Weaving, in all its incomprehensible nature, lent its power to the gifted with such a simple incentive that it seemed to be a way to teach the gifted that power came with responsibility. For every form of power sourced from the weaving, the affinity tethered to it grounded its user to humanity. Although there were some extraordinary exceptions, it was generally hard to use the power for malicious intents, as in the case of Shalonar. However, there were cases worse than his, far worse

As Drom relaxed his mind to make his decision, he remembered this knowledge. For a king, a meager mortal handed the power of a god, and a kingdom to rule, the affinity tethered was all but obvious. A Shaiweaver cannot exert his gravity on the Weaving if overcome by the feeling of malice, lest he falls to the sickness of weavelash. They must touch the weaving with the feeling of benevolence. The shadow grants them the will to taint mankind, therefore they must feel humanity,"

#

The long shadow had come early that evening, surprising the animals that followed the clock. Darkness fell on Heagan town before the free-range chickens went back to their coops. Horses and cattle still grazing in the fields were herded back to their pens by annoyed herdsmen. They wished spring would end already, tired of losing daylight to the stubborn shadow. They surrendered to its will in the end, calling it a day and having early supper.

That was the case in Alicia's manor. The front door had its latches fastened and the kitchen was alight with fires for dinner before five o'clock. The kitchen was alive with cooks retelling tales of their day's endeavors, and the living room buzzed with servants as well, catching up on the latest gossip that made rounds in the town. Martha was more lenient than other masters, working in the Kishami manor was a servant's dream. The lady of the house joined them in the living room. Staying alone in the house for years made her closer to the people who kept it. But she chose to do so, not because of the emptiness of her bed after her husband's death and her daughter's departure to the army to chase her father's legacy, she chose to do so because she was a servant before she became head of a crested house. She felt like she was amongst her own.

But that evening, it seemed oddly particular that one room, always noisier than the pots and pans in the kitchen, was the quietest room in the house, more silent than the library. Martha, attuned to patterns prominent under her roof, noticed it right away—Alicia's room was as quiet as the day she left for the army. 

She was made even before she could step out of the house. Their eyes met as she turned a corner heading for the back door.

"And where are you sneaking off at this hour?" Martha asked.

"I'm off to see some friends!" she said, not conscious of how fast she spoke. Nothing ever gets past this woman!

"Visiting friends," Martha said, her eyes scanning her daughter from head to toe, "in full armor?"

Alicia never had a tongue as cunning as her mother's. Left for a day or two, and she could come up with a solid lie. But when confronted she froze, and her replies often ventured into such absurdity that they seemed designed to mock the intelligence of her interrogator.

"Do not start that with me, Alicia," Martha said.

There was no deceiving this woman. And what was the purpose of lying if she would find out the next morning? Deceit was a reflex of no use—she had to turn it off when around her mother.

"Mother," Alicia spoke, disarming her guard, "I won't—"

"There's no need daughter," Martha cut her short. These two women often never needed words to speak to each other. Martha understood her daughter, and Alicia often sought comfort in her mother's understanding. She wanted to seek it once more before her departure.

Martha stretched out her arms, opening her palms, inviting her daughter closer. Alicia's eyes sparkled underneath, gathering tears, pleading for comfort. Martha stepped forward and wrapped Alicia in her embrace. Alicia did not know why, but thoughts passed from mother to daughter in the cuddle—she could feel it fasten the beat of her heart.

"When will I be making your bed next?" Martha asked, her voice soft and muffled under the heightened collar of Alicia's tabard.

"Not for a long time, Mother," Alicia answered.

Finally, Martha let her free, and Alicia felt her reluctant release. She too, had wished for the embrace to last longer, but time was running out. From the moment she accepted the quest, each second afterward began to matter.

"You know what I am about to say don't you, daughter," Martha said. A warm yellow glow of light, from the tallow lamp beside them, shone against the streak of a tear running down Martha's cheek.

"Father would be proud?" Alicia said. They both chuckled under the dim light, assuming Kishami laughed alongside them, in spirit.

"How far is that spirited man of a king sending my daughter?" Martha asked.

"Too far," She said, a smile forcing another tear out her eyelid, "I doubt those lands have ever been touched by the long shadow,"

"Well, at least you'll breathe fresher air. The devil's breath is closer once the long shadow ends and summer begins," Martha said, crinkling her nose, "the thought of that stinky red miasma just churns my stomach,"

"Perks of living in Royal Republic," Alicia said. Once again, they erupted into shared laughter.

Alicia sought comfort in her mother's eyes—she obliged.

"Goodbye my mother," she said.

"Goodbye, daughter," Martha said, complimenting her words with a bright smile, almost brighter than the tallow lamps. Alicia turned to the door. The thought of not seeing the sanded wooden contraption for a long time weighed down on her—the oddest of things reminded her of her home. Yet she did not feel regret, she did not feel liberation either. She felt enlightened, she had seized her chance to carve a legacy for herself, just as Reene had picked up his own chisel and chipped his own path to the Folding. Defector's state awaited.

#

From where they stood, they could see the entirety of Royal Republic, lit by oil lamps and torch sconces on the streets. It looked so peaceful, tranquil.

"You have everything you need, say?" Harmel asked.

Alicia did not reply, not with words. She turned to the mare beside them, stroking its majestic neck. Its eyes slid close and its tail whipped about—it enjoyed the touch. As Alicia dug her hand deep into the short fur, brushing it faster, she forgot she was with company atop the hill—it was soothing. The horse puffed heavily, kicking its feet happily.

"Bunny will only be with you until you reach the borders of Defectors state," Harmel said, "After that, you will unpack and continue your journey, she will know the way back." He turned and although there was little light permeating the canopy of trees around them, she still caught Harmel's teeth exposed beneath an endearing smile—like that of a child eyeing his pet.

"You named it Bunny?" she asked, she wrapped her hand around the horse's neck, even though it barely encircled it completely.

"It... is a her," Harmel said, his teeth rivetting through each articulation.

Alicia glanced back at Bunny—at least she heard another girl to gossip with on her journey. Harmel's soft eyes met her curious eyes once more. He immediately hardened his glance, and crossed his arms aggressively, as if Alicia had caught him naked—Bunny is his!?

So there was something he cared for? At least was a subtle assurance to Alicia that Harmel had a heart, and despite a bitter foundation of their acquaintance, Alicia silently vowed to keep Bunny safe—for the sake of Harmel's sanity—and her own.

"The king believes in you? But that doesn't mean I have to, say?" he said.

"You don't have to," Alicia answered, "Your faith means nothing to me, spokesman," she thought of adding 'say' to further her mockery, but even for her it would be going too far. She did not despise him that much. His tongue was of South Angus descent, and they valued their dialect. He had lived in North Angus for long enough to be influenced by the city slang but never dropped his vocal nuances—the only thing that reminded him of home. However, he would often drop the use of 'say' when he talked in official gatherings and presence.

Harmel smiled. It was awkward, most people frowned at her attempts of wit. Perhaps he liked those who shared the same tenacity as his, the same spicy retorts. They shared that one thing at least– it wasn't much, but perhaps a better relation could be built on that.

"Safe travels, State Guard. Defectors State needs more than master Kishami's wisdom to survive," Harmel said, giving Bunny one last look before descending the hill, "May Arekin guide your path". Bunny snorted to Harmel as he strode off—a goodbye?

Alicia had no time to respond, he was long gone.

"Well," she said, grabbing Bunny's reins, "It's just you and me now, girl,". Bunny trotted in place, somewhat sensing the journey forthcoming— a chance to finally gallop without limits. Alicia finally saw her distinct strip of white fur that ran through the bridge of her nose to the center of her face. At the base, her black nose poked out of the white topcoat—like a Bunny!

Alicia let out a giggle after connecting the dots. Harmel was an aloof man, but at least there was a practical humorous side to him. 

The mission began with her first step forward. It would be the longest journey she had taken, the furthest she would be from home. It was daunting, she couldn't lie to herself. And she was nervous, her stomach pinched up inside her, and she could smell her digesting early supper rise to her throat— she pushed it down with a heavy swallow. As they walked, Bunny occasionally swung her head and pushed into her shoulder, requesting another pat on her head—she could sense Alicia's unease it seemed. 

She had to succeed, that was the first step, to believe she could do it. Then after belief came the impossible—finding a dead man in a foreign land