“—Of course, these games are quite rare outside of your home nation, Miss Solstice. I doubt they would have permeated to Izril yet. I have heard of and observed Shogi before.”
The wind blows through my hair as the sun rises. Past the mountain range they call the High Passes, which divides Izril in half, a fierce breeze blows north, and I wonder if it’s come all the way down from those peaks hidden among the clouds. It blows down past the screaming Goblins trying to kill me and catches an arrow mid-flight.
The instant Lady Magnolia, a member of the Human nobility in the northern part of the continent of Izril, opened the door, she clasped her hand to her heart.
A Runner’s Guild could be found in every city of Izril. The bottom floor was where everything was done, and it was dominated by several counters along one side of the room and a kind of bar and meeting space on the other side.
“—But you truly aren’t from Izril, Miss Ryoka. The north has a strained relationship with the south, which I think you should bear in mind if ever you go past Esthelm and deliver to a Drake city. Not that there’s anywhere safe but Liscor. Unless the Bloodfields have opened up, Ressa?”
“Don’t mind me! I’ll just watch if that’s acceptable. I do admire good cookery. I had lessons, but it never stuck. Imagine it, making gelato! I’ll be the talk of Izril.”
“Not Izril, Baleros, Chandrar, Terandria—well, maybe the Kingdom of Keys or somewhere new like…? Taimaguros? But she would know [Knights]. Wistram’s rare children know magic, and no one would be allowed to run around barefoot in Drath, the likeliest option, because of how rude that would be. Nor on Rhir for safety. And Izril? I am stumped.”
“Not Izril, Baleros, Chandrar, Terandria—well, maybe the Kingdom of Keys or somewhere new like…? Taimaguros? But she would know [Knights]. Wistram’s rare children know magic, and no one would be allowed to run around barefoot in Drath, the likeliest option, because of how rude that would be. Nor on Rhir for safety. And Izril? I am stumped.”
Some days, he, Klbkchhezeim, hated Liscor. Hated Liscor and Izril and every miserable species his people had failed to kill in their first war upon this continent. And he wondered when the third war would begin and thought of killing them all.
Now, he was losing faith. He was tired. He did the same thing day after day as Izril grew stronger. The Hive did not grow, but struggled in the depths. And he was just patrolling, settling petty disputes.
How could she know the exhaustion that had been in his soul before his people had even come to Izril? The frustration of a war fought twice to no avail?
