SPARK: YEAR OF THE DRAGON [placeholder name]

CHAPTER THREE

The door to Sylvar's left opened wide, letting in a streak of golden light that illuminated a bright square on the ground. Soon, the space filled with a tall shadow. Sylvar let go a heavy sigh.

"Dearie, look at you," Lady Omaira set the woven basket on the floor and clapped her hands together, "The devil would be scared of ye,"

"That only means it would not bother me," Sylvar murmured

The redhead let out a burdened sigh and stepped further into the room, leaving the woven basket at the door. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and turned to the closed window.

"Sittin' here, stewing like a mean cabbage," she began, dismantling the curtain blockade off the window. I can smell you downstairs."

Sylvar unseemly sniffed around. The scent of soap still lingered on his pale skin. He washed himself and his attire regularly. The older woman noticed the man's confusion. A smile grazed her slender lips.

"You smell of depression. You elves wash yourselves more than you work."

Madam Omaira, a woman in her late forties, possessed a mane of russet hair, vibrant ringlets framing her face. Her stature was imposing, with broad shoulders and a soft motherly stomach. Gentle wrinkles carved her face, each a mark of years lived. Yet, beneath her gentle exterior lay a strength evident in her toned arms and forearms. Her eyes, a piercing smokey blue, exuded a gruff perseverance. A deep navy gown and a black apron, belted at the waist, enrobed Madam Omaira's shape. Adorned with golden jewellery that chimed with every movement, she moved about the room with purpose and grace, a comforting presence despite her imposing demeanour.

Madam Omaira sighed with relief as light poured in through the uncovered windows. She opened both of them with a smile and blew out the candles in the room, waving away the smoke with her apron. Sylvar winced at the sudden change of lightning and shielded his red eyes with his hand.

Sounds of life filled the room. It smelled of spring and dewy flowers. It was early morning. The sun was just waking up from its velvety slumber and the valley was already humming with life. Sylvar heard the horse's hooves against the gravel road, children playing in the distance, and the cheerful voices of young women. A chilly breeze broke in through the window, carrying the smell of freshly baked bread and cooked eggs.

'If it weren't for my daughter you would roth here till summer,"

"Am I a burden?" Sylvar said with his stomach growling nearly as loudly as his voice.

"Fuck's sake," the woman laughed, "I ought to slap you for this. What? Starin' at me like a foal in the moonlight. You aren't a burden, is it that just you've been sitting here for three days and haven't left once."

"Uh..." Sylvar licked his dry lips, and the scents from outside began violently tickling his nostrils.

"C'mon, git. I need to clean. " Lady Omaira's gaze hardened. Her eyes bore into the elf, devoid of their usual warmth, "The first thing you need to do is grab a bite and go see Moyra. She's been waiting for you. And if you delay any longer, I'll personally haul her over here myself. Understand?"

"Yes, madam," Sylvar said and remained seated. Omaira sighed.

"I should whip your arse like your mother didn't."

Sylvar pouted his lips in disdain. The redhead brushed her palm over the young elf's face, tucking it behind his pointed ear.

"The gods didn't give me a son. I don't want to lose the one I don't have."

The woman's eyes softened. She didn't look as angry at the man anymore. Concern furrowed her forehead, and she smiled. The sounds of the village lulled Sylvar and carried the man far away. His velvety eyelashes lowered, and just as he was about to close his eyes, a jab of pain woke him up from his daydream.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath and glanced down at his wound.

"Go to Moyra. Immediately."

Sylvar's wound gushed black blood, drenching his shirt. Madam Omaira pressed a thick linen cloth against the gaping hole, but it soaked through. She stuffed a handful of dried herbs into the wounds and sealed them with a clean cloth. Sylvar cursed under his breath some more, this time in the old elven. Madam Omaira didn't appreciate him cursing, so he did it in a language she wouldn't understand.