From elven forge shall come a sword, its blade as pure as the silver light of Earoni and its soul of the Storm. In the hands of the Child of the Storm, its power is great, but it obeys only the child.
Sheala perched on the edge of the modest bed in the small dwelling. The accommodations were offered to her upon their arrival in the Elven Capitol; a journey that had taken another five days after they first encountered the scouting party in the forest. But this was not the sort of city she was used to. Everything was so sparse, exuding a very rustic nature. Tucked under the forest canopy, this house was nothing more than a single room with meager furnishings. Other than the bed, there was only a nightstand and an armoire where her clothes now hung. The amenities included a private well and cooking pit outside and the outhouse. But, as she had observed, none of the houses here seemed bigger than one room to each person residing there.
What furniture existed was all made of natural materials and kept in as close to their original form as possible to still function for their intended tasks. The posts of her bed, for example, retained their crooked and unhewn forms, revealing every knot and imperfection of the trees from which they had come.
It was hard for Sheala to contain herself in such a small residence; one where she could almost reach out and touch all four walls from where she sat. She could easily walk across the entirety of the space in ten steps. The meager room she kept back in Catersburg was similar in size, but she was more at home in that she deemed a more traditional city and never really spent much time there anyway.
The thief turned royal ambassador fiddled with the pearl buttons on the drop neck of her latest dress, her mind wandering more than a little. Because of her distraction, one of those posts now sported hundreds of fresh groves from the tip of the knife in Sheala's hand. She had repeatedly gouged at the wood in her boredom until a small pile of shavings had formed on the floor. Something inside her kept calling for her to break free of these self-imposed bonds she had established upon herself. But she fought back that desire, waiting.
The worst part of it all, however, was she was starving. Anthony had advised her how women in elven society were strict vegetarians. They didn't eat meat of any sort, seeing taking a life, even that of an animal, as against their nature to preserve and nurture living things. Since setting foot in the Elven Kingdoms, both she and Reane had been on a rigid diet of assorted vegetables, nuts, and berries out of respect for elven culture. Which had left her unsatisfied and antsy.
A light knock on the door caused her head to pick up "About time," she moaned. As she rose and approached the lone entrance, the rapping came again, perhaps feeling as though no one was home. Sheala covered the final steps as a third knock came. "Geez Brentai," she started to speak before even reaching it. "You wait until all hours of the night and then-" Her voice trailed off as the door opened in her hand to reveal the silver-haired Sayra, not Brentai, stood there.
"Um-nothing," Sheala lamented, her fingers falling away from the handle. She also realized how warm the medallion she wore had become. It had been humming with long-lost heat lately, but it was noticeably warmer with Sayra and her own once more so close by. The knife in Sheala's hand retreated with a smooth motion into the makeshift pocket she had altered in the cuff of her dress's sleeve, and her stomach rumbled, demanding to be fed. "I thought you were someone else."
"I'm sure you did." Sayra produced a covered white ceramic plate from behind her back and displayed it. "The Pelsan, um Brentai is it? He sends his regards and is regretful he could not deliver this magnificent meal to you himself."
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Daughters of Fate Book 2Fantasy
One destiny. Two paths. One war. Sheala and Cass have chosen their sides. One seeks to bring meaning to her life that has been in shambles since the day her father and mother were killed and weighs the prospect of assuming the mantle of her uncle's...