Drothiker

3.

Faolin Wisflave was tired. In her bones, soul, blood, she was exhausted despite the personal quarters in the birdship. Twenty-five years in the Voiceless Pits had taken each bit from her. They'd even numbed her mejest somehow, though twenty-five years without it were adequate to make her acquainted to feeling human.

After myriad days in the birdship and the sparkly water they'd had her gulp down, Faolin was vaguely aware they were walking to the fortress of Nofstin, another lush city of Cleystein barring Olkfield. She would have preferred to witness the capital while they were at it, but Destiny was a raging pain in the ass.

She wondered whether her mother would even ever know Faolin was out of Jegvr, whether the woman was even alive. She had been wrinkly when Faolin had last seen of her. Because unlike Faolin, though a better sorceress, her mother had chosen to stomach mortality, never had guts to make the Plunge.

Not that Faolin faulted her. The Plunge was a process of self-sacrifice. Literally. One had to delve deep in the sea of their mejest within themself, find the ground—there, in the unending, deep sea, they had to find a glowing thread, and snap it in two.

The Thread of Mortality.

It felt like being in a real sea, Faolin remembered, cold and cruel and vicious. She shuddered at the memory.

After snapping the Thread of Mortality, they had to return to surface and find land. The moment their skin grazed land, they returned to life.

There were many risks.

One could be too far from land, could be too weak to be able to swim in the sea, or simply just go astray. And if any of that in fact occurred, you risked losing your soul to your own mejest. Lost even from Hereafter.

It all had to be thru in five minutes, depended on how strong one's will could be. Because the stronger the will, the less barbarous the current of the sea. It was also a test whether one was capable of surviving immortality.

The process varied for each Vegreka. The depth of sea depended on the depth of their mejest. The thickness of the Thread of Mortality depended on the power of their mejest.

For Faolin, the Thread of Mortality had been thicker than the crescent of her hand, had taken her two minutes to only snap it in two with her mejest. But somehow, she'd managed to find land on the very last second, only the tip of her finger had touched the ground.

Of course, making the Plunge and succeeding, then wounding up in the Voiceless Pits was enough indication of how much otsatyas and Destiny loathed Faolin.

Still, she sent up a silent prayer that her mother was alive. And prayed her father was burning in Saqa.

All four slaves brought to Cleystein were immortal, golden core in their eyes revealed that much. What she didn't comprehend was how in Ablaze Kosas did a human like Syrene Alpenstride make the Plunge.

Humans were near-rare on this planet, lived far from Vegreka. And otherwise.

Though Vegreka were all humans just the same, those with mejest in their veins, but with time, as the number of non-Vegreka—officially called Grestel—lessened, the word human came to be used for those without mejest. For cripples.

Yes, Grestel would be easy to enslave, but they were of no use. Too feeble and powerless for even slavery. So no one fiddled with them. They could go extinct and no one would care. Or even notice, given their tally these days.

Either way, Grestel could not make the Plunge, for they bore no mejest. How the Heir of Raocete attained immortality, it was beyond the bounds of Faolin's ken. Maybe that was why Syrene was convicted, for some forsaken process to gain immortality.