Dragonslayer releases March 11!

In Dri's world, dragons existed so long ago that nobody believes they were ever real, but Dri can see them. Shifted incorporeal, they still coexist with the people of Cretala, but now they feed off of their emotion, disease, and pain. One led Dri's brother to his death and another has sunk its talons into her mother. She is on a mission to discover how to finish them off once and for all. But, can one ever really slay their dragons?

All Dri is told is that her answers lie in Arlyss, an isolated kingdom that her ancestors were exiled from centuries before. Along her journey, she meets a diverse cast of characters who somehow find their way past her hardened defenses and into her heart. Though her sight allows her to see many of the struggles the world offers, her new friends show her that the best healing comes when we open ourselves up to the good... even when our best efforts don’t always measure up.

Keep reading to preorder, check out the map and pronunciation guide, and read the first two chapters!

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Map of Cretala

Pronunciation Guide

Dragonslayer Preview

Dragonslayer explores the intricacies of mental health and trauma. In order to be true to my story, this tale contains themes and descriptions that may prove unsettling or distressing for some readers. The following topics are explored: death, intrusive thoughts, suicide and suicidal thoughts, anxiety, grief, murder, vivid nightmare imagery, sexual assault (attempted), and transphobia.

Triggers are a complex matter. I have done my best to include all potentially distressing content, but not all might be listed here. Make the best choice for yourself on whether or not to proceed. If at any point, you feel my dragons hitting too close to home, please reach out to loved ones or professionals for support.

Chapter 1

ANDRIETTE FEIGHLI FOLLOWED HER OLDER BROTHER through the paths between shop stands, their stained and torn cloth roofs hanging haphazardly between the splintering wooden poles rammed into the sand. Sunslight would have cast beams down onto the vendors through the holes, sand floating amongst them like faerie dust, had it not been during a Chill. The young girl pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, glancing up at the twin suns, Cin currently eclipsing Olc.

As if sensing an inconsistency between what she had seen and perceived, she quickly looked back down the alley toward the next row. She was sure nothing or no one had been there a moment before.

The old crone who stood there now pulled a bundle from her bag and tossed it into the small fire in front of herself. The flames grew and smoke billowed as tiny sparks crackled to the desert floor below. Something about the process kept the young girl’s attention, and the crone’s voice drew her in further. She began to hum, her throat thick with sand and ash. As the old crone weaved her wrinkled claws through the smoke, the girl could see forms appearing.

“What’s that flying there?” the child breathed, now a mere footsteps away.

The crone studied her for a moment, a smile playing on her lips, before answering. “You see the dragons, girl?”

A chill raced along the girl’s skin as she wondered whether or not to run. She nodded her head once, her eyes never leaving the smoky, winged reptiles.

“C’mon, Dri,” her brother said, grabbing her wrist. He tried to pull her away, but she stood firmly in place. Did the tone in the beldam’s voice spook him, too? Or was it the figures that alarmed him?

“Do you see the dragons, J’?” she asked, mesmerized.

He sighed. “Dragons aren’t real and there’s nothing there, Dri.”

The crone weaved her hands through the smoke, shifting the image in answer before Dri could consider a reply. “Dragons have always existed, boy. Orbits ago they roamed free.” Dragons curled in the mountains of smoke looming above the fire. Figures appeared above the flames, knights adorned with swords.

“When their numbers thinned,” she continued, “the ones that survived were the ones that could resist.” When her eyes met Dri’s, the girl understood that her brother was unable to see them. The crone knew it, too. With her claws as their guide, the smoky dragons shrunk into the shadows, biding their time.

“That’s just a tale,” J’ scoffed.

The crone ignored his words but lowered the smoke and her voice. “They still exist, girl. Only now, their destruction is more intimate. They’re allowed to roam free because others are too frightened to believe. But you, girl; you’re fearless, aren’t you?”

Dri pursed her lips and swallowed back any trepidation she held, nodding. The crone’s head bobbed in agreement, then she placed a claw on the girl’s shoulder and pointed into the market. The girl’s eyes went wide as she followed the crone’s finger, seeing the movement in the shadows for the first time.

It only lasted for a moment, though, because J’ shouldered his cloth bag, scooped her up, and rushed her away from the perceived danger.

That night, Dri studied her brother while they ate. He kept quiet, his dark eyes on his small bowl of soup, and their mother didn’t attempt to stir up conversation, either. The warm mixture was almost the girl’s favorite part of Chill days, second only to getting to go into the darker sections of Sempala to trade. At ten orbits old, she was allowed to go as long as she followed J’s orders.

She hoped he wouldn’t sabotage that by telling their mother about the crone; in all fairness, she wondered if she would ruin that by asking their mother about dragons.

She managed to hold her questions for two more weeks, eleven days in which she had hoped to either grow accustomed to the idea on her own or get over it entirely. Where she had once walked the streets with her eyes set firmly in her imagination, she was now vigilant. She found that the more she searched for hidden winged creatures, the more she honed her skill at discovering them:

A yellow shape flitted at the edges of her sight when a trader opened his coat to offer up his wares, a smile that seemed to hide something more playing on his lips;

A maroon form hovered over a man’s shoulder, matching his angry glare when she backed into him;

Purple shadows flew after her as she rushed back to the safety of J’s side.

Had the crone awakened her senses or had she just been completely oblivious?

She saw them at home, as well.

Her mother would say something in passing, and she understood that J’ inferred something from it that she didn’t because a deep blue dragon that almost always remained hidden would poke its head out over his shoulder. A green one remained perched on her mother’s shoulder, its talons often digging into her skin as it arched its back to suck in the smoke that she blew out.

When J’ got up from the table that night and began to rinse his bowl at the bucket of water, their mother ducked her head down to meet Dri’s gaze. The girl’s eyes darted to her mother’s, and then back to where the green dragon had been before it had retreated into the shadows. Her mother straightened, but didn’t look away. The unspoken question hung between them: what has your focus?

A week before, on the last Chill, J’ had exacted a promise from her that she wouldn’t seek out the crone. She hadn’t wanted to agree, and had dodged what she viewed as a request with a question of her own.

“So you’re not going to tell Ma?” she’d asked.

He had hesitated, as though deciding whether to answer with the truth. “She has enough to worry about already,” he said without elaboration. What worries, she wasn’t sure, but she nodded her assent.

The message was clear: he wouldn’t tell their mother if she didn’t make things worse and, as a good daughter, she shouldn’t make things worse.

Sitting there, she wondered if answering her mother’s gaze would do just that.

J’ stepped out of the small home, and she was certain that he was standing at the railing outside the door that overlooked the street below. She decided to take the risk while they had privacy.

“Are dragons real?” she asked, timid. She wasn’t sure why she’d asked this way. Didn’t she already know that they were?

Her mother softened. “No, agra. It’s just an old legend.”

She felt her face harden. Was her mother lying, or did she just not know? Should she pretend to accept her answer or push for more? She wanted someone to confide in; could her mother be that for her?

She bit her lip, unsure. “I can see them,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. She looked up at her mother to gauge her reaction, but her focus shifted when she saw one of the purple dragons from the market coalesce to her mother’s left. It began to spin around her head, a practiced spider wrapping its prey tighter with each circle.

“You’ve always had a wild imagination,” she said as J’ stepped back inside. She didn’t sound like she believed her own words, Dri realized. At the time, the girl was too young to take note of her mother’s straight posture, held breath, and fixed gaze—these were not the mannerisms of someone waving away a child’s daydreams—but she still understood.

Her mother seemed as though she wanted her daughter to accept her words, to believe that she was imagining things, and move on. J’ watched them now, confused. Their mother had enough to worry about, even if she didn’t understand the particulars. Should Dri let this go?

“What’s going on?” her brother asked.

Her mother faked a laugh. “Dri’s daydreaming about dragons now.” Her eyes never left the girl’s. “Right, agra?” Again, she wanted her to agree. She looked to her brother, whose gaze bore into her. He wanted her to appease their mother, too.

She looked down at her hands, unable to say the words. She was not daydreaming, but she did not understand why nobody else could see the creatures.

She didn’t know then that the woman in front of her was thinking of her own mother. Neither Dri nor J’ had ever been told about their grandmother, a woman who had been killed long before they were born because of her ravings. She had done more than daydream about dragons; she had walked the streets of Sempala with the imaginary creatures perched on her shoulders and carried on conversations with them for all to see. The people of Sempala—ifri, all of Scrios—didn’t welcome that sort of nonsense.

Dri nodded her understanding, albeit minimal, if not her agreement. The purple dragon drifted away and her mother seemed to relax a little, believing her sincere. She knew that she might be able to pretend she didn’t see them, but that wouldn’t make them go away.

Chapter 2

ten orbits later
Dri could already feel the chill beginning to set in as she rushed home from her apprenticeship with Sempala’s only herbalist in the hazy light. Her loose clothing was practical for the usual heat of the desert, but that wasn’t the case now. She considered pulling the warm wrap from her bag, but she glanced up at the sky and hurried her pace instead of taking the time. Olc had almost completely eclipsed Cin, and she knew better than to be out late.

She wasn’t irrational enough to think that the old stories about Cretala’s twin suns held weight, but she also knew many in Scrios used them as an excuse to do as they pleased.

The two suns, she knew, were supposed to be brothers. Long ago, Dia, the creator, had many sons and gave each a galaxy to shine upon. However, when twin sons were born, they were both to share the same one. The firstborn, Cin, was said to represent good, whereas Olc stood for evil. Like many siblings, they fought and were caught in an endless battle over this galaxy. Every five days, one would best the other, causing an eclipse. Temperatures plummeted for a day and the only thing still running in Sempala on a Chill day would be the black market.

When it was Cin’s turn, everything remained normal, which was not to say safe. However, when Olc eclipsed Cin–when Evil blotted out Good–well, she knew to get home.

In fact, the only reason she was running late at all was because, on the last Olc Chill, the herbalist’s shop had been looted. Before they left for the day, Urd, her mentor, had split the stock between all of the apprentices for safe keeping. Homes were just as insecure, but at least they’d have someone to watch over them and one loss wouldn’t mean the entire stock would be depleted.

With a knowing look, the spry old human had given Dri the very medicines that her mother should be using:

Casacht, a root chopped into a powder for cough,

Fuil, a flower to be steeped into a tea for blood loss,

Anilu, a leaf to be boiled and breathed in to help the lungs expand,

Ainnise, a leaf to be chewed for pain.

Casacht was the only one of these native to the deserts of Scrios; the rest were smuggled in through the Islands of Ilea and Neart via contacts Urd had struggled to acquire orbits ago. The rarity of the herbs weren’t what kept her mother from using them, though. Dri hadn’t been able to decipher whether it was denial or avoidance, but the result was the same.

As she ran up the sun-dried brick stairs to their small set of rooms, deftly dodging the weak and cracked spots, she wondered whether she would find more success in subterfuge or strength of will. Should she offer to help with Chill soup and put on a pot of anilu, steep some fuil tea, and mix some casacht into her mother’s soup? Would her mother give in and accept the medicines if asked, or told, directly that they were a necessity?

Would J’ even allow the latter or would he step in so that their sick mother would not get worked up? As always, attempting to help might do more harm than good, to both her mother and brother.

No, she would get nowhere if she waited for permission. But did she have the courage to sneak them into her mother’s food? By giving Dri the herbs, Urd was recommending their use. Both the healer and apprentice knew that they would help. Still, Dri doubted her own judgment. After all, orbits later, despite knowing they were figments from her mind and doing her best to ignore them, she still saw the reptilian forms flitting on the edges of her vision.

Dri could hear Ma’s coughing before she pushed open the door. She entered, guided her mother to an old chair, and took her place at the cast iron pot hanging over the fire in one continuous movement. She lowered her bag to the top of the small shelf to her left and took over stirring while her mother caught her breath behind her. She hoped that her mother did not notice where she had placed her bag or that, if she had, she considered it a careless choice in her quick efforts to relieve her mother.

Tea was steeping next to the pot over the fire, the color dark and rich, so that would have to wait. She poured the liquid into a small, stone cup and placed it on the small table in front of her mother. Ma already had another basbata lit, sucking it in as though it contained the anilu she desperately needed. She turned back to the soup, pursing her lips to keep her thoughts from being spoken.

“Was it busy today?” Dri made herself ask. Her voice wasn’t as casual as she had hoped. She stepped over to the small basin they used for washing and scrubbed her hands with the block of gallua resting next to it. Unlike most in Scrios, her family spared water for regular bodily cleaning. Cleanliness was one of the first things she had learned as Urd’s apprentice; the healer always taught their apprentices to make gallua for their first lesson. Most things we treat, they had said, could have been easily prevented.

Ma sighed, but took a moment before responding. “You and J’ will have to be enough for a while.” Her voice was quiet, and her words turned down at the end.

Dri rested the wooden spoon across the top of the pot and turned back to her mother in question. When she didn’t back down, Ma met her gaze. “They don’t take kindly to blood stains in their laundry,” she said, firmer than before, then looked away again. Acknowledgement. Up until now, she had been able to keep her bloody cough hidden enough to maintain her job and avoid speaking of it. Dri was sure that Ona or Neti had noticed sooner, but they would have kept that knowledge to themselves. They were her mother’s body doubles when she worked, her constant accountability companions and lifelong friends.

Dri bobbed her head once in understanding and turned back to the pot, both glad her mother was aware of her sickness and ashamed that she had pushed her into talking about it.

“J’ should have been home by now, and the soup is ready,” she said quietly, changing the subject.

“We should go ahead and eat. He will get here,” Ma responded.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Dri moved her bag to the floor as though moving it out of the way, then bent to get two stone bowls from the bottom shelf. Dri could feel her heart pounding in her chest, threatening to give her away. With her body shielding her actions, she pulled the jar of casacht from her bag and shook some into one of the bowls. Before standing, she remembered the root’s bitter taste and shook some chopped walnut powder from another shelf into the bowl as well to mask the flavor.

Her own bowl resting on the top shelf, she spooned soup into Ma’s, hoping she hadn’t noticed her extra movements or, for that matter, her racing heart. Dri focused again on slowing her breathing and releasing the muscles in her forehead; if she didn’t relax, she’d give herself away. When it was full, she grabbed a spoon and stirred the mixture together, then turned back to the table and set it in front of her mother. After spooning soup into her own bowl, she sat in her seat across the table.

Dri had heard remarks all her life that she looked exactly like Ma had at her age. Things had changed.

Both women had fair skin, but her mother’s had a washed out pallor to it now. Likewise, their eyes were both brown but, while Dri’s were still a deep, rich color, her mother’s merely seemed flat. Though in need of washing, the younger’s light brown hair shone; that was not so for the older.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Ma commented. Dri nodded, realizing her mistake; she’d been too focused on observing Ma for signs that she noticed a taste difference.

“Just thinking back on my day,” she said, her pitch a little higher than normal. “It was busy today,” she added, balancing her deception with some truth.

A soft smile played on Ma’s lips. “Always is the day before Olc, it seems.”

When their bowls were empty, Dri washed them in the bucket to the right of the waning fire. The room was quiet, her mother’s coughs calmed by the hidden casacht she’d ingested. Once dried, the bowls were placed back on the shelf next to the third. Dri found herself staring at the closed door with her mother. J’ should be home by now. He could take care of himself, should he need to stay late at the blacksmith’s shop or want some time with friends afterwards. Neither of them would be worried if it weren’t Olc’s night.

A succession of knocks broke through both of their thoughts, and Dri jolted. She looked to her mother, who nodded then rose. She pulled the door open a wedge, peeking out into the darkness.

She recognized Nic instantly, and pulled the door open to let him inside. He and J’ had been friends for ages and both had apprenticed at Clay’s blacksmith shop together. They were now both artisans working under the blacksmith. The giant man often referred to them as his twins and lamented who would be given the shop whenever it was his time. In fact, the only major difference in their appearances was that J’ had pale skin like hers, whereas Nic’s was the shade of the walnuts she had used in her mother’s soup.

“Is J’ dead?” Nic laughed, looking around past Ma to the sleeping room.

“He’s not with you?” Ma asked, confused.

Nic’s brow furrowed. “He never came into the shop today. Clay and I were worried.”

“He left before I even woke up this morning,” Dri responded. A silence hung in the air for a moment while everyone attempted to decipher these facts.

“I’ll go look for him,” Nic said, already turning back towards the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Dri insisted, grabbing her bag from the floor; besides the herbs Urd had pushed upon her, she always kept basic aid materials with her. Nic started to object before glancing at the bag and nodding his assent. Between J’s disappearance and Olc’s eclipse, Dri feared her training would be needed, and J’ mattered more than the night’s danger.

At the bottom of the weathered stairs, Nic pulled the wooden post framing from the end of the railing. That length of wood had been the last of this part of the banister; as exposed to wind, sunslight, and what little rain they got as it was, it had broken apart long ago. Dri jumped back but did not protest. Her brother’s friend crossed the street to a group of raucous men sitting around a bonfire and shoved the railing into the fire, setting it ablaze. The men cursed, but Nic returned to her and the two set off before they could start anything.

First, they walked the path J’ would have taken if he had gone to the shop, presuming first that he had intended today to be ordinary and had gotten pulled away. With Nic lighting the way, they searched darkened alleys, ditches, and every crevice large enough to house a grown man. They uncovered many bundled up and hiding away, but none wore the face that Dri hoped for. The shadowy forms darting in and out of her view had grown in number tonight and were far more difficult to ignore. She couldn’t help but notice the wisp of one flitting along beside her, seemingly drawn by her worry.

Now was not the time for imaginary phantoms, she told herself as though she could push them away with her will alone; as always, it didn’t work.

Once at the blacksmith’s, Nic circumvented the shop and knocked on the door to the small house behind it. While Dri had come to visit her brother at the shop a few times, she had never known about the blacksmith’s home behind it. It was modest, she noted to herself, but upkept and far preferable to life in the tenements most of Sempala lived in, if they had a bed at all. Nic would never have pulled wood from this home for a torch, she noted bitterly.

Clay opened the door without hesitation, no doubt secure in the safety his size provided. “Nic?” he asked, confused, then glanced behind him to Dri.

Nic shook his head. “J’ left early this morning and never made it back home. We didn’t find him anywhere on the trip here.” An unasked question hung between the two men. Clay pressed his lips together, then nodded and stuck his head back inside his warm home. “I need to help Nic find J’. I’ll be back, Lyubov.”

They searched for hours, walking almost every street in Sempala while dodging mayhem. Most of what Dri observed seemed like a large, drunken celebration: mostly good-natured, while some segments let the lack of inhibitions guide them. She had no doubt, however, which side she would be a part of if she ever ventured out alone on an Olc Chill. She walked in the men’s long, flickering shadows to avoid testing her assessment.

Those who attempted to get in their way ultimately withdrew once they recognized Clay. He had built many relationships with the derelict town’s denizens. He clapped almost all of them on the back as he greeted them by name, carefully declined their invitations, and wished them merry fun before continuing on.

Soon, Nic and Dri found themselves sharing stories of their time with the man they searched for, their laughs carrying farther than their light as they relieved tension and hoped they might figure his location from one of their memories. In the end, memories didn’t help.

If J’ had a reason for ending up behind a neglected building, interchangeable with so many, it wasn’t clear.

Nic and Clay saw him first, and Nic’s curse drew Dri’s attention. Clay quickly turned to block the girl’s path. She was faster than he was, though, and she was soon around his bulk. Her brother was slumped against a wall on blood-stained sand. Dark, old blood. Blue, drained skin. He would have been cold to the touch, especially with the eclipse’s drop in temperatures, if any of them had dared to reach out.

“What did he use?” Nic muttered, using the makeshift torch to unsuccessfully search the gloom for a blade. Dri let her eyes flick to the three gouges down each of J’s arms. She knelt down in front of him, just outside of the dark sand, and studied his face. Somehow, she knew on instinct that neither man would find a weapon. As if in confirmation, two eyes opened to her brother’s left and settled on her.

For the first time in orbits, Dri let herself meet the gaze of one of these creatures, let herself question the doubt in herself. She could feel it weighing her as a new prey. It took a step forward, settling its front talons on her brother’s shoulder.

Was she what the smoky blue drake wanted?

Did it find inside her what it had in J’?

She wasn’t sure what was inside herself, nor what she should do. Had he been alive, had he had just a small dredge of life left inside, she could have clung to her training. She had feared the need for her experience, but now she yearned for that need. If she were needed, there could be hope.

There was no hope.

Dri shook in... she wasn’t quite sure. Sorrow? Desperation? Fear? She wasn’t sure it mattered.

Clay rested a hand on her shoulder, and she tensed, instantly pushing all of her feelings back down into the pit of her chrianam, her soul.

Dri felt hardened more than strong, empty more than calm. She studied the dragon on J’s shoulder. If she were honest with herself, which she wouldn’t allow herself to be, she might as well be a hollow, abandoned crusca drifting along the sand dunes on the wind, without any life inside left to protect.

When Dri awoke the next morning, she did not open her eyes. It was dark, the lack of sunslight unconsciously signaling her brain that she did not need to be up yet. She pulled her blanket closer, fighting against the cold, then folded it over itself again to cover the hole in the middle that was letting frigid air inside her burrow.

Before she could drift off again, she heard footsteps and soft voices in the kitchen. Darkness and cold, but her family was awake: Chill day. She groaned internally and rolled onto her back, letting her eyes flutter open.

Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Her head ached. She winced and reached up to massage her forehead, but her fingers froze when she remembered what had provoked this. She opened her eyes again and stared at the wall to her left.

J’ was dead.

A memory of her brother appeared, vibrant in her mind, but she pushed it away. Like she always had. She realized that, closed her eyes, and conjured it back. He was leaning against the railing outside the door, staring out into the dark night and stuck in his thoughts.

She had stayed late with an injured patient that day and, upon seeing him there, had studied him from the darkness below. His brows were furrowed, but his empty eyes told her it wasn’t anger or frustration she was seeing. It was an emotion she had never seen cross his face, even though he was her brother and they were allowed those emotions inside their home.

Grief.

She had rushed up the stairs to get to him, but the moment he saw her, his face shifted back into easy happiness. She had wondered how often he had held that mask in place for them, but she had let the thought go. She had seen those same eyes studying her from behind his shoulder, but she had always looked away.

It would be easy to push blame and remind herself that she had been told to stay quiet, told she was imagining things. She had been a child, obeying orders and doing her best not to add more worries to those she cared for. She knew that she could have reached out without mentioning the creatures only she could see. She thought she was respecting him by giving him space. Whenever she pushed, he would give her that look that told her to back down, and she did every time. She had intended to avoid confrontation, to keep from adding undue stress, to not make things worse for him.

She held her breath as each excuse tempted her to release the blame, reminding her that she’d had good intentions. When she could hold the breath no longer, she let it out in a big rush, her eyes wide open as though insisting she see the truth:

No, she had not been respecting him or trying to do the right thing. She was a conflict avoidant coward who hadn’t been brave enough to do what needed to be done.

She knew, in her chest where a pain was beginning to blossom, that his death was her fault. She was certain that she could have prevented it, if only. Wasn’t she the one that could see these things, after all?

That was just one more example of something she refused to acknowledge. She was too much of a coward to be honest with herself about who she was, instead choosing to accept what others fed her so that she would not cause problems.

Slowly, Dri let her eyes drift upwards and looked without flinching away at the smoky reptiles that she had refused to see for orbits. Eyelids blinked over inky eyes, watching her in return.

What else had she overlooked and failed to act upon?

As if in answer, her mother’s racking cough broke through her thoughts. She pushed her blanket to the corner of her bed and stood, pulled on her pants, and strode into the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Nic sitting at the table with her mother, in J’s chair. Instead of meeting his gaze, she turned towards the fire. Nic had probably kept it going overnight to keep the rooms warm. She cleansed her hands in the basin before filling the smaller pot from the fresh water bucket that Nic had most likely filled early this morning, and hooked it above the fire.

Without hiding her actions, but without announcing them either, Dri pulled fuil and anilu from her bag where it was hanging from her chair at the table. She poured the delicate fuil petals into the water to steep. Then she retrieved a leata from the storage bin, filled the elongated pot with water, and hung it next to the first. Once the water had begun to boil, she ripped the anilu leaves into strips and dropped them inside.

The leaves’ aroma permeated the room immediately, and she could feel her own chest and sinuses open and clear. Once the fuil tea was steeped, Dri strained it into her mother’s stone cup and gently handed it to the silent woman. She took it and sipped, but she did not speak. Her mother’s dragon hissed at the cup and retreated. After a long moment, she pushed aside her reservations. J’ wasn’t here to look at her with scorn, she noted ruefully.

“How is your pain today?” she asked, then quickly clarified, pushing back her emotion. “Physical pain.”

Her mother shook her head, unable to meet her daughter’s gaze. “I’m struggling to differentiate the two at the moment.” Her voice was broken, raspy. She took another sip.

Nic, unsure what part he should play in the conversation, stayed silent. J’ had no doubt confided in him about his mother’s sickness, or at least Dri assumed so. She had gone to Urd and the other apprentices for advice, after all.

She pulled three ainnise leaves from her bag and set them on the table in front of her mother. “You can chew these for pain. Only swallow what goes down your throat on its own.”

The woman took another sip without a word. “Do you have more of whatever you hid in my soup last night, agra?” she asked after a moment.

Dri’s eyes jolted upwards in surprise, but her mother didn’t respond, so she sighed and pulled the jar from her bag. “Casacht,” she said. “For your cough.”

Her mother nodded, lips pressed together. “It worked.”

Dri closed her eyes shut, holding back the tears that wanted free. Would her mother have accepted these medicines this easily before, or did it take J’...

She took a ragged breath before finishing her thought. Did it really take J’ dying for their mother to drop her defenses and openly accept help?

A sob escaped, but she would not let herself cry. She lowered her gaze to her lap, closing her eyes to push the pain back down into the dark. Nic slid his chair closer and rested a hand on her shoulder, in reassurance or commiseration she wasn’t quite sure. She shook her head once, curt, and looked up at her mother again, hardened once more.

That evening, in the hour or so after Cin reemerged but before the twin suns made way for the moons and stars, they gathered on a dune on the outskirts of Sempala. The wind was in their favor, blowing against their backs out into the open desert.

Clay carried J’s body the entire walk, having first bandaged his arms to ensure no blood would be seen. Dri’s mother gripped her daughter’s hand far too tightly to steady her sudden vertigo when the blacksmith carefully rested her son on the sand. He bent J’s arms and placed his hands, palms up and open, on his chest. With care, he placed a bit of cloth inside them. Dri blinked back the tears that threatened to surface, holding her mourning inside as well.

She wondered if those around them studied her brother or her mother and her. She wondered if they noticed the family’s fortitude and stood in solidarity as they awaited her mother’s assent.

Scrios may have been a land of exiles with no king or queen to speak of, but it still had its customs and norms. Strength and resilience were not only honored, but often required for survival. Mourning, like most non-aggressive emotions, was kept to private spaces, only visible in public on rare occasions.

When Dri’s mother nodded to Clay, he pulled bits of rock and metal from a pocket, knelt next to J’s body, and sparked a flame onto the cloth in his hands. Before it spread, he scattered a fine mist of ocher grit over the body and then stepped back.

Dri’s thoughts drifted and she let them, knowing the effort helped reserve her emotions. An outsider from The Islands of Ilea, Neart, or Arlyss would have had questions as they observed the attendees standing in silence, bearing witness as the flames slowly overtook the body. No words were spoken, and no further emotion was outwardly performed. In those kingdoms, more was expected.

However, in Scrios, nothing in the farewell was for those who remained. After J’s skin and organs disintegrated, the flames began to burn blue and crumble his bones. Each of them spoke their final words to him in their minds, sending their messages from their chrianams to his as it joined with his ashes in the wind and mingled with the sand and air of their land.

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