Young Writers Society

Week Seventeen Writing - 1052 words

Leigh woke up late that day, feeling like absolute death. His head pounded with a beat similar to the rights long ago where he had a bit too much fun at the local tavern. Most of all, though, he felt completely drained. Completely and utterly drained. Not only did his body beg him to go back to sleep another night or another thousand nights, but his mind was as crashed out as the shallow cave rocks after high tide. It took several extra tic tingly long moments for Leigh to untangle himself from his covers. Ie He swung his legs over the straw and cool bed end struggled to sit up. His limbs didn't want to work with him.

He sighed and heaved himself up.

On days like this one, Leigh just had to put a few things on the forefront of his mind. This had started when he was young. Vera implemented a set of basic instructions for him when he first started relearning so many things that had been robbed of him.

Get up, let the morning in.

Leigh opened curtains on the small window by his bed. The first wisps of sun light filtered through the thick, uneven glass, casting rays of various colors onto his room. The hinge to open the window itself as just outside of his reach from his position on his bed. Leigh's struggle to reach the window caused a involuntary spasm in his body that ended in a very long stretch. A yawn capped it off and Leigh rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and forced his legs to stand.

He opened the window and cold at salty air buffeted his face and burned his nostrils. He took a step back and examined himself in the large i reported mirror. A gift from Vera. Appearances were important for finding a good wife, of course. Leigh didn't know about that.

He inspected the reflective version of himself. He was shirtless, as that was the only way he could sleep without sweating like crazy. His shoulders looked swollen compared to his stomach, with lines around his armpits shoving the efforts of the warmer months. So much exhausting work, but he guessed he had something to show for it. Leigh's eyes travelled lover and rested on the disgustingly large scar just above the navel.

When he was younger, the muscles in his stomach were defined enough that the scar hid itself for the most part, But now, his muscles were surrounded by a healthy layer of flesh; the signs of actually being able to eat. So, the scar stood out like a blight on his body. Even after all these years. Which was more apparent, the Sco on his body or the scar on his mind? He ran his fingers through his black hair. and lightly shook the knots out of it from the last night's sleep. Grabbing a brush from a small pedestal and combed it through his hair, repeating the process more thoroughly. After hastily tying it up, he splashed water on his face from a bout by his bedside. The water was strikingly cold and it shocked any remaining sleep from him.

While this routine couldn't prepare him for today, it was enough to get him back into the state where he could she/to himself. Numb, but he couldn't afford to feel anything.

Not today.

He dressed himself, worn clothes but not the same ones from the night before. Looking around, those soaking wet clothes had vanished. That meant a couple of things: that Vera had woken up before he had, Vera had also entered his cabin sometime why he us asleep. and that she had taken upon herself to keep after him like he us a child again. It must be giving her comfort. Leigh gave himself one last look in the mirror. His face looked sunken in, the morning sun casting state shadows udv his eyes and jawline. He hadn't tried to share his facial hair in weeks, but thankfully it only grew in patches around his chin and upper lip, like a cradle highlighting his cracked lips. Dark eyes stared back at him, but he found no life in those eyes. It was as if a spirit inhabited him, haunting the shadows and crevices of his face, only visible to Leigh when he viewed his own eyes. When he viewed himself, it was not him he saw, just an echo of a past he tried to forget and erase. So, instead of dreading the whole picture, he examined details of himself.

Good enough. Some people found them appealing, and they could do so for Leigh. He forced a smile on his face for a moment, and grimaced at how fake it looked.

With that, he left his cabin. Sure enough, he was the last to wake. The children were playing in the grain field. their heads bobbing over the youthful shoots. Upon further inspection, he found Vera bending over the voloor pen, dumping pale paste into the troughs. She stood up and stretched, hands digging into her back. Her eyes scanned the wheat fields, no doubt counting the kids, making sure none of them vanished under a variety of mysterious circumstances. Her eyes wandered, and she found Leigh. A smile cracked upon her face, and she waved him over. As he got closer, he noticed a shadow behind her smile, lying deep in her eyes. It felt twisted, but Leigh felt glad he wasn’t alone in his loneliness.

"Good, youre awake!" she shouted over the bleating of the voloor. "Come help me with feeding the animals. I've done most of it, bat the chales still need their feed." she sighed and dropped the pail by her side. "If you do that, I can get started with for of our our."

Leigh. nodded. "Good morning," he said hollouly. "Good morning.

“I let you sleep in. Figured one of us should try to get some rest."

A chuckle escaped Leigh." Doesn't feel like it."

"Yeah." She sucked in a large breath, steadying herself. She blinked away tears and smiled again. "All right, let's get to it. Lots to do today."

Vera and Leigh's eyes lingered on each other for a moment, and she ducked under the gate and left him there, alone.

Week Eighteen Writing - 1035 words

If anything had changed on the Krieves farm, it had not reached the farm animals, as they started the day like it was any other day: they were hungry. As Leigh Headed to the rest of the animals, he figured out why Vera busied herself with these tasks out of all the morning duties: it brought a brutal normality that shoved every thought and worry out of his mind as he tended to the simple needs of those who relied on them to live. Farm animals didn't think. Farm animals didn't worry. They didn't have to, because every single thing they might have worried about in the wild was cared for them meticulously. They didn't have the foresight to fear the unknown, or have the fear of being coddled just long enough for them to not lift an eye to a knife in their back. When Leigh finally found a rhythm in his new home, he couldn't stay still. He couldn't get comfortable enough to trust people around him, even when they gave him everything he could have needed and more.

He waited for the knife, and he knew it needn't even come from behind.

He made quick enough work of finishing what Vera had started. After he finished with coralling the animals into the grazing fields for the day, the house had started steaming with the smells and smoke of Vera's cooking. Leigh rounded up the kids and sent them scurrying back to the house. It was mostly the prospect of food that got them running back inside, but Leigh had to start the process. The mind of a child was often driven by whatever was in front of them. If they weren't aware of the food calling their names, they would be distracted by the business of their own fun, wrapped up in it so entirely that they weren't even aware of any immediate dangers. Leigh wondered of his times like that. They seemed so far gone, he didn't know if he even had times like that.

Leigh was the last to reach the house. He let the kids chase him to there, but he wasn't really trying. Of course, they hadn't noticed, besides the always observant Phara. She had waited at the doorstep for him and held his hand so they entered together. He guessed that in her little mind, he didn't have to lose, or at least he didn't have to lose alone. She was more thoughtful than the others, and perhaps more thoughtful than himself, even. She was wise, well beyond her years. Maybe she had to grow up, like he did. Different circumstances, yes, but he sensed more of himself in her. Or, at least, the parts of himself that were forced out of him.

Phara let go of his hand to sit next to Vera, and Leigh sat next to... next to an empty seat that he could not get himself to sit in. He positioned himself so that he could see Vera more directly, as she stood and dished out the food. Today, it was scrambled eggs from the farm, perhaps ones she collected herself this morning, and some hard bread that was slathered in fat, rendering it warm and juicy, a nice addition. She met eyes with him for a moment, and he made sure to divert his attention to the food she was handing out. He picked up his plate and dished out a good amount for himself. Once he stopped, she stuffed more onto his plate. Leigh raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it. And no answer was offered either, as she moved onto the kids to his right.

Vera finally settled into her own seat, and the kids digged in. As Leigh looked down at the food, he found that his appetite was battling with something else inside him. He was hungry, but something bubbled up inside of him, making him feel sick to his stomach. How could the meal right in front of him both appeal to him and disgust him at the same time? Why was his mouth salivating while his stomach twisted and knotted, with some kind of sick assurance that whatever got past his mouth would not stay in the stomach for long.

He glanced up and saw Vera's eyes upon him as she chewed off a piece of her bread. He avoided the lingering question her sight presented by taking a swig from the thick glass. The cold water shocked his mouth and throat, and felt more like sludge going down than any liquid that was meant to go down. He placed the mug down and stared at a point somewhere in the middle of his plate, knowing that Vera was still staring at him. Under her scrutiny, he felt like he was a child again, refusing to eat out of some childish pride more than anything actually appropriate to the situation.

"Eat up," Vera directed, and Leigh's vision unfocused. Unable to do anything else, or perhaps a part of him unwilling to disobey his parental figure, he spooned a mouthful of eggs into his mouth. The motion was one of habit, one of dodging questions and ducking under glares, of using food as an immediate outlet of avoidance, even when he wasn't hungry or knew his stomach would make him come to regret it later. Leigh's eyes flickered over Vera, but her attention wasn't even on him anymore; her order was never for him. She was fussing over one of the younger kids, making sure he would actually eat his food and swallow over his own fussing.

Once the first bite settled into his stomach, he found it easier to accept the second one, or perhaps he had been able to ignore his own body's objections over the orders of his mother.

"So, Leigh," Vera said nonchalantly, picking up her own glass and bringing it to her lips. Before she took a sip, she added, "Are you packed and ready?"

"What?" Leigh said. He didn't know if his brain failed to register what she said or if he hadn't quite heard her correctly.

"I said, are you packed and ready to go? Isn't the caravan leaving today?"

Week Nineteen Writing - 1130 words

Leigh tried not to choke on his drink.

"I... I'm not sure," he said truthfully. Well, partially. In total honesty, he really didn't think about the carriage or caravan whatsoever. That was the absolute least of his worries. It was a childish thing to believe, but a part of him didn't think the world would continue, or perhaps he didn't want it to continue. Somewhere, the world did stop, a chunk of it. Everytime someone he knew died, he lost a part of himself. How many could he give until he no longer had anything left?

Vera went on with her speech like she didn't suspect a thing, or if nothing out of the ordinary happened. "I know it was optional for you to tag along the caravan before, but I think you need to go. With the current circumstances, the caravan will be lightly manned. It'll need all the help it can get." She stabbed a piece of egg and chewed it matter-of-factly. Leigh stared at her with a mixture of shock, surprise, and something else... was it disgust? Admiration? She was able to hide her emotions far better than he could.

The prospect of escorting the caravan like nothing had happened, nothing had changed, did not appeal to him. The weight of all who were not there would plague the people and make the journey an absolute nightmare. He could think of at least a dozen different things he would like to do more, and one of them probably included literal torture. There was especially one person whose absence would be felt the most. Leigh was not Krieves, and he would make a horrible replacement.

In the back of his mind, an idea flared to life. At first, it was a flicker, barely a flame, but it could get him out of running the caravan. He just had to approach it the right way. If he didn't, the idea would be doused before it got any traction.

He mulled over Vera's words, pretending to give them thought, while he toyed with his food. In reality, it wasn't what Vera had said that he was thinking over, but his own thoughts that run through his mind. The largest obstacle was how he would be able to explain away what he would do if not going with the caravan to Djavaleer.

An excuse reared its ugly head, and Leigh had to force himself to keep his food down. The imense urge for the world to tilt and collapse in on itself around him was all he could think about for a split moment. But, that moment passed. The idea itself formed more clearly, into images, then thoughts, and eventually words.

"I was thinking of going to old coast today, actually." The words did not feel real, did not feel like they were coming out of his mouth. He had to remind himself that it was actually him talking, but the words felt so foreign to him a part of him didn't believe he was actually saying it.

Judging from Vera's shocked expression, those words were actually said aloud. Perhaps she couldn't believe he said that, either. Before he could stop himself or stop to think about what he was saying, more words spilled out like vomit. "I've been thinking about it for a bit, but I think today gave me the..." not strength. He was weak for not wanting to go to the caravan, and he was even weaker for using this as an excuse to not go. "I think I need to go. If not today, I don't know when."

Through the excuse, through the false narrative, Leigh could feel that something from within him was actually speaking truth. He did want to go, he had just not known it until he said it, or perhaps he had shoved the prospect down so much that he had all but forgotten about it.

Leigh continued without his own will. "Perhaps the kids would like to visit Djavaleer? See all that Apa has done with the city." Immediately, the kids all piped up with their various versions of excitement.

Vera's expression of shock had shifted and disappeared once her children spoke up, and she shifted into full parental mode. Her face formed a stone wall that betrayed no emotion. "We'd have to make sure the caravan takes the safe route if we were to bring kids along. But... I suppose it would be nice to have a change of scenery. But!" she shouted above the kids' excitement, "I'm not saying yes just yet. There's adult things that need to be done before... but make sure to eat up because you all have to pack."

Leigh felt the excitement rise and die down around him, not letting his eyes leave Vera's. He no longer had any appetite, or any figment of appetite anymore. He couldn't bother to try at that point. Just drinking the water was like forcing sludge down his throat. Vera was busy with her own food, but she locked eyes with him for a moment, and the stoney look behind her eyes told him in very concrete terms that they had a talk waiting for them.

Leigh tossed his utensil around the plate as his thoughts meandered. He took a risk with his compromise, or proposed alternative. He quite clearly threw Vera out in the cold with his idea. Since they were the only two adults in the room, they couldn't talk openly about what he had just done, but they both knew it was a gambit. And they both knew that there were ulterior motives to why he didn't want to join the caravan's journey to Djavaleer. Leigh couldn't guess what Vera thought his reasonings were, but he hoped she didn't think he was just doing it because he wanted to sleep in or something. There was a difference between the want to not go and the need to not go, and, although he couldn't quite put words to his reasoning, he was sure it was more of the latter. Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to just sit in bed and not think about the actions of today or the needs of tomorrow, but he also felt a serious wrongness about going to the caravan.

Well, he knew one thing. He wanted desperately to go with Krieves, to take his place, or to somehow stop the war entirely so his family could be together and pretend like nothing was wrong. He knew that wasn't happening, but another version of him knew that he couldn't go with life as it was, as life wasn't the same anymore. Something had fundamentally changed, and it wasn't Krieves leaving. It was something inside him, and he had to figure it out.

Week Twenty Writing - 1010 words

As breakfast finished and the kids went along with their duties, they chattered about the prospect of going to Djavaleer, Leigh never kept his sight off of Vera completely. She didn't seem all that bothered by the aspect of her taking all the kids along with her to the town her husband was involved in making. It would not be a reprieve for her. It would just be a reminder of everything, on a much larger scale than the house. She busied herself with cleaning off Roran’s face as he finished up his version of the food, a mash of eggs diluted by some water.

Leigh picked up his own cutlery and herded the other kids to put their plates in the wash basin. Leigh scooped the leftover food onto a bowl and handed it to Pharah, who wordlessly accepted it and left. If she felt any emotion about going to Djavaleer, she never showed it. She was created differently than other kids. Leigh wondered what kind of person she could grow up to be. He sourly thought that perhaps he could have had the maturity she did if he had a secure childhood. She could grow up into ten times an adult than he was currently.

Leigh had gotten lost in his own thoughts, because he realized, far too late, that he had stopped keeping track of Vera, because she popped up next to him at the crash basin, with a bucket of steaming water. She flashed him a warm smile that he didn't fully believe. As the both of them started the process of cleaning the remnants of breakfast off of the cutlery and dishes, Leigh kept Vera in his periphery. He didn't plan to make the first move. Vera was about as harmless as a viper that you had just caught eye of, exiting in the thicket for someone as us respecting as you were before you noticed. To speak now would reveal his intentions.

Vera picked up a bowl, and, as she inspected it, she spoke." You know, we had a conversation that were going to continue that was stopped here." She wasn't talking about that conversation. She didn't care about that topic anymore. At that very moment. Leigh would much rather talk about girls instead of what they would inevitably end up talking about. Well, it would be a decent way to segue into it.

"So, we want to talk about girls? There might be some decent options in Djavaleer."

Vera scoffed. "There may be, if you were to be joining us in Djavaleer." She glared at him , bemusedly.

He set that up but what she said still made him feel anxious. Leigh said nothing, preferring to amuse himself by washing a stubborn piece of food.

Whatever Vera carted to say, she would eventually say it. And so she did. The words poured out from her, and endless spilling that barely left room for a breath. "Why don't you want to go? I keep turning it over in my head. Do you just not want to take the caravan or go through the journey or do you just not want to go to the city? Do you actually want to go home?" Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper at that last word.

Leigh had to suck in a breath before he could begin to answer that question. "I didn't want to go to Djavaleer, I don't want to go. "He hesitated. "I'm not sure if I want to go... back there." He couldn't bring himself to speak the word home out loud. That wasn't his home anymore; it had not been for a long time. But... “I think I have to, or should. "Leigh sighed.

There was so much that he needed to convey, but the words could not do it justice, and they weren't even able to come out in general. Instead, something else came out. “'I can’t stay here anymore." And Leigh so desperately coated that to tell Vera everything that he could not.

Surprisingly, when he looked back at Vera, he saw understanding in her eyes. Far more understanding than he thought she would show. Maybe that was why she wasn’t all that upset that he volunteered her to go to Djavaleer instead of him. Maybe he had just… spoken into words all that the both of them had felt ever since the presence of Krieves had abandoned the house before that morning. The house had stop being a home for them, and the emptiness that came out of that expanded more and more until it felt like an unending hole that would consume them if they stayed any longer. This home would only become a home once again if they were all under the same roof.

Vera had stared into Leigh’s eyes with an emotional and knowing look before her vision lowered and she stared into the distance vacantly. During that moment, a flood of words washed over them and between them without either of them having to utter anything. Leigh stared at the bowl he had in his hand, his attention lazily fixating upon the floating bubbles bouncing around the border of the bowl. It had been far too long since he had done so much as explored past Averdion or Djavaleer. He had ran away multiple times when he was younger, and the further that he left home, the more lost he felt. Oftentimes he would end up regretting his decision and he would have to learn the hard way and it would end up scarring him in a new, unique way that he had not thought possible. How many scars could one person accumulate before they were no longer recognizable.

“Tell me,” Vera spoke softly, wavering it like she had just cried, “please, tell me. When you leave, will you come back?”

Leigh went to answer but she stopped him. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. When you come back, will you still be my boy? Will you return as Leigh… or as Ryun?”

Week Twenty One Writing - 1048 words

Now that was a name that he had not heard said out loud in a very long time.

Leigh had to catch himself from visibly recoiling from the question. It was as if someone had struck him, solidly, on the chest. He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles clasped in tight whiteness.

Vera clasped his shoulder with a warm embrace only a mother could give, but it still sent shockwaves that rippled through him and sent shivers through his body. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, just yet. He had not even thought of it that way, but he supposed it made sense. It was the natural conclusion a rational mind would lead to as someone did when Leigh spoke about going back to… well, he supposed if something was going to come out as it had, then he should be able to stomach thoughts about it all. Home. His childhood home. He was wanting to go visit the place that burned to ashes twenty years ago, when he was left for dead and who knows what happened to his childhood friend. Something even worse, no doubt.

He had to speak carefully, lest everything spilled out incomprehensibly, vomiting out of him like a waterfall of emotion and futility. So, Leigh sucked in a breath and forced himself to stare at the sudsy water in front of him. “I think… I do not know why I want to go back to my childhood home. At worst, it will remind me of everything I lost and send me back in a stupor. At worst, nothing good will come of it and I will be reminded that nothing actually matters because everything I know and have loved was ripped from me.”

Leigh had to catch his breath as it faltered, threatening to give out completely to sobs. Vera said nothing as he talked. Just as he had given her the space to work through her thoughts out loud the night before, she was giving him the space he needed to realize what he needed to say, both to himself and to her.

“For the longest time, Vera, I think I spent life like it was frozen still. Like nothing truly mattered since everything was lost. I think I had gone day by day until the days blurred together and the nights no longer mattered. Not… truly living.”

Leigh had to stop again, for his hands were trembling so bad that it echoed through his arms. He wanted to sit, but if he had tried, he most likely would have fallen, right then and there, and did not care if he got back up or split his head apart. After several breaths had went in and out, he felt like he could try to speak again.

“I… wasn’t living a life. I was surviving and struggling at that. I was faking it the entire time, but the facade worked. It worked for me, and it worked for you and Krieves. It was all a tall tale, a long story of make-believe, and I wanted to believe it. Gods, I really wanted to believe it. I guess I had given you the experience you needed to move on with your lives and actually make life from that. But, life never moved on for me. I never had the chance. I think… I think a part of me died that night. Or, a part of me lost the will to live anymore.”

Leigh bowed his head, the full weight of what he was saying beginning to register on him. It was if he had aged each word he spoke to Vera. The weight of his sacrifice and trauma catching up to him over all the years.

He sighed, blowing out the breathe consciously and purposely until there was no more air in him. Then he sucked in, quick and quietly, and turned to look Vera directly in the eyes. They stayed like that for a long moment, and then he embraced her, whispering into her ear. These words would not stand to be said aloud, for the meaning of them could break families apart and crush lives decades in the making. But, soft and silent, they whimpered along the wind in a voice that accepted only the most quiet of answers to the most timid of questions.

Later that morning, as everyone had finished their morning chores, Vera had begun to pack bags for all the kids, and check the progress of their duties. Most kids knew what they wanted to bring along to Djavaleer, and most of it was what was expected, like toys or memorabilia and the such, so they didn’t actually pack the things that they needed to bring along on such a journey like this one. Vera dragged along behind them, packing clothes and other needed things for each pack. Then she tugged some tough jerky out of the cellar and packed it along with them in case any of the kids were hungry and wanted to take initiative and get themselves something to eat. After that came more meal prepping for the road. Most of it was hard cheese or hard breads, things that wouldn’t soften up and expire over the journey into town.

At the same time, Leigh was packing his own supplies, in the small shack next to the Krieves house that he had called home since it was made. His packing was a different one, though. Not just a trip for the road. Everywhere he looked in the small house, he saw his past splattered on every wall, on every chair, on every cushion. A fake life.

And, so, while Leigh packed, he removed any and every presence of his life from the cabin. He removed the lies, the trauma, the covered up secrets and left behind skeletons. Leigh was not just packing for a journey, he was packing up any resemblance of himself to try and begin anew.

He stood at the entrance to the Krieves household and smiled warmly at Vera, the whispers of his truth settling on his ears and his mind and he turned to leave.

“If I return as Leigh, I will have returned a failed man. If I return as Ryun, I return someone just beginning their journey.”

Week Twenty Two Writing - 1064 words

Leigh's journey started, as it did so many times before, on a rocky path that led down to the shore. However, this time he went south. The Krieves household lay on top of a weathered cliff, overlooking the ocean, so any trail besides a few were steep and treacherous. No one really went south, as both Averdion and Djavaleer were to the north of the farm, and barely anyone bothered to visit the farm. And the Krieves sure didn't have a reason to go south.

All that the south held were bad memories and ghosts. And Leigh knew better than most of that information.

And yet, he was still taking the journey south. All morning, he juggled with the prospect of him wanting to visit his childhood home, but he couldn't place why he wanted to, or why he felt like he needed to. He knew... he knew something. Something was there; it had to be. Something was calling him there, like he needed to reveal something or something needed to be revealed to him, something crucial that he had been missing this entire time and had just forgotten. What a cruel fate that the so called secret his mind was forcing upon him would only be revealed South.

Leigh jumped off a particularly large pile of rocks and his feet met the actual shoreline of the sea. Small granuals of sand, both soft and hardened by the weather over the years, greeted his sandals with the all too familiar sound of a crunch. While the sound was more like cutting into a harden and stubbornly old piece of bread, the feeling of walking along the shoreline was more akin to the warm embrace of a youthful, newly born bread, still steaming from baking in the morning. The intense bitterness of the sea battered his nose and stinged the inside of his nostrils, flaring them to life.

Something about the sea had always ignited all of Leigh's senses. The rustling of the waves crafted his hearing to be atuned to the slightest noise, going past the roars of the water itself. He could hear the splash of water against the more resilient pieces of rock that still kept a hold onto the shore. He could listen into the morning calls of kinship between the seabirds as they began their morning duties. He could even hear the rustling of the wind against the harsh sprouts of green that tried their hardest to grow in the harsh conditions of the sealine.

The one sense he often neglected during these times was his sight. While he couldn't force himself to watch the water, he did keep it in his periphery. Usually, he wouldn't even be able to do that, but this time around, his mind was preoccupied.

The further south he trekked, the harsher the cliff line was and the shorter the shoreline was. However, the sands were far easier to go through than the hilly and sometimes mountainous area past the cliffs. He would walk the shore as much as he could before he attempted to scale the cliff again. Thankfully, the crimson blood rock of the cliffs had a particular resistance to the wear of water and salt, so they did not dull nearly as fast as other rocks, and they stayed dried. Leigh wondered if they did it out of stubbornness, like everything else around here. The sea forced that out of everything --and everyone-- that wanted to stay here. Leigh was no exception to that rule.

The water began to meet him where he was walking. He felt it first as it kissed the bottom of his boots. He didn't want to risk a high tide washing him out to the sea, so he began his climb then and there. Strapping his bag across one shoulder and buckling the bottom of it around his waist, he tugged a glove over his free hand and meticulously scaled the cliffside. As he lurched from one arm to the other, the bag bounced against his back, straining against its restraints. It only caused him a minor annoyance, as the two straps kept it from doing any severe damage to his back. The cliff rocks were an unsual substance, as the dull red color on the outside only hinted at the true color of the stone. Once cracked or weathered enough, a deep and gleaming crimson shone through that caught the sun and not the sea. As a result, the shinier parts of the rock were sharp and hot to the touch, and sometimes brittle enough to break away under Leigh's gloved grip, revealing even more of the bloody rubble beneath.

When Leigh was younger, he would hear stories about the cliffs from travelers. They would come to the shore to view these cliffs and said they were famous in other parts of the country. But they were also a bad omen to outsiders. They called them the Blood Cliffs, and that they had gained that color over centuries of war that spilled all the way from sea to the most inner parts of the land. They said these cliffs were haunted by those less fortunate. Oddly, none of these stories ever came from Leigh's hometown itself. The adults scoffed at them and the elders frowned and swatted away any outsider who tried to scare the kids with their stories. Leigh had never given the stories any credence, but he was of the few kids that didn't.

That was, until his hometown was wiped off the cliffside and he was taken with it. Now, Leigh didn't believe in the fairy tales, but he knew the truth that was hidden in each of them, like a sinister spark that people couldn't get themselves to admit or believe so they crafted make believe because that was safer. When they got scared or unsettled, they could step away and create that barrier between them and the tale, because it just wasn't true.

Leigh knew better. He lived the stuff of nightmares. But, his hometown would never become a fairy tale. It would never be in anyone's stories. It didn't even have a name. It was only known to those who lived there as...

Leigh climbed over the final precipice of the cliffside and his hands dug into dark gray soot and his nose smelled the faint residue of ash.

Home.

Week Twenty Three Writing - 1045 words

Leigh scrambled to his feet, his boots settling into the thick layer of soot. It embraced him with a sickly sweet welcome, as if it told him that this was where he truly belonged. It wasn't a welcome, or even a welcome back, but a welcome home...

The village had sat in a natural dip in between the cliffs: nestled in between small mountains so most any waterways naturally flooded either into the town and saturated the crops or funneled into the ocean. It made for plentiful crops all season long, at least that us what Leigh was told when he was a child.

He just remembered the ground always being muddy. ...That was what Ryun was told. Not Leigh.

He supposed he had to get used to that name again. If he was honest with himself, he didn't know if he could get used to that name again. He had been going by Leigh for as long as he had been with Vera and Krieves. It was the first name he could think of, and it had just stuck. Ryun felt so long away, it was like a different person. It was like a different person because Leigh had purposely made it that way. He was a different person then Ryun had been, but Ryan was still a part of him.

He had to accept both aspects as truth. For now, though, he would stick to Leigh.

Whatever this place used to be, it was now no longer a town, or anything resembling one. It was a scarred land now, from war and neglect. Ash and soot washed over the land like some of the sand dunes that were south of the blood cliffs.

Leigh had to exert some energy to get his boot unstuck from the ash, and it plopped out. So, there was still mud underneath the soot. He steadied himself to look at the bottom of his boot. It was just a disgusting mixture of black and brown. His body was tired from the climb up but he couldn't stay in one spot for too long. He trudged through the mud until he reached a natural rock enclosure and leaned against it. The moment he felt his legs start to sink, he clambered up the rock. The mixture on his boots were both slick and sticky, which made it far more difficult to actually get a foothold.

Once he was up there, he got his first chance to gaze upon the town he was born in, and he had once called home.

When he had first seen it, he had assumed everything got caught up in the flames long ago and was swallowed up completely by ash. That was not quite true. Some of the larger buildings still had whispers of their foundations that had stood the test of time. Some of the rocky outcrops weren't actual outcrops, but some stone foundations. He was able to see a part of the village above a hill, that looked a bit more intact. Perhaps not all had gotten demolished.

The sun began to creep down past the mountains, casting stark shadows onto the valley. Had it been that long already?

With the natural light fading, parts of the soot and destruction began to glow. It took Leigh a moment to realize what that was. He took a brief moment to catch his breath before sliding down and trudging through the sludge. Sure enough, as he reached close enough to one of the light sources, he could feel warmth seeping through his damp pants.

An Eternal Flame.

Flinging his rucksack to the front of him, Leigh tugged it open and pulled out a small lantern and a piece of leather. Preparing himself, he plunged the leather into the soot, felt the heat of the Eternal Flame singe him even through the tough hide, and plopped it into the lantern. It was a small piece of Eternal Flame, but it still burned fierce and bright, even after all this time. Well, he guessed it did live up to his name. He forced himself up from his knees and held the lantern up high, close to his face. The warmth was a welcome sight, as the wet that seeped up his legs had chilled him.

He made for the hill. It was a difficult and arduous process, with the elevation. He slipped more than he wanted to admit, and ended up reaching the top of the hill flustered, dirtied, and possibly bruised.

However, once he reached the top...

Could it be?

Leigh felt his breath catch in his stomach, sinking down and becoming a knot that anchored him right where he was. Where he couldn't walk, his eyes ventured forward and scanned everything he could. Was this actually... his home?

How could this have survived? It was barely touched, barely even singed by the Eternal Flames. He gasped out the breath, which took far too much effort than it should have. With his own Flame in his hand, he stepped forward, scooting soot onto the doorstep, smudging decades-old neglect. This house was close enough to the ash that no actual vegetation had taken over the house, which was a stark contrast to the both the lush green that peered its head out of the fire-stricken land and the ash that continued to smother the rest.

Leigh reached out to the metallic knob. He gave it one twist. The door didn't budge. He wiggled the knob, and it freely allowed him to, but it did nothing to the door itself. He pushed the knob forward. The door again refused to budge. He shoved against the door, and a whole host of dust greeted his impact. He coughed out what reached his lungs and waved off the rest. The door, however, didn't budge. He groaned.

Stepping back, Leigh wiped the excess grime off of his boots and prepped himself. Widening his stance, he slammed his entire weight into the door and it finally budged, giving way to him. He almost lost his balance as both he and the door went through the doorway. Apparently he had broke the hinges of it completely. It fell away and landed against the other side of the wall, just above the fireplace.

Week Twenty Four Writing - 1308 words

Soot of a different kind littered the vacant house, from a fire neglected and left to wither away. Perhaps the front door had been left open in a rush and a rogue wind had swept in, bustled around, and left nothing but forgotten memories in its place. Perhaps the backdoor had been left open --had Leigh left it open all those years ago? Everything had been such a blur. Maybe he did. It didn't matter anymore. The smell of mildewed wood and warm earth left unchecked for far too long greeted his nose as he gave a much awaited exit. Leigh hadn’t realized up until that point that his nostrils had had the wonderful smell of old ash stuck in his nose after the salts of the sea had burned through any blockages and left them clear and open for the next foul smell to obliterate his senses.

However he felt about the smell of mildewed wood normally, it was a welcome reprieve now. It smelt absolutely nothing like how he remembered. No hints of a warm fire to rest by after a hard and long day of work and play. No tantalizing tendrils of supper riding on the winds of the open door. No signs of life, beyond the vegetation. Just ghosts and bones. But, still, it reminded him of home. Inexplicably, somehow, it still reminded him of home, like he had last stepped through here only the day before. Reluctantly, as though his body steered him forward while his mind tried to stop him in vain, Leigh took his first step through the door.

Light flooded through the opening where the door once was, casting a stark beam of light through onto the greens ad browns of the plants that inhabited the house. The home's new residents. Leigh wondered if any of the greenery had been there longer than he had. Looking around, Leigh presumed the plants were thriving on the sheer amount of light the had introduced to them. Before, only traces of sun broke through the single moss-covered window or the few vacancies left by broken shingles on the roof. Once he had one foot in the door, the second step was several times easier. By the third and the fourth, it felt natural again for Leigh. All he had stepped past the fallen door.

The house, the humble abode felt so... almost familiar, like it was a place right out of his dreams that spiralled into nothingness right in front of his eyes. Just as it was familiar, so too was it absolutely foreign to him. Everything was covered in moss, fungus, or plants of various shapes ad sizes, just enough to make anything that could have been recognizable to Leigh after twenty years no longer. He could tell where his cot used to be, which was now a bed of red and orange flowers, currently at the stage where they were just starting to bud. The hints of warm colors sprouting around were a pleasant sight. Not everything had been covered in mold or mildew. Some form of beauty had risen out of the ghosts and bones of Leigh's time.

Leigh wiped off a part of the bed that was only loosely covered by dirt and plants and gingerly sat down, letting his weight settle in gradually. Thankfully, the bed held solidly under him, even after twenty years. With this perspective, Leigh could almost see right through the signs of age and abandonment, and imagine the place he called home so long ago. Ghosts, shadows of what was, or what could have been, moved through the cabin. He could just barely make out his mother, standing in the doorway to call them in for supper. He noticed in the corner of his eye a young him running through the cabin, carrying his father's helmet as the man half-chased him, too amused to make any attempt at actually grab the helmet from his son's arms.

Then, one final scene popped into the forefront of his mind. He was sitting in a chair, by his bed. dutifully carving a toy out of a small piece of wood. His parents weren't there, for a reason he did not remember, but he was making this for... Railyn.

And the moment that name come back to him, it flooded back. A torrent of memories and emotions bombarded him, and tears swelled up within him from the sheer amount of everything coming back.
How could he forget Railyn? His best friend, the highlight of his day, and who he looked forward to when the day was over. And Railyn was there, in his memory and flashback, sitting on the floor by the fireplace.

He was bored, Leigh recalled. He had taken to playing with some of their childhood toys, which they had both grown out of years before that point. Railyn had pulled them out of the chest anyway, because he was that bored. Leigh remembered that clearly, because he had poked fun at Railyn because he was acting childish. But Leigh had always been envious of Railyn because he was so curious and was still able to act young. Leigh never felt the same. Even before he was Leigh, he had to grow up. While Railyn had been able to busy himself with those toys, Leigh had been making something new, new for Railyn. It had been something Leigh had only seen a, out of a children's fairytale book. A dragon.

That was the last good memory Leigh had with Railyn, before everything crumbled to pieces. Leigh's eyes veered over to the chair he once sat at, his vision glazed over with the intense memories, his last memories of this place. There, among the dirt and dust littering the floor, was the partially completed dragon figurine, looking so much like it had twenty years that Leigh had to blink several times for his vision to clear and for him to actually see it for what it was. It wasn't until he leaned down and felt it with his own herds that he finally believed that it was real and actually there. It wasn't a ghost, wasn't just a fragment of a memory. He turned the figurine over in his hand, revealing the unfinished side.

That was right. He never was able to finish it, and he was never able to give it to Railyn. It was something he was proud of, and he had spent a lot of time and effort, and multiple failed attempts, to get to the one he held in his hands. This one was not amazing by any standards, but it was special, and it was something he made, for Railyn, to show his appreciation for his friend. And now his friend was gone, and his figurine old and unfinished.

As Leigh fumbled with his wood figurine, his mind struggled over something he hadn't really thought about art it this point. He as the one who got stabbed that night on the cliffs. He was the one discarded, thrown away like a toy he no longer wanted to play with.

But Railyn hadn't. So, what happened to Railyn? To be fair to Leigh, he had asked this question before to little avail. No one knew and Leigh himself struggled to survive for awhile. By the time he was more stable, he had forgotten about that night, and anything he could recollect about his childhood were blurry at best and caused him panic and pain other times. But this trek, this visit, sparked something in the back of his mind, and these... everything came back to him in a rush. Maybe that was the inexplicable reason he was so compelled to come to this place: to remember.

For Railyn.

He knew his mission now. He had to find out what happened to Railyn.

Week Twenty Five - 1237 words

Let me tell you a story.

This story is not one that most people know of, so don't let this get to your head. You're not special, I'm just feeling reminiscent right now. Your kind likes to create legends out of my musings, so if you would like to be remembered long after your short life, it would be wise to pay attention.

This is the story of the twin water gods. Their names are not important to this story, because this was a time before their names. You see, before they were the water gods, they were humans. Puny, unimportant humans, just like you. Surprising, I know, but don't let that get to your head. Not just any human can become a god. Now, all humans are very much the same, all worried about their mundane lives, all too caught up with their own pathetic squabbles to care about anything more, including anything around them. Plunder and destroy, destroy and plunder, it didn't matter as long as their personal pettiness was solved.

Now, this didn't matter to me all that much. I didn't particularly care about humans. They were whiny and pointless. Tell me: do you care about ants? No? To me, you are approximately as significant as one.

However, humans have the unique knack of meddling especially with things they have absolutely no business being interested in. For one, they do not have gills or webbed feet! Why should they try to deliver into the sea? The sea is my domain. I have seen time ad time again how humans wish for control over anything and everything they can set their filthy hands on. And everything they cannot
control, they attack. I have watched with impassiveness as humans grew too comfortable with having things done the way they want, by any means possible. And then they chased their gaze to the seas, and I saw in their beady eyes the same desire and bloodlust I had seen in the eyes of their creator so long ago.

But, they were not their creator. They were weak, and they would not conquer my dominion. I knew, from the first moment I laid eyes on them, that I would not let them claim a single wave of my water. They would find my resolve far superior to theirs. And unlike them, I had actual power to back up my own side. Every time a human stepped foot into my ocean, I would know, and the sees would react. The bodies would never stay in my waters for long, as I couldn't bear their stench polluting my waters, they would begin to stink up the place. I remember fondly that I would bench up a ton of bodies and delivered them to their little tours personally, by a few different methods. My favorite was the tsunami. I recall the humans being so joyful to see that my waves had retreated, revealing more land for them to conquer. I let them get comfortable, but not too comfortable, just enough, and then I would spring the trap. Had to spurt at a few more waves past the first one for the new bodies. Oh, that was fun and exhilarating!

Over time, the humans began to fear me and my seas. Rightfully so. They started giving me names. Most of the time, these lanes were rather colorful stars in the local human languages, but there was one name that stuck amongst the humans, and I must admit that it had stuck with me as well. Niatta. It was one of the few positive things that humans had ever done. Niatta, the Wrath of the Seas. The humans tended to have such dramatics in their languages, but my name was the one time the theatrics was well deserved.

I had become feared, and humans watched in vain as my wrath kept them separated them and kept them wallowing in their misery. My name did not need to be sang in children's tales, for it had already been whispered into every mind by the drones of my methods. There was nothing more terrifying than the
reality.

Oh, you should have seen it. I reveled in their misery, bathed in their tears. Some had tried to pray to me out of fear. I admit, it was humorous that they even attempted. I pretended to care and to respond, until they were washed away as well. It was truly the best of times.

But, something had changed. I wish I could say I barely remember it, or that the details were fuzzy, because that would give me such joy. But no, I am afraid to say that this tale is still very much fresh in my mind. It is most definitely not my happiest moment to say that a story about humans is one so in my eyes.

You see, I prided myself on the humans fearing me. Even those who worshipped, that was out of fear. Fear wast perfectly fine by me. However one day, I stumbled across a human that viewed me differently than the rest. As I scanned the edges of my domain, I found him, sitting on one of the cliffs that separated the humans from my waters. This one was high above my seas, so I rarely encountered a human in this location.

So, you could imagine my surprise when I find a tiny little insufferable human sitting, watching my waters. So, I decided, if you wanted a show, then I would give you a show. And I did, give the tiny human a show.

But, instead of covering in fear or running off the most of the small, barely alive humans I've encountered, he just hugged himself closer. If anything, he seemed to be somewhat comforted by my raging storm.

In all my time interacting with humans, I had never seen one actually be comforted by my storms. I mean, I have seen more than my fair share of humans who valued me strictly for my usefulness, those who saw past me rather than revelling in the beauty of all that just was, or those who followed me out of fear or some kind of insane notion that I would allow them to tread through my waters safely if they prayed hard enough. And of course there was the fact that all humans required my water to survive and for nourishment. Such irony that they relied on me to live. Well, that was their creator's favorite form of humor. An everlasting sick joke. But, no, I had never come across a human who not only didn't mind me but felt comfort from even my strongest waves.

I was curious. No, no, I was enthralled. After I let my waves fall and watched the boy closely. He wasn't old. But I felt that he had years of pain and suffering stacked on him, far beyond his physical age. As I watched, he cradled himself, his small knees to his chest, and began sobbing. It was at that moment that another boy walked up beside him. My waves angered and rose. I couldn't help myself, something inside me wanted to protect this fragile little being whom I had just met. But, the boy was not scared. This was someone he knew, so I relented.

They looked at each other, and the younger boy asked the older a simple question: "Are we different?"

Week Twenty Six Writing - 1007 words

"Look who decided to grace us with his presence. The Crown Prince." The room was cavernous and bleak, lit only by tall and thin torches on either side of the walls. To call it cavernous would be misleading, as the room itself was built from a much older cavern, which struggled to show itself through the thick wools and snug carpets on the ground. If one looked deep enough, they would see the history beyond this scantily constructed room. Rock peaking through brick. A lingering echo that held steadfast against the lush. The darkness that pervaded no matter how much light was in the room.

The middle of the room held only one chandelier, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the room it attempted to keep lit. It was made of ivory tasks, band together by rope and months of dried wax. Six long and fat cakes were snug fit in between the smaller pointed ends of the tasks, and their dim flames bled through the older wax to provide a ghostly hue to the entire place. Filled with ghosts with nowhere to go.

On the other end of the cavern, the entrance was blocked by guards as they brought in a heavy chair adorned in nothing but gold and jewels. But, the spectacle of the chair paled in comparison to the man who sat in it. As the chair was lowered to the ground, a silver crown glinted in the muddled light of the cavern. Atop the crown sat two deep blue jewels nestled in between two crossing metal shoots sprouting from the base of the crown. One jewel, the right one, glinted differently, and if the light caught it in just the right way, it could reveal a broker sapphire. with all of that splendor, the person in the chair held his demeanor plainly and with a bored look on his face. And when he spoke, it held not the typical accent and weight of the nobility in Vildavel, but more akin to the common dialect. He said a simple word: "Warlord."

He did raise his voice, but he did not need to. The room seemed to silence itself to listen in to him. As he said the single word, he glanced at the dirt under the nails on his right hand, as if the speckles of work and wear were just as important as anything else in the room.

The moment the Crown Prince raised his eyes to examine the place and people around him, the pause of the room broke with rows and rows of spears pointed in his direction. His eyes did not flinch from the blatant provocation, but upon the throne on the other side of the room.

“You call me a Warlord, Prince,” the man in the other throne spat, with particular vitriol on that last word, “but who was here to save your people from famine while Vildavel turned their eyes?” The Warlord garnered hoots and shouts from the soldiers from that sentence, and he slammed his chest in response.

The few guards behind the prince pulled out their swords, but the prince waved them back. Bowing gracefully, they left the room to the sunlight outside.

“Is that your response, Prince? To send your guards away? You give up just as easily as the rest of the nobles.” The warlord guffawed, and his troops cheered him on. “Go ahead, I accept your surrender. You may lay down your arms.”

The guards laughed at the Warlord’s bravado, and behind the Warlord’s throne, a Council of several older men stood from their seats to get a better look at the spectacle. They did not have the courage or sheer stupidity of the Warlord to speak such ways to the Crown Prince, but the Warlord only held power because they allowed him to, and any words he spoke, their approval rang in the echoes.

The flap of the entrance to the cave briefly covered the light, flashing most of the cavern with the interspersed darkness and light. The Crown Prince raised a single eyebrow from the commotion behind him. A cloaked figure came to stand to the Prince’s right, only just behind him.

The Prince focused his attention back to the Warlord, cocking his head slightly. “Have you had your fun, Warlord? Playing kingdom keeper?”

The Warlord let out an uncontrolled growl, the displeasure of the Prince’s words plain on his grimace. “Is this all just a game to you, Crown Prince?” He waved around him. “Because, I assure you, I am quite serious about caring for the people you decided to abandon.”

The Crown Prince stifled a yawn in response. “Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to be listening?”

“You act like a child!” The Warlord spat in the Prince’s direction. “Playing games with entire cities.”

“Warlord, tell me. How much of what you have said since I entered this room have I not heard countless times before?” The Crown Prince asked with a dissatisfied sigh. “Besides, you haven’t answered my question.”

“What?” That caught the Warlord off guard.

“Oh, did you forget?” The Crown Prince leaned forward, and the several dozen guards that surrounded the Warlord on either side startled back to attention. “Warlord Kaizon, have you been having fun?”

When no answer was given, The Crown Prince held his hand up, and the cloaked figure stepped forward. Two gloved hands, donned in all white, lifted up and removed the hood to reveal curly crimson hair underneath.

The Warlord, Kaizon, stood. “How dare you bring him to these halls? This was supposed to be a peaceful discussion!”

The crimson haired man began tugging at the glove on his right hand and took a step forward.

Half the guards backed away as he did immediately, and several weapons clanked against the stone floor. The Warlord pointed a shaky finger at the Crown Prince. “Tell your dog to back off, and we’ll discuss further alliances.”

Guards began to stumble over and past each other as many of them scrambled towards the exit.

Week Twenty Seven Writing - 1058 words

The Prince paid them no mind, simply waving a hand, allowing the entrance to be cleared for the guards who were more easily swayed to be granted a peaceful entrance. The Prince's eyes, however, was on the Warlord as he scrambled to gather what support he could, stumbling back.

The crimson haired man stepped forward.

In the encroaching chaos, guards who once stood solidly with the Warlord now pushed past each other to leave. One guard, donned in thick padded leather armor, tripped over his own weight and fell to the floor before the once cloaked man, whose vision did not lower to the fallen guard. Instead, he just stepped to the side, past the guard who struggled to his feet, and took a simple step forward, closer to the Warlord.

Kaizen's face scrunched up in what seemed to be a mixture of terror and anger. As the redhead took a step forward, he involuntarily stepped back and his knees hit the edge of his chair that he crafted into a makeshift throne. He slumped down, and shocked at his own new position, just stared up at the man approaching him.

"I-You! The Council has backed my every step!" Warlord Kaizen stammered out. "Do you really think all of Virenda will bow under your rule if thios is how it is?"

"And how is my rule? How does it compare to yours, Warlord?"

As the crimson haired man reached the first step before the pavillion the Warlord and the Council, he began tugging at his right white glove. One finger at a time slicked out of the silk glove with ease, but the man still took the time to take it off as if it was stuck to his hand with glue.

"Should I accept your surrender, Warlord?" The Prince asked, seeming almost bored with the conversation. "Should I accept your surrender like you accepted the surrender of the loyalists when you came to power? Should I be as accepting and understanding as you were when you slaughtered them and hung them up at town center to send a message to any who still supported the crown." He twirled a strand of his black hair in between his two forefingers. "I received your message. Is this not the response you wanted?"

The Warlord glanced between the Prince and his soldier donned entirely in white once, and then twice.

The Prince snapped his fingers twice, and four of his guards entered the room once again, standing by the four corners of his throne. He glanced back to the Warlord, as interested in it as he would be a smudge on the floor. "I suppose you are allowed any last words, if you want to continue babbling."

"What?" The Warlord seemed genuinely perplexed by the Prince's offer.

"Any. Last. Words?" The Prince slowed his speech, as though he were talking to a simple child. "Or, I suppose those would be foreign concepts to you, since you didn't offer the same opportunity to the innocent citizens you murdered in the dozens."

"The... The Council supported... me."

"What Council?" The Prince countered.

Kaizen's head swiveled behind him. All members of the Council had vanished in the commotion. Whether they had left through the entrance flap or some unknown side passage only they knew about, it did not matter all that much at that point. Maybe they had not existed in the first place. The powers the Prince had on his side were many and so nebuluous that the mind conjured up the most incredulous fantasies.

The Prince snapped his fingers again and the soldiers lifted up his throne. When Kaizen turned back to the Prince, the crimson haired, purely white clothed assassin of the Prince was face to face with him.

The Prince's throne turned to the entrance. "You see, Warlord, in order for this to be a game, you would have to have been playing."

The crimson haired assassin tugged off the rest of the glove, and revealed a hand doused in bright blue light. The Warlord's eyes widened in horror as light and nothingness filled his vision.

---

Once outside the cave entrance, the throne had been quickly and quietly stored away. The Crown Prince only really used that throne for the spectacle. He had said it was akin to his reputation preceding him into those sort of situations.

It never really made sense if more than just the bare amount of thought was put into it, but the Crown Prince was not one who put much thought into those kind of concerns. As he put it, he had more important things to put his brain into.

As soldiers filed into the cavern, the man clad in white stepped out, both white gloves back on his hands, as he covered his eyes from the blistering sun. He squinted his eyes as he scanned the area beyond. His eyes landed on the Crown Prince himself, leaning against a wooden pole nonchalantly, as if there was nothing more that mattered in the world than the silver dagger he was flipping in between his fingers.

As the redhead stepped closer to the Prince, he caught the Prince's attention. "Railyn! Good of you to join me!" The Prince grinned, flashing pearly white teeth through a crooked smile.

Railyn bowed slightly, as was custom to those who were deemed to be close to the Prince or those only a few stations below his actual rank. The Crown Prince scoffed at the tradition and clapped Railyn on the back. "No need for that. Follow me."

Railyn obliged his Prince, pulling his white hood back over his red curls. The Prince smiled at the gesture. "Can't let you burn in the daylight, huh? Precious Railyn skin."

Railyn let out a slight chuckle.

"Something wrong, Rai?" The Prince asked.

"No, your majesty."

The Prince frowned. "Railyn. Just beause we're not at the palace, and not in our pajamas, doesn't mean you can't speak your mind around me."

"Sorry, Cal. It's just odd being so informal around you when you're... in this get up."

"It's definitely odd, but don't let that make you see me differently. What's going on?"

"It's just... I don't know, odd? To talk like I didn't just murder a man back there... for you?"

"That man was a warlord. That title isn't just given to anybody."