>>6254423

The weight of truth requires broader shoulders than yours.
You lean against the deck on the back of the silent ship as it leaves. None of those iron monstrosities you put your foot upon when you came here with Sandora. In fact, this is a tiny vessel of sail and wood, barely enough to fit a crew of five.
There is no crew.
Rosandra sits at the helm, right beneath the tallest sail, closes her eyes and the ship just — moves.
It does not feel like one of the Sarcophagi of the Asterites is beating in the ship’s bowel. In fact, there is a soothing quality in the air, and as you take in a breath, you smell the scent of dry earth and ripe grapes, once again.
If you close your eyes, you can almost convince yourself you are back home, drifting on the brackish water atop a tiny boat, as the lazy currents of the Mar da Candéa rock you back and forth. The crimson reeds would tickle your skin and the glistening of the tower of the Echorian in the distance…
And the voice of your father—
You open your eyes.
There is no home here.
But at least, you are leaving the Thronelands.
You raise your arm and wave at the small crowd that’s still visible on the distant pier, waving their torches in turn. They have gathered to see you depart, after Rosandra gave the Throne its Asterite… now with a hefty dose of respect for the Sun-Birther.
You are leaving the Thronelands— hopefully better than you found them.
Behind you, your friends are waiting. Soralisa has fallen asleep, beaten by the long day, and Rubida seems to be about to follow her in the dream lands. Her hand runs through your brunette’s friend locks as she slumbers, lips parted, her still-marked hands holding her notebook open on her slight chest.
Rubida captures your gaze in her blue eyes.
How azure they are—
Kiengir blue.
You used to truly believe Rubida’s boast about her ascendancy was merely an aggrandising lie, but now, with all the things you have been through, you are not as sure.
Starless Night.
May the Sun-Birther conserve you.

[cont.]