>>6261491

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Soralisa sits in her room, brightened only by candles.
In her books she has learned, a lifetime ago, that in Frigéia they can make sizzling, reeking candles out of some mysterious white compound, a residue of the fuel they use in their ships.
So different from the beeswax of the Holy Land. It is soft, golden-hued, and it is scented like flowers and honey.
It has many, many uses.
“Ah,” she groans, as her fingers betray her once again. It is painful to carve the seal like that. She has spent hours learning how to hold the scalpel just right.
Her parents think her busy with her books, diving deep into them, like she used to do.
Argia has taught her better.
“Ow ow ow…” she moans, rubbing her hands together. To think she used to have such nimble fingers. For flipping the page and to help comfort her body during the long winter nights, when she could only dream of someone who would swoop into her life and save her.
Then she lost control over the Sanction, back in the forest.
She really thought she was going to die. She almost made peace with that.
But Argia was there.
She was always there.
And now it’s her turn.
Soralisa grits her teeth and, under the dancing light of the candles, sets back to her painful work, carving a seal out of wax.
Thankfully, she is familiar with the profile of Saint Bragia Lacresta. How can you live in the Holy Land, and not be? The Saint’s likeness is plastered all over the place: in every Temple of Flame, in every square, in every town, there is at least one statue or image of the murdered hero.
So she draws her profile, sticking her tongue out of her lips in concentration. Her brown hair stick to her sweaty forehead, but she continues.
And bit by bit, she finishes her job.
“There…” she pants, then turns over the wax seal and starts working on the back.
Was it Rubida who once said that learning how to be silent makes people speak carelessly?
Maybe that is what happened with her. She has always been the quiet one, the weak one — she is well aware.
It’s just that Argia never once has made her feel weak.
And over the past year of training, Soralisa Da Zaribari has learned how to keep her eyes open. Noticing things.
Putting everything into the endless tower of her memory.
Things such as Argia’s voice.
Her scent.
Her smile, her grin, her laughter.
And less-important things…
… such as the exact shape of one Astoria di Ottava Ora’s personal seal.
Next to her busy hand, rests a letter.
Just a few words, but enough, to inform Argia’s Master.
And once he knows exactly what is going on, she truly doubts that anything,, besides the hand of the Sun-Birther will be able to keep him in that cell.

it’s always the quiet ones

[cont.]