KYMALIN IARO cannot give up. With her brother running out of time and their mother powerless, Kymalin embarks on a journey to find a cure. So when a powerful organization becomes her only hope, she has to prove she belongs to it, even if it means ge...
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2407 Diori 22, Reshpe
The camp teemed with activity by the time Kymalin crawled out of her tent. She looked back at the meager things she had collected over the year while holding up the tent flap up. Past the bedroll she made after using the night before, a wooden table sat near the rim of the tent. Stacks of parchment needing Kymalin's review, a half-drunk cup of gallberry coffee, and a frail letter opener sat atop it.
Kymalin sighed and ducked back inside, letting the flap fall behind her. The light immediately decreased in magnitude around the space. She sat on the bed roll, stretching her legs. Her fingers closed around the rusty letter opener she loaned from her tent-neighbor, Ivar. Without a word, she grabbed the unopened correspondence sitting on top of the sheafs of parchment and sliced the blade through. The satisfying sound of parchment fibers ripping filled her ears.
She peeked into the envelope. There was nothing in there but a small card. What in Pidmena's name was this? Her fingers reached inside and drew the card out. One side remained clean. When she turned the card over, two words blared in her vision. Join us.
A frown pulled at the corners of her lips. She waved the card in the air, chanted a few revealing spells. Nothing happened. No mysterious messages appeared. Annoyance sprouted in her gut. At least tell her what she's joining? And who had the gall to sneak to her tent, specifically, and place this inconspicuous correspondence? Who does that?
Besides...here she was thinking Carleon decided to reach out to here. Which was wishful thinking at best. It wasn't like Kymalin got messages from home. None of them in this camp ever did. Most of them were fugitives or presumed dead by their family. Nobody's going to attempt to write to those groups of people. Nobody's going to look for them either. The Heiress made sure of that.
Kymalin tossed the letter opener back into the table. She groaned when she pulled herself up to grab the wax-lit lamp she used during evenings. Detached, transparent wings from insects flitting near the blaze last night made a mess in the ground. From what Kymalin gathered from the soldiers, the insect was called tarme. They only come during days when rain was supposed to pour the next day.
She scoffed as she opened the lamp's hatch and struck a flint she dug from the pocket of her trousers to start a fire. It hasn't rained once since she arrived in this camp. The simulated sky made sure of that. An amused snort tore off her as the memory of her finding it out the first time flashed in her mind.
Raena had just finished knocking Kymalin around and the topic had shifted to the sky. Kymalin remembered asking Raena about why it wasn't raining in the camp. The Magistrate looked at her like Kymalin's teeth just straightened. "It's a simulation," she said. "It's a spell with the sole function is to imitate the sky above us and not necessarily the weather or the temperature. Sylfior was a genius for thinking of that."
The name rang in Kymalin's head as she tosed the card intothe flame building up inside the lamp. The smell of burning parchment filled the tent. Sylfior Ivanche, the Magistrate in charge of procuring supplies and ensuring the survival of the camp, according to rumors, was made a Magistrate at the tender age of twenty. A magic genius, an inventor, and the one who came up with the idea of cloaking and the sky simulation. No wonder the Heiress was grasping on straws to keep him.
