Nyx is a girl who can heal any wounds except her own.
When a king captures and murders her mother, she is imprisoned; forced to heal men of war who deem her lower than dirt and forced to marry the king she loathes the most.
Saval is a servant boy w...
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the stories we weave; it begins to intertwine
•—||—•••—||—•
Dearest reader, I wish I can say that the book will truly lead Nyx to her freedom. Or that due to it, Saval's promise is held true. Sadly, that is not so. The book, whilst it can tell glimpses of the future, is still simply just a book.
A book isn't an enemy nor is it an ally. Simply, it's just a book. And just like every other book, its pages can be easily rewritten.
The book flies away from her grip, pages still glowing. “Hello, there Nyxie,” snickers a voice, one that seems of a child yet also of an ancient deity unearthed from sand and grit. “Your bloodline seems to always want my help. Ah, witches and their woes.” It echoes the last word, sniggering.
It suddenly shakes, cackles high-pitched and Nyx flinches. “Who—what are you?”
“Me?” The book speeds up right to her face, pages flickering restlessly. “I am a writer. A teller of tales that needed to be told. I tell what you want—I tell your future.”
Nyx asks, eyebrows furrowing; it sounds too good to be true. “Then, all the stories I read... they're real?”
“Of course, they are. Why wouldn't they be?”
“And... my story?” She mumbles her inquiry timidly, as if afraid of the answer. “How is it gonna end?”
The book hums, sounding rather gruntled. “Why don't you see it for yourself?”
“How?”
It smirks. “Just a few blood, my dear.”
—
Saval barely remembers his uncle.
All he knows is that uncle is two people breathing in one body. The first one screams, red in the face and wine in his breath—a madman. The other is an apologizing, sobbing fool who says and says but always forgets.
Saval fears him, yes, but he also thinks that the man is pathetic.
Once Saval has decided that enough is enough, he grabs Irion and runs, and soon, he stops fearing him simply because there's just more than him to fear.
The cold is calculating, hunger takes mercilessly and the dark has eyes. This time, he can't leave. These things stay until he's dead, until the end of time and even if they do leave, Saval knows they'll always come back.
Saval grits his teeth. A rooster's head went from ten silver coins to twenty and cow meat sells from twenty to somewhere in between fifty and forty-six. Even measly chicken feet cost nineteen silver coins. Do these vendors think he shits silver?! He fumes as he stuffs the overpriced meat into his bag and reluctantly pays the vendor.
