NELNIFA CORLEDIA IS SUPPOSED TO BE WEAK. During a brazen attack against her people, she is left with no choice but to take the lead. With knowledge coming from dubious places, a territory in shambles, and a people too scattered to fight back, she ha...
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For a moment, the world stilled. Figures crowded against her view of the sky as she finished stuffing her sketches and materials back into her satchel. Her world whizzed when a tight grip clutched her arm and hauled her up. Thank the gods her cap stayed put, else her purple hair gave her away.
"What are you doing?" a rough voice demanded. She looked up to find the balding man glowering at her. "Who allowed you to be here?"
Two more generals rounded the corner and stopped at the commotion. One was a man with decent features and a woman with her hair tied up. Nelnifa memorized their features, straining her mind in the process. Her hands itched to unsheathe the dagger strapped to her belt but refrained. She couldn't afford to blow her cover so early in the game.
The balding man shook her. "Are you not going to answer, girl?!" he yelled, spit flying in the air. Some of it smacked Nelnifa's cheeks, and it took everything in her to stop her hands from wiping it off and flicking filth back to where it came from. "Who allowed you here?"
She gazed unblinkingly at the boots littering her view. With one arm hoisted in the air, she's stuck in an awkward position, unable to move or squirm. These were the Heiress' men. If they realized the Desaran princess made an appearance in one of the strongholds, it would start an all-out war with their territory as the playground. There might not be something left to rule by the time it finished. If it finished at all.
So, she closed her eyes, tamped down the growing dread and frustration in her gut, and mustered what's left of her courage. When she opened her eyes, the fear she had nursed for as long as she remembered returned, curled at the base of her stomach and rendered her speech shaky.
"I-I'm sorry," she cowered under the balding man's fiery gaze. It's scary; it seemed to be able to read through her entire being, judging her from the day she was born until this moment. "I-it's my first week, and I h-haven't been acquainted with the place and where I can and cannot go. Please don't hurt me."
She made a show of ducking her face behind her free hand. She peeked through the meager gaps between her fingers to find these generals wore their names like badges in the chests of their coats. The man with the kindly face, shaggy light gray hair, lamp-like golden eyes, and a lanky build—Parim Deinu; the woman with pale yellow hair tied in a rigid tail, expressive dark brown eyes, and curvy build—Hycile Lorel; and finally, the balding man with the white-gray bits sticking out of the remaining parts of his scalp—Agan Coeri.
They were important, because the uniform Nelnifa stole didn't bear a single speck of the Ylanenla script. It's a message, certainly. Those who wouldn't perform well and get the Heiress' attention, they were treated as another form to clothe. They're people the Heiress could afford to lose to the fire, or in Desara's case, the salty depths.
Her heart eased into faint beats when the grip loosened and a forceful shove erupted on her shoulder. "Run along, then," Agan Coeri said, before following up with, "Runt." Even if muttered, Nelnifa's ears caught it.
