SERAVEL ROVODIA IS A REBEL WITH A WARRANT. As the head of the Daily Embers, a chronicle criticizing the tyranny of the current ruler, Seravel gained significant enemies who preferred to keep the truth in the dark. When a number of small accidents st...
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2412, Rab 30, Daleth
Sera yanked the brim of his hat lower, hoping to hide any semblance he had to the Crown Prince. Not that anyone knew him around these parts. Most of the neighbors attributed him to the nondescript building which had been closed for as long as they could remember. The Embers couldn't really do much about the facade, so they kept the long-running story of it being haunted by a spirit of fire who only came at nights when Crozal was the brightest.
But now, as Sera trudged past the usual bustle and the same people in the same street, a lingering thought entered his mind. Maybe the spirit existed all along, and it simply decided to attack its basement occupants.
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw started throbbing. Memories of that day were a blur in his head, and he couldn't bring himself to try and remember more. How did he end up at the palace that night? In his room? Did anyone see him stumble through the streets like a fairy high on oshella? What's more, did his father talk to him at any point of the night and some days after?
He didn't know. Nothing. There's nothing in there.
But he remembered waking up one day with the sun shining through his open windows, right into his face. For a second, he thought he was there in the studio, getting fried alive. He might have screamed, and that scream shook him awake, but there's no point in knowing, right?
All he knew was that the press burning down was something he needed to investigate. Along with how much the Potentate and the Court knew about Sera's extraneous activities, or how in the world did they pinpoint that building out of many others. Add to that the disappearance of the prisoners in Gaimouth, and this new entity called Cardovia sticking their hands into the matters of the state. Not to mention the fact that the guards in the volcano prison knew enough to warn him of whatever disaster was going to visit him should he stay resolute.
Those words still blazed a trail in his faulty memory, but some part of him argued that it was too soon for it to have happened. Did the guards have ties with Cardovia or the Potentate? Had they worked out everything Sera was just from a silly round of poserne? Did discarding the High Queen of the House of Crozal that day mean something? He was vaguely aware of alternative divination methods using the same deck popular somewhere in the outskirts of Fimrio. Or was it Gulstead? No idea.
His feet skidded to a halt, stopping his form in the middle of the street. An aksaba whined, and a shadow fell over him. The cart's driver swore in colorful strings in the Cyerela dialect as he pulled at the reins to avoid hitting Sera.
"Sorry!" Sera called out, ducking under his hat. Let them think he's a random country bumpkin who was a million fortweres from home. "Will be careful next time. Sorry!"
He scampered off to the side of the otherwise empty street and kept to the patios of the establishments. All of it was sand. The tunic's collar—one he put on after digging through the servants' supplies—bit against his neck, and it killed him to have to hook a finger at it every few minutes. Sweat beaded down his face and dripped from his chin. His back wasn't spared either. He clicked his tongue, flicking his gaze at the relentless sun shining overhead. Damned disguise and damned weather. This was why he wasn't fond of anything other than a vest.
