The Sylph

chapter FIVE

 Claira Levon

I sigh heavily, purposefully ignoring the presence of the only other person in the room. With my finger, I draw a lethargic circle around the rim of an ornate glass goblet set in front of me, peering down into the blood-red wine with disgust. It's by far and quite honestly the worst assortment I've tasted in months. Upon my inquiry, the servant who'd poured it mentioned how we've been running low on our wine reserves as of late. I dismissed the lanky child with a wave of my hand.

The room in which I sit draped against a sky-blue loveseat is quite silent. The only sound to be heard is the scratching of pen against paper as the Scribe jots down his thoughts in the far room. I glance over at him for a fleeting second before focusing back on my drink, though I'm severely uninterested in it by now. I do like to enjoy a glass of wine in the evenings, especially on the days that Cardinal is away on business. And he tends to be away far too often. But this time feels different, and I don't like it.

I sigh again, hoping to attract attention from the Scribe, though I know his work is far too important to be neglected tonight. Nevertheless, it doesn't hurt to relieve myself of the unnecessary stress I have so unwillingly acquired over the past few days. What with the riots in the streets and all. At the thought of the Mallium, I feel a throb start anew at the base of my temple. I hate even thinking about it and know not how the Scribe handles that chaotic disarray of a situation every single day. It would simply be the death of me if I had to rely on my own thoughts to solve the uprising problem.

The red liquid stains my white lips as I take another sip. I contemplate returning to the throne room—no doubt the place Cardinal would prefer me to be right now. Every day it seems, he comes to me, saying, "presentation matters," but no one ever comes to visit the throne room save for the nagging High-State Families, anyway. Right now I am not in any mood to be dealing with them. And it always seems to be that one woman, though I hardly care to even remember her name . . . Dills, was it? The Curator of that forsaken underground prison.

Every day, Dills comes in with reports and comments on things that hardly matter—to me anyway—talking endlessly about those horrid Sylph creatures and the latest findings in their research. I know my husband only tolerates the Curator because of her High-State Family status; if she were anyone else, she probably would've been purged years ago, replaced with someone of far more stature and poise.

"Your Majesty," a voice echoes, pulling me from my thoughts.

I cast a lethargic gaze in the Scribe's direction. "Hmm?"

"I have come up with a solution."

"Tell me, Branor," I say, my voice velvety-smooth.

"More purges."

My eyes widen for a few fleeting seconds before I lose interest again. My gaze strays over to the massive glass windows that let in only an overcast sky. The view overlooks the entirety of the sky-city of Haersith, though there isn't much to look upon as of late. Only the palace, its grandeur, and the High-State buildings can be considered beautiful in this godforsaken city. The rest is just a mess of wood and splinters, thanks to those Mallium heathens.

"An' what dost thou mean considering more purges, my lord," I inquire through a dainty yawn.

The Scribe's chair screeches back as he stands up. He walks over to face me, parchments in hand. "More patrols, more purges, more control."

"Mm. Rather intriguing." My voice becomes monotone as I avoid eye contact and look only out over the city. This window is my particular favorite, as it has one of the best views in the entire palace. From here, I can see absolutely everything.