*COMPLETE* There are whispers across the kingdoms that the Paragon, that strangely gifted person who can wield all four Skills, has been found.
They're wrong, of course. No one has caught the Paragon. Allayria should know: she's it.
But Allayr...
It happens in mere seconds, but it seems so very slow to her. She reacts to his presence by shooting flames at his head, but the man sidesteps it. She lifts her other hand to deflect the metal or the fire, but the club he's holding isn't made of either.
It's made of ice.
Her hand jerks up to melt it away but in that sick, microsecond of recognition she hesitates.
A Smith-caller cannot call water, she thinks in horror.
The club crashes down onto her head and she blacks out.
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One loaf, three berries, and a handful of seeds. Perched high on the limb of a tree, a girl counts out her bounty for the day, holding up each morsel for inspection. Her mouth waters over so little. It's not the worst haul she has ever had, but it's not the best either.
She eats her meal in silence, looking out over the Halften forest, at the melting suns whose orange-red glow brims through the trees. Birds are singing somewhere, and when Allayria leans her head back against the tree and closes her eyes she feels, for a brief moment, serene.
But she has work to do, and she does it; counting out the rest of her supplies, mending a tear in her sleeve, and measuring the water left in her canteen. When the second sun dips below the horizon and the woods have grown dark she curls up in a thin blanket and slides her hand out so that it hovers just beside her face.
The first flame spindles out of her index finger winding its way into existence through pale orange tendrils, dancing carefully in the darkness. Another appears above her middle finger, then her ring finger, and then the droplets of flame spool down into the base of her palm, flickering low in the flat base.
The exercise, however routine, is important. Allayria moves the fire, shifting it from side to side, twisting it up into a shimmering spindle, and then simmering it down into a low, drowsy murmur. When the darkness truly settles around her, she extinguishes the flames, in fear that, somewhere below, a traveler might by chance glance up and see them.
She must doze after that, for when her eyes slide open again there is a chill settled around her, and, somewhere below, something is moving. The muscles in her back and along her legs clamp up, and she feels herself go so still she can scarcely breathe. It is not an animal. The movements are too dense, too inelegant—and moreover, it is the sound of several pairs of feet.
She turns her head toward the sounds, peering down into the thick black. Three people, she guesses, though something seems off about that. She catches, ever so often, the sound of something else too. That worries her a great deal. It is inadvisable to be found alone in a forest after dark when outnumbered, even if one is in a tree.
Thirty footsteps away from her tree, they light a match. Bundles hit the ground with dull thuds, and there is shuffling around the remains of an old campfire. They are trying to start another fire, but they aren't very good at it, and when they do finally coax a flame from the timber and ashes, it is weak, and fluttering.
