1 - Daughter Of The Storm

18 - When The Moon Shines At Its Bluest

22nd day of the moon season 2448

With watchful eyes, Serfantor was looking out the open window of his small room. The fancy curtains wore the shades of the Guardians of Aerinda: white, beige and black. They were gently lifted by the pleasant breezes. Serfantor's skin didn't respond to the beginning of winter's bite for he was used to a damp, cool environment. He had more pressing matters on his mind. Despite the late hour, he was not tired. Besides, he couldn't afford to disappoint his mother. From the top of the Tower of Clarity, home of the third cycle apprentices, he took advantage of his night vision and analyzed the guards' rounds.

The moon was high and shining brightly as it does at the heart of every season, the color being the only thing that changed. On this day, it was azure, its beauty reflecting on several surfaces.

Finally, it was time.

Serfantor stared, for the umpteenth time, at the unrolled parchment that lay in his hands. He recognized his mother's fine handwriting in their native tongue, Elvish.

Meet Sir Bregkhon when the moon shines at its bluest, you know where.

The brief letter was unsigned. Subtlety was important in the gray elven culture. Almost everything they did was at the very least some form of shenanigan. Serfantor smiled, half amused. He knew he was just a pawn in his mother and her entourage's games. He wrapped himself in a thick hooded cloak, hung a dagger from his belt, and went down to the common room. It was empty, as he had hoped. He stopped in front of the fireplace and threw the letter into the greedy flames, which devoured the paper like ravenous wolves. Soon it was nothing but blackened ashes.

Satisfied that the letter could not be retrieved, his ears twitched slightly at the familiar creak of the stairs leading to the rooms. The intrusion instilled a deep unease upon him. He didn't want to get caught red-handed.

"Serf," called a female voice, honeyed and half asleep. "Is that you?"

The gray elf recognized the voice of his only friend in this establishment: Èrionda Murkwan. She bore a strong resemblance to the rest of her family. Her hair, naturally spiky and short, her powerful, yet graceful physique, made her seem tough. Her playful personality did quite the opposite.

Several dragon riders were secretly courting her, but she never gave in. Serfantor must have been one of the few who didn't annoy her with this primitive nonsense. A woman should be respected and she was passionate and energetic. Besides, she was the most gifted at flying of the third cycle apprentices. That's why he wanted to recruit her in his skotar team, but she had proven to be as stubborn as a mule.

Deep down, he questioned the authenticity of his friendship with her. After all, he made almost no effort to interact with her. He was like that with everyone with a single exception. He honestly wasn't sure what the word "friendship" meant. All that mattered was his mother and that truth always created a knot in his throat. He couldn't grow with her around. She would always get in his way like she was doing at that moment.

"It's you, isn't it?" she repeated.

She was behind him. He could feel it. He felt he was being watched. He thought he had hidden his identity well with his winter outfit with a thick hood on his head. He smiled, glad that someone besides Shalith knew him so well.

"It's me," he said calmly. "Go back to bed, please."

"Is everything okay?" she asked with a touch of concern.

"Mhmm."

He didn't turn around and simply waited.

A moment later, he heard the same creak from the stairs. She had listened to him. He clenched his jaw, uncomfortable with the situation and his own actions.