Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The first essence of a fresh snowfall landed on the parchment, ink pooling in the blotch of ice-cold water. My eye twitched as a sudden downfall of snowflakes soaked through my essay. My quill shook in my trembling hand as a bone-chilling cold devoured the barren field before me. Hours had gone to waste in seconds. There was nothing I could do to salvage the assignment. At that moment, I loathed Sardathel, and it’s unpredictable weather.
My gaze traveled to the sky, the misty white and gray swirled above me. I could almost imagine Frolock standing within the icy torrent, watching me and laughing from his palace of clouds. I shoved the parchment under my cloak, opting to just re-write it later and tell Madam Gurdurt what happened. I shivered in my heavy tunic and stood, my fur boots squelching in the mud.
Descending the hill, I had the wondrous glimpse of my village being engulfed in a heavy fog. On any other day, I would have sat and memorized the sight, but the sudden chimes of the central clock in the square made my blood run as cold as the falling snow. One…. two…. three chimes. I cursed my lousy sense of time and rushed down the hill. Madam Gurdurt was going to have my head if I was late for class again. I was already on my second strike this month. Another strike and there was sure to be a lashing waiting for me.
I barreled down the hill, watching as Madam Gurdurt lead the children into the schoolhouse. Miscalculating a single step on the western hill of Wilkreth was next to impossible to do, but somehow I had managed it. In the blink of an eye, my foot caught on a tuft of frozen grass and down I went.
Spinning and spinning until my stomach lurched up my throat. My head bashed against the ground, the air, even my own flailing arms. By the time I rolled to a stop at the front step of the schoolhouse, I was wrapped in a cocoon of itchy fabric. My cloak was drenched in mud and snow as it strangled me.
A pair of strong hands wrestled the material, ripping it from me.
The Divij reeked of alcohol and dung. Their red faces scowled down at me. Sardathelian Divij in general were known to be less of soldiers and more of inn hoggers. Or ale trolls. Whichever you would prefer. The ones standing over me seemed to be new to the village, probably fresh from the front lines, fighting the Magusi. The one who had untangled me was young, and the only one who seemed sober.
His silver armor was a little too big on him, but he had kept it well polished, unlike the other Divij. The boy couldn’t have been much older than me, with tall cheekbones, dark locks, and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. He glared at me as if he ruled the world and, for a second, fear coursed through my body. Had I hit him when I rolled down?
Oh gods I hoped not.
But then he yanked me to my feet, and I noticed his height. Our heads stood at the same short stature, a mere five-feet from the ground. I snorted when I gauged his height to the other Divij. He really looked like a child then.
“What’s so funny, Kalturi?” His harsh voice cut me from my thoughts. My smile dropped when he said Kalturi. The name was derogatory. Kalturi meaning Pig. One of the lowest insults in Beryl. The boy’s harsh eyes glanced me over once before he turned away, seemingly losing interest. “Just watch where you’re going next time, Brat, or you’ll be shining my shoes.”
“Why don’t you stop worrying about how pretty you look and do your job, Short-stack!” I snapped, taking satisfaction in the horrified faces of the other Divij as the boy froze mid-step. He turned to me, pure annoyance in his eyes. He wasn’t expecting a lowly Kalturi to bite back. People, particularly royal guards in heavy armor, did not expect someone as frail looking as me to show a backbone.
The comment had just slipped out as if it were second nature. A lifetime of defending myself from the villagers as an orphan had prepared my mouth to fire quicker than lightning, even when it wasn’t to my benefit.
Madam McEnery came rushing out of the school, falling to the mud in her white kaftan. “Please forgive her, Commander, she’s a little…. special in the head.”
I prepared to defend myself again, but Madam McEnery had grabbed my arm, pulling me to the ground beside her. I had never seen the proud woman before me beg for anything. Her silver hair dipped past her head as she held the signature hand sign of respect towards the boy. Cupping her hands over her forehead in the symbol of the third eye, she whispered a prayer to Loram, God of luck. She tugged my sleeve harshly, beckoning me to follow suit. Begrudgingly, I lifted my hands to my head.
He looked me over once more before turning away. “Watch yourself, Kalturi, I might not be so forgiving next time. Special or not.”
He got over the situation rather quickly, marching back into the village. These Divij were on patrol, watching the children as they neared the edge of the village. Watching for what? Maybe Boggarts or rouge Magusi, the later was very unlikely since magicians never came to Sardathel. The biting cold and heavy weight of corruption made the kingdom very unwelcoming to outsiders. Especially with the war raging between the north and south.
A heavy hand grabbed my shoulder, yanking me from the ground. I whipped around coming face-to-face with a raging, bull-faced Madam Gurdurt. Madam McEnery stood to the side, wiping mud from her once glowing dress.
“Katara,” Madam Gurdurt’s face shook with anger. “Stay behind after class.”
My mouth went dry. I knew I was as good as dead.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
