FIRST BOOK OF THE CHRONICLES OF FANTASILIA SERIES
𝘈𝘯 𝘢𝘨𝘦-𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘺. 𝘈 𝘵𝘺𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘈 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳.
Xanthiene Vivenca's life drones on in a cycle of finding her next meal, ensuring...
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Xanthy tramped along the corridors leading out of the healing quarters. Priestesses streamed past her, talking in low tones and ducking their heads towards the doors. A sign of respect, maybe?
She peered down her clothes and frowned. A loose smock hung to her knees. She doubted she had anything underneath. Her bare feet scratched the smooth floor, the cold seeping through her ankles.
She needed proper clothes. Where would she find them?
Xanthy shrugged and tackled the corridor leading west. Candles lined the walls, the tiny sparks in their wicks giving light more than the normal wax ones Xanthy had grown accustomed to in the Commons. The whole corridor glowed in an ethereal auburn, leading Xanthy towards a corner where most priestesses disappeared to.
She knitted her eyebrows. What's going on there?
A priestess dressed in gray robes reappeared from the corner carrying a stack of clean linens folded neatly in a pile on her arms. Xanthy's eyebrows travelled up. Oh. A cloth section. Perhaps, they have some spare tunics or two?
Also, who cared about Temple regulations regarding residents wandering around looking for clothes?
Xanthy tiptoed towards the corner, weaving through throngs of priestesses carrying the same stacks of linen. Where were they even taking those? Did the Temple need that many linens?
Xanthy turned to the corner and beheld an assortment of doors lining the two walls. Signs bearing Ylanen symbols decorated the top of each door frame like a crown. She craned her neck up to read sheets on the first door to the right. Then, laundry, supplies.
Garments.
Xanthy snapped her fingers. There.
She yanked the door open and slipped inside. Racks of gray priestess robes hanging in metal bars littered the walls. Shelves of folded smocks like the one on her stood at a corner. There were no windows, turning the air musty. The smell of fresh thread filled Xanthy's senses, reminding her of the weaving room she sat countless hours in back in Vikara's estate.
She shook her head. Focus.
A sealed crate pushed under a rack of gray robes caught her eye. She crept towards it and, using both hands, pulled it out with a grunt. Flakes of wood clung to her palms and stung her skin. She took a deep breath and blew a breath over the crate's lid, disturbing a colony of dust that tickled her nose.
With deft fingers, she pried the lid off to reveal an assortment of dresses, tunics, and trousers. Perfect. She ducked her head inside and pilfered through it. After a while, she came up with a green, quarter-sleeved dress and beige trousers that hung to her ankles. She frowned. Shoes. She needed shoes.
Or...she would have to wait until she figured out where her trusty boots were.
She rolled her shoulders and yanked the smock off her. Her heart sank at the sight of the bruises peppering her thighs and her chest. She poked one purpling blotch. Pain bloomed on that spot enough to make her wince. Oh.
