Thousands of years ago a war broke out on a distant island, splitting its occupants into factions. Alifero, Cornucopia, Querencia and Aranea. The tension between them that has been unyielding for centuries only grows when their precious water starts...
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I stare at the paper feeling the words on it starting to bore into my skull as my eyes glaze over them for the millionth time. The pen between my fingers clinks when it hits my wooden desk shooting me awake again. I flick the pen into the wall and rock back in my chair. In the depths of my boredom, I wish that Sneeg was in the dollhouse we had stashed in my walk-in wardrobe, not on a mission for my father.
The usual Aliferian heat beats through my open window. I had opened it hoping for a breeze, but the wind was too stubborn to blow or offer me any relief. It was nothing I wasn't used to, but that didn't make it any less of a pain.
Looking back at my notes, I know I'm missing something. Alifero's water system was one of the more complex parts of the city. Which probably adds to why they can't work out what's wrong with it, I think. I groan and push myself up, resolving to trek down the hall to Father's office in hopes of finding some better books to scour. As a councilman, Father must have something on the water systems.
My pants stick irritatingly to my legs as I cross the room and grab a shirt to throw over my tank top in case any servants see me. I feel loose bits of brown hair from my bun tickly my neck and think how Mother would scold me if she saw me in this state.
Good thing she's too dead to notice.
I turn and eye my brace on the white bedsheets. My right wing drooped at my side as it usually does when I'm not wearing the wretched thing. Amélie would kill me if she saw me without it, but it's not like it will cure me anyway.
Amélie had left this morning with Joshua, her fiance. My nose scrunches unconsciously at the thought and I leave my room wanting to get this over with.
As expected, the halls are empty, aside from the paintings on the walls. When I was a child, I used to be afraid of them. I was convinced that their eyes followed me everywhere. To a younger me, they were like everybody else who saw me, judgmental and cold, ready to criticise the way I breathed if they disagreed with it.
The door of Father's office falls open much faster than I expected. My whole body freezes when Father's blue eyes lock on me. I feel my own eyes widen, fully aware of the awful state I'm in. I never walk around like this unless I'm sure nobody except the servants is home. He twists his wedding ring on his finger absentmindedly, but I know he's attentively eyeing the spot on my wing where my brace is supposed to be. His green and white striped hat sits on the corner of his desk, suggesting that he was either about to leave or had just returned.
"You're meant to be in a meeting," I blurt out. I didn't mean to say it, I didn't want to say it. It just sort of slipped out. His eyes turn colder.
"Not today," his glare demands an apology, for my rudeness and unseemly appearance. I bow low to him.
"My apologies, Father," he nods and looks back at the paper he must have been reading before I burst in. His blond hair shrouds his eyes and I take the opportunity to scoot to the library behind him.
Father's library was one of the most extensive in all of Alifero. Being a part of the Craftier family, descendants of royal blood and hundreds of councilmen, had its perks if you're into academics. I flick a couple of raven feathers from a shelf that had moulted from Father's wings without him noticing.
I eye him from the corner of my eye as I skim the books looking for a title that might suggest something that could help me. His back arched in a way that showed the invisible weight he carried, wings droopy as they often have been since Mother died. He keeps playing with the wedding ring.
I could never mourn that woman, but Father loved Mother so much. I'll never know what he saw in her, maybe he owed her something. It's not like I'm going to find out, he can't even talk about her. The mention of Juliana makes him look away, stare at the floor, excuse himself from the room, and hide in the office. He hates his bedroom too, the bedroom he used to share with her.
Juliana designed their bedroom. All the furniture, fittings, the paint on the walls and glass in the windows was something she had chosen. It was obvious too. Mother had a rather... particular style. She was very fond of animal prints and gold and all things expensive. She especially loved buying a new outfit before every social event and listening to her friend fawn over her new look. But the office was untouched by her, it had been last renovated by our Grandfather, Father's father. Nothing had changed except for some books on the shelves.
I try to focus back on the bookshelf. Aliferian Infrastructure Techniques, it wasn't a perfect book, but at this point, I just want to get out of the stifling office. I slip it from the shelf leaving behind a perfectly rectangular gap where it had been.
"Red," the word cuts through the tension in the room. I turn to face Father with a frown.
"Pardon?"
"Red," he says again with a dull empty look. "The cover of the book." I look down at the book and notice that the colour is indeed red. I look back at him still feeling blank.
"It was your mother's favourite colour."
Your mother. I nearly sneer, nearly curl my lips in disgusted disagreement. She was never my mother, not ever. Father's forlorn expression begged for some kind of sympathy, for someone to share in his pain. The best I can muster is a tight-lipped and somewhat empathetic smile. He did love her, perhaps too much.
My gut refuses to stop churning as I stride away from the office and back to my room. Somehow the estate had become hotter in the few minutes I had been in the office. I set the book down on my desk back in my room but there was no way for me to focus.
I want to help Father, he needs support. But I don't know how to give it to him. He wouldn't want me to touch him, hug him or pat his back, I know Mother would have recoiled if I was anywhere near her. I grit my teeth feeling the familiar urge to run to the training room and tear apart another dummy.
Father was too dependent on Mother. He loved her far too much for his own good. How could he even love a woman like that? A woman who refused to love one of his daughters. My bedroom was evidence enough of that.
My walls are bare except for the two windows on either side of my bed, and the notes I had stuck to the wall above my desk. My closet was devoid of anything expensive or meaningful, my bathroom held no special ointments unless they were for 'strengthening my wing'. Amélie's room is full to the brim with photos on her walls, art, pretty dresses and clothes for every occasion, academy materials, her old swords... It goes on.
Mother was stronger than Father. She was a right bitch, but she depended on nobody. If something happened to Father she would get all his money and there was no chance of him leaving her. It's weak to love like that, to love too much.
The words on the pages in front of me blur together creating an inky mess. The air seems to be more stifling than before. I walk back down the hallway towards the front door.
