A girl in disguise. An heir in hunt. A world divided.
Iris Lavera is born into the civilization of the least respected ones. The lineage where it's predicted to birth a curse. A low born who will be the downfall of an entire nation if left alive.
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Trigger Warning: Mention of assault and its impact on mental health. The theme of this book is dark, there will be more warnings in the future. So keep an eye on that.
P.s UnEdited.
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Long ago within the canopy of a sleepless night, during a rattling blizzard that threatened to knock away the derailing rafters of the roof over my head, I sat bundled with layers of scrapes and jute to stop the cold from seeping into my skin. My teeth clattered and my ears rang. With each haunting stroke of wind that slapped this writhing excuse they call shelter, my heart lurched at the thought of losing it to the storm. There wasn't enough wood for the fire to pave through the unannounced disaster.
Or I wasn't a life worth enough for them to be saved.
Chilled sweat soaks the soft edges of my hair, sticking it to my forehead. At eleven years of age, I still had honored what the old man had taught me. To trim my hair like one of the boys from here. To work with them. To serve for men. Every essential that will lead to the ultimate tale of survival. But my female body didn't help with the narration, I was shorter, thinner but smarter than the boys of my age. A combination that made me physically weak but mentally capable of my job. A target of envy and a subject of laughter at the same time.
But mind had always won against brawn in Ivyaki.
I could read and write. Count and recite. I could also hunt if given the precise kind of arrow for the charge. I had the skill to live by, to help this rotting community with what little light I could gleam on. I wanted to be a teacher when I would come of age. A curators apprentice perhaps. So many prospects only because an old man taught me how to read. He gave me a gift that none could snatch from me.
But in the short time he raised me, he failed to teach me the rules of courage.
So when I got blamed for thievery two mornings ago at the curator's home I momentarily worked in after having left the safety of Dorin and his mother's generosity to fare on my own. I hadn't known how to defend. All I could repeat was "It wasn't the truth". I wouldn't do such a thing for I know how harsh curator Tronwoods punishments were when it came to looting the little resources of stimulants that he had. It was his treasure.
