DragonSky | ONC 2020 SHORTLIST

16. The future of the Hearth

Ansgarde stared at a pebble on a dirt floor - sooner to be stepped on or kicked than appreciated. Rightfully so. It was replaceable, disposable. Nothing made it more significant than all the other pebbles.

She had awoken a good while ago but couldn't bring herself to get out of this uncomfortable cot - Larimar's cot. She laid belly-down, her wings curled over her. He let Spinel and her take his tent last night. Where he slept, she didn't care.

Another day in the cold, eternally windy realm had begun, her old life so far away, it seemed like a dream. Her father always told her to appreciate the riches she was blessed with. Only now, when she lost them all, she understood what he meant.

She led a comfortable life and had the kindest father she could ask for. And her mother? Beneath the cold exterior, Anselma cared about her family. And they didn't need a prophecy to dictate their feelings. Now, she would waste away on these desolate islands, and no one that cared about her would even know.

At least, she had one friend with her. Spinel hovered around, exploring the tent. Her perky song about rainbow-colored dragon eggs brightened the murky shadows. She inspected a wicker basket in one corner. A couple of wooden mallets poked out. What else she found there, she did not say. She landed on a small table and peered inside an empty clay mug laying on its side. If she was looking for food, this was not her lucky tent. For an important village figure, Larimar didn't own much. Come to think of it, what could he own in this place? Pickled mushroom?

"You're awake. Sweet!" Olivine barged in.

They didn't believe in asking for permission before opening a curtain. Unsurprising. Should she bother with teaching them proper manners while she was stuck here with them? She didn't see the point.

The tent was only tall enough for Olivine to stand in the center. A few herbs hung from the ceiling, scraping the top of her head. Spinel greeted their visitor and landed on her shoulder. Ansgarde turned away, staring at the dull fabric of the tent, pulling wings over her.

Olivine sat next to her. "How are you feeling? Is your foot bothering you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

She wasn't. She hurt all over, but they didn't really care. All they wanted was a savior and a mate for their Mystic. She wasn't either.

Olivine sighed. "These bruises weren't visible yesterday. You took a terrible fall, didn't you?"

"It was the wind," Ansgarde defended.

It would never have happened if not for the stupid Cloud Empire weather. She missed the calm skies of Heliodor and the tranquil, warm climate. She did not belong here.

"Winds here can be treacherous," Olivine sighed. "Generations ago, Embers tried to build airships to travel to the islands beyond sight. None of them came back."

Ansgarde turned to her, horrified. "That's awful."

"We always complained why Tiamat couldn't have turned us into flying creatures - like Empyreals. If only we had wings, we could fly to all the islands we've lost. But look at you. It's not that easy, is it? Lar said that you're featherlight. And you have no tail. Maybe only dragons could fly in this realm."

Spinel hummed a cheerful song and showed Olivine her own translucent wings.

"You have beautiful wings, sweetie. I'd love to have a pair like that," Olivine praised, and the little demon beamed.

It was quiet outside. Only the tent walls moved in and out to the rhythm of the wind, like the breath of this island.

Olivine showed her a wooden comb. "Your hair is so pretty. May I comb it?"