𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝟏]

CHAPTER VIII

Chapter VIII

A Dirge for Death

Lyarra finished the rest of her succulent supper, politely excused herself with a tankard of tea in hand, and retired as the sun dipped low behind the jagged line of magnificent structures consisting of bronze conglomerate buildings, ancient relics from decennaries past, and well-fortified battlements. Come night time, her room had been stocked with unpigmented candles and she presumed that the bestowed servants in the Tower of the Hand were quick to ignite the waxen figures in the midst of a night's meal. The candle light was an arc of brilliant gold and light; two were upright on an iron candelabra and many were impaled on holders no bigger than her palm. The small, gyrate flames drew in it's meager reassurance and faint warmth. When the snows fall, she had heard.

A light breeze crept on Lyarra's skin gently and her blood sung by  the vivid remembrance from the tiny gusts filtering every drapery in her  private chambers. When the snows fall, her father told her under the cover of darkness, in front of the fire. And the white winds blow. . .

. . .the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

By her lonesome, Lyarra sat in the chair of her own solar table,  across from her had been two seats on her left and right, with one hand  fastened to a quill over parchment. The feathers glided flecks from a  few candles situated beside her, a residual glow shifting among the  brown fletchers illuminating an essence of hidden carmine. By the  flickering light, golden and warm illumination, the shapes of furniture  within her quarters. It was quiet, aside from the drizzling gust and  distant procession of an inhabited city, the course tip of the quill  moving in a cursive manner being the silent voice of her thoughts  spraying across papyrus.

She stopped for a moment of reflection  and lifted her head at the closed entrance, curled knuckles resting  under her chin. At the mere thought of the Kingsroad incident and the  journey to the capitol, a heavy headache coiled and formed above her  brow. Inhaling deeply through her nose to loosen the tension, Lyarra  turned her head to the body lying down tangled up in the mind of sleep.  So she believed. A coat of grey held a pair of lungs under flesh and  bone.

Storm's muzzle twitched and then a huff swelled from her airways, admitting a little hiccup.

The sight broke Lyarra's heart.

Her forehead wrinkled empathetically . If she had the authority she  would have demanded for Lady to be sent home. And Nymeria, she was now  safer then Storm. The Direwolf Lyarra cared for was anything but safe, a  ghost paled by the moon and awoken by the howls of mourn, despite being  prompted to either stay in the chambers or close to Lyarra's side.  Storm had always been there, in step with her human feet, loyal down to  dust and such a beautiful good girl. Growing stronger with each passing  day, as tall and now up to Lyarra's thigh.

And then the young  noblewoman resolved back to the parchment, to stay there until she  finished writing a letter, but her will was thwarted by the heavy lock  of her door.

"Lya!" The voice cried out. "Lya!"

Euphoric  and breathless, and a dozen decibels above noiselessness, tore through  the quiet and the massive slab of dark oak with black iron bands had  been slammed shut. Tiny feet scampering, twig-like limbs and warm  cobalt-grey irises charged at her. Lyarra tiltered her brow attentively  and rather unexpectedly, ditching the cursive motions of her quill and  looked up. Lips broadening, like a hasteless sunrise with a tiny  crescent dimple popping on her sinistral cheek bone. A smile crammed by  tinting ingenuous quirks itching on her lips only reserved for a  curiosity blossoming inside her pale-anaemic ribs toward her little  sister.