‘Every love story is a ghost story.’

Dark clouds hover above her, all the time. Silver hair and silver eyes, which used to bask under the sun and moon, now reflect nothing but the cold stone walls that surround her.

“Window.” a soft whisper, followed by the sound of stones crumbling and reforming. Pinks and yellows slowly spill unto the marble floors, then the stones are suddenly and violently pushed aside, opening up into a simple arched window. The dark, cold room bursts with the light of the setting sun.

LURIA cherishes the sunrise and the sunset, brief moments when natural light could peek out from the persistent clouds above her tower.

She gracefully sits on the windowsill, more than wide enough to comfortably accommodate her slight frame and the length of her legs.

The sky is calling out for her. There’s an answering yearning in her soul to be up there. But not now, perhaps not ever.

The sun is almost gone from the horizon, only its golden rays lingering in the clouds and in her eyes. Soon, the precious gold would be gone, trading it for the dull, the less valuable silver.

It’s about time again, the winds have gathered again, the storm is here again.

When the lightning does strike, she could see nothing at all. It is blinding as it illuminates her world. The gigantic tower shudders, and every hair on her body stands on end. She feels closer to the sky than any other time.

She dreads it, she lives for it. Never mind the blood seeping out of her nose and the corners of her mouth. She’s used to it.

She feels her soul being ripped apart, pulled into all directions. Luria gasps, raising her hands to her ears, as if it would stop the splitting headache.

Once that’s over, there’s stillness. Then the sound of footsteps on creaky, wooden stairs.

Luria keeps her eyes closed, trying to get herself breathing normally through the pain. The footsteps are on the marble floors now, approaching her window.

She blindly reaches out, and a hand supports her. “Form party.” the newcomer, another woman, says.

[Skill Cast Progress: 200%]

Luria immediately tries to recover as much as possible.

A short while later, she opens her eyes to her friend. A young woman in her late twenties, clad in a white priestess habit, but without the veil. Her eyes are covered by a white cloth, but she seems very aware of her surroundings.

Her shaved head is showing signs of growing fuzz, which she’ll ask Luria’s help to remove soon. This doesn’t detract from her delicate bone structure though, the sweetness of her features, from what could be seen of it.

“Nouha.” she acknowledges, and lets go of the woman’s hand.

“Come down, your medicinal pool is ready.” Nouha says gently. Luria nods, even though the other couldn’t see it.

“Will you stay for dinner?” asks Luria as they make their way to the lower floors of the tower.

“Yes. Oh, I have a lot to tell you— they’re making me teach at the Academy this year.” the young woman snorts indelicately, “Can you believe it?”

“Hmm. Have your students torment those old crocks.” Luria taps her lips, “Five black diamonds to anyone who can make Vinderwulf cry.”

—-

A dozen days after entering the capital, Marcheline finds herself camping near the city gates. There’s a commotion at the entrance, and she looks up from her barbecue (she got a permit to set up stall, but there’s not a lot of money from people seeking refuge). She hopes it could be paying customers, since she’s given up most of her profit to hungry children.

She keeps doing it though, like buying karma for the safe passage of her friends. It’s not the purest motivation, but more and more newcomers have stories about their casualties along the way.

There’s about a hundred people entering this time, and she straightens up when she spots a familiar family of four from a neighboring settlement. Then, “Maaaaarch!!!”

Behind said family, there’s a group of teenagers and young adults walking in. The one who shouted just now is a dark-haired boy, aged seventeen or eighteen. He’s currently pointing at Marcheline.

She abruptly stands up, knocking her stool to the ground. “Here!” she hurriedly waves her hand and gestures for the group to come over. The loud boy, Tristan, runs up to her, his younger siblings hot on his heels. The more responsible part of the group seems to be talking to the city guards and getting everything in order.

Tristan goes straight to the barbecue, “I’m taking one, you can’t stop me.” Swiping what looks to be pork, “Oooh, warm food at last!”

“Don’t choke on it,” Marcheline teases as she hands food to Tristan’s siblings, a boy and a girl, twelve and eleven years old.

They don’t immediately take it, opting to go around her fire pit to hug her. “Vice Chief.”, “Vice Chieeef.” She hugs them tight and stuffs the food into their hands.

“We weren’t able to cook on the way here. Had to hurry.” Tristan says.

More of their group are making their way towards Marcheline’s pit. They’re easy to spot. Notably, there’re no elderly, not even anyone at middle age. A village of orphans.

Marcheline does a quick head count, finally relaxing the moment she sees they’re all safe and sound. There’s the oldest of their group, showing papers and talking to the guards. Her rust-colored hair looks dustier than usual, but no less energetic. She turns to Marcheline and shows a wide grin, waving important documents as a “Hello”. Marcheline smiles in response— their Chief is dependable after all.