Day 19 of the Suns season, year 2447

Sixteen years of age was considered old for a maiden. Fayne was grateful to her parents who ignored this tradition. They had married for love in their youth and understood its importance in maintaining a harmonious marriage. A rarity in the kingdom of Daigorn.

Fayne enjoyed a peaceful family life in a harsh world. 

The day before, the lands celebrated with the Festival of Passion. It was a strange time of year when people seemed more inclined to crave sensual affection. It was the season of the suns.

The scent of the morning wind refreshed the modest room of the young lady, her long mahogany hair swirling softly. Her freckles were beginning to reappear as they always did in summer. She had her nose buried in a book, sitting on a wooden bench and leaning against the open windowsill.

This was her morning routine before her parents woke up. She was happy to be able to relax as she watched the first sun rise, bringing the new light of the day.

A guard passed by. The familiar sound of heavy boots and chainmail armour was like an alarm. She hid the book under an old blanket that covered her legs. 

“Good morning!” she wished the man as he appeared.

“Not in the possession of a book, are you Miss Litfow?” he asked.

His big round nose, dry-lipped mouth and clear eyes were visible, unlike the rest of his face which was hidden by his helmet. He wasn't mean, but it wasn't uncommon for him to come around to make sure Fayne wasn't in possession of a book from the suzerain family's private library.

“Oh... eh...,” the beautiful young woman breathed, blushing with shame.

She handed him the book, which he took delicately and placed under his armpit, grumbling.

“Azéna shouldn't. Her punishments will only get worse,” snapped Kardun.

He worried for her. He liked to play rough for the shake of his duty, but he had a heart of gold. No matter how many times this happened, he never did anything more than retrieve the book and sometimes, the Lady Azéna herself.

Azéna was the daughter of Bayrne, the ruling Lord of the kingdom. She had no sympathy for laws, or anything run within a structure for that matter. It was because of her that Fayne could read and write, a rare talent among commoners.

One day she would have access to this library. When she would be married to her brother, the handsome Sérus.

“How many books do they have? I suppose you've seen the stock.”

“Oh, shelves full,” the guard sneered.

His facial features hardened.

“Don't accept any more offerings from Lady Azéna. These books are for the eyes of the Kindirah family and those they trust with that knowledge.”

“I know,” Fayne said, looking down.

“You're lucky it's me who shows up. I’m patient, because I have great respect for your father, but I have my limits.”

He greeted her and set off, his purple tabard with white rims, the colours of Daigorn, billowing gently in the breezes.

A massive, winged shape passed overhead, temporary blocking out the light. In its wake, the wind raged, damaging the window, breaking the rotating mechanism.

The wind would do as it wanted, swept away in its own emotion. It caressed fondly, but so did it strike fast and true. It was somehow influenced by these dragons. And lately, they liked to torment the farmers.

“Are you unharmed?” asked Kardun, his gaze watching for threats.

Fayne was shaken, but fine. These dragons worried her, but what could she do about it?

 She fixed her attention to the guard and winced. She knew she shouldn't accept the books Azéna stole for her, but she loved reading and learning. It was unfair that she didn't have access to these privileges because she wasn't from a powerful or wealthy family. Plus, she always returned them, feeling half-guilty.

A groan distracted her. Someone had seemingly stumbled in the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Yet it was still too early for her parents to be awake, but the wind had been troubling.

She got up and, stealthily, came stuck her ear against her closed door. She heard familiar grumbling that she identified as her father. Smiling, she imagined him struggling to navigate through the messy house. He was a big man and often bumped into the corners of furniture as he passed by.

Fayne had nothing better to do, so she followed him. It was only when they were outside that she tapped his broad back.

“Oh, by the White Woodruff!” he exclaimed, startled. “My beautiful girl! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“What are you plotting?”

He put his muscular arm around her shoulders and walked side by side with her, a big smile on his face.

“Nothing escapes you, like your mother. I just want to prepare a memorable birthday party for her at the White Horn. And it must be done before—”

“Before the service.”

“Right,” he grinned.

He had never liked the religion that dominated Daigorn. He respected it, but he didn't see the point of spending hours at a mass every half season. He always claimed he had more important things to do and that Noktow and Elysia would forgive him. Fayne wasn't so sure, but what could she do? He was as stubborn as the wind itself.

“Zézé still hasn’t shown up, eh?” he asked.

He had started calling Azéna like that years ago, as if he proclaimed her his spiritual daughter. Nobody got nicknames except family.

“No. Can you guess why?”

“She's probably in that damned cage of a castle because she borrowed a book without permission for her best friend.”

Fayne couldn't help but chuckle despite her embarrassment. She loved these gestures, but she questioned them. Were they worth it? Azéna sure seemed to think so, taking any punishments with defiance.

“She hasn't shown up in two days and we all know how she hates being home.”

“Poor thing,” Lyran sighed as he released her daughter. “It’s not so easy being a part of such a family.”

He eyed her with concern. He knew about the romance between her and Sérus. He wasn't against it, because they loved each other, and he valued true romance. But most people in high society had no respect for commoners.

Finally, they turned a corner and came to the main street of the great city of Nothar. There was little activity at this time of day. It was the perfect time to appreciate the architecture of the establishments that were mainly built from milky white stone. The city of the White Woodruff, the sigil of the kingdom.

The White Horn, the famous tavern owned by Lyran, towered over father and daughter. The outline of the windows was dark, a nice contrast to the paleness of the building. The wrought iron panel was shaped like a ram's horn that was overflowing with beer, emphasizing the product favoured by the clientele.

“My princess,” Lyran said with a glint of pride in his eyes.

His mouth rounded and he suddenly looked panicked.

“Oh, but you're my real princess,” he rectified himself to his daughter.

He fiddled with his thick beard that was styled à la balbo. That is, without sideburns and with a moustache. He looked like a teddy bear: powerful, furry and adorable. The warm hazel brown of his tender eyes was the exact same as Fayne’s. The Litfow tended to be liked by most people.

“I know that,” Fayne said in a teasing voice. “Don't worry. I’m aware you love me, dad.”

Lyran's pronounced cheeks turned red. He laughed loudly as he tried to unlock the door. 

“As mischievous as your mother. What shall I do with you?”

He couldn't get the key into the lock. He was clumsy when anxious. His giant hands didn't help the cause.

“Mom will love your party,” the teenager reassured him. “She always loves everything you do for her. Relax.”

“Nothing escapes you,” the tall man repeated. “By the Woofruff, my life is run by redheaded imps.”

Still chuckling heartily, he finally managed to open the two heavy wooden doors.

Fayne knew her mother would be waking up soon. The second sun was rising which heralded the end of the morning. Mass was also soon. She was going to see Sérus and it filled her with eagerness. She was overjoyed to have this opportunity. Because of their differences in social hierarchy, they couldn't always see each other and sometimes it had to be slyly, but it made everything more exciting. They had been dating for two years and apart from the unfortunate discretion and patience until the wedding, everything was going well.

The languorous image of Sérus in her imagination was erased by the creaking of the front door opening. Someone had let themselves in despite the sign that clearly said "Closed". She stopped sweeping the broad dining room, which could seat nearly one hundred and fifty guests. Chairs were stacked on top of each other on the square tables with the tavern's logo engraved on them. There was even a slightly more private corner hidden by black curtains and high wooden benches.

“This place is a disgrace to the Father and the Mother,” criticized an old man in black and white robes.

The assistant of the Archpriest of Nothar. The more he looked at the ceiling of the dining room, the more his face twisted with disgust. Up there hung a wooden sculpture of a naked damsel lying on antlers, a pint of beer in her hand.

Fayne knew why he had come. She met her father's gaze who looked guilty. She suspected he was selling booze illegally to this priest. After all, these religious people were only human, despite their duty to remain pure. And this one pretended to be shocked by the lascivious piece of art, but deep down, there was a reason why he wouldn't take his eyes off it.

“May I help you?” asked Lyran, wiping his dusty apron.

“I simply came to remind you that this afternoon's mass is mandatory on pain of imprisonment for a season and a fine of a fist of silver paid to the Church of the Creators’ Triumph.”

Lyran approached him with great strides, towering over him with his ursid physique. 

“Pardon my harsh words, but you're insane. No one in low society has a fist of silver to spare. That's a season worth of work!”

“You just have to show up then,” whispered the cleric, malice in his voice and a charm in his mannerisms. “That would be the reasonable choice to make if you wish to walk with Noktow and Elysia. You wouldn't want to disappoint them, would you?”

Lyran grunted and spat at his interlocutor's feet. He had no tolerance for threats bubbling under the surface of the oil.

“Get out of my sight, you old fool!”

“Don't forget your tithe.”

He waved at him, taking the time to smile broadly before leaving.

“The tithe,” hissed Lyran, red with anger.

He was clutching the bar counter so fiercely that his hands had become as pale as the stone of this city.

“What's a tithe?” Fayne dared to ask.

She didn’t want to irritate her father further, but she had to know.

“Ten percent of our salary. It’s utterly absurd.”

The White Horn made good money. It was one of the safest and cleanest places in the lower city, two rare qualities in that area. Still, it wasn't enough to afford such a tithe.

Fayne was shocked. Was it necessary? As if commoners weren't already bending backwards to pay their taxes to the Kindirahs.

“Mom lets this happen?”

“Sadly,” Lyran sighed, his arms hanging down in despair.

“I'm confused. Mom is so protective of the family’s money.”

“She doesn't dare risk the wrath of the Pantheon,” he revealed as he finished preparing the platform to accommodate a group of entertainers. 

Fayne suspected what kind of entertainers they would be. She glanced up at the girl on the ceiling and rolled her eyes, guessing the answer. She could hear her parents when they locked themselves in their room for personal time. And that happened a lot lately.

“Say, would you and Mom like to have a second child?”

“Eh... eh... p-possibly,” her father stammered. “Well... pretend you don't know, but yes... We would like to have another child. You'll be leaving soon to fly on your own. We’re not ready to retire yet.”

Fayne chuckled, climbed onto the platform and imagined herself in front of an audience. An uncomfortable shiver ran down her spine. 

“So, are you gonna tell me why I can't come to Mom's party?”

“Because it's not proper for a child!”

He realized to whom he had just said that. Embarrassed, he pressed his face with his palm. He sighed and refused to look at her as he said his next words:

“Me and Mom enjoy a little excitement in anticipation of... you know…”

The teenager held back a giggle. Momentarily distressed by her fear of heights, she jumped down from the platform, deciding that life in front of an audience was not for her.

The Creators’ Triumph was more than a church, it was a temple built atop a large hill in the heart of Nothar. It towered over everything except the towers around the wall and the Kindirah’s castle. It was also the only one that stood simultaneously in the upper and lower city. It had a large round roof that looked like a regal black hat. It had three floors and a white tower in its centre, where a bell was rung to announce the beginning and end of events.

To reach it, Fayne passed under an archway engraved with writing in the ancient language that was a mystery to all but a select few. A statue of a snarling dragon had been placed atop it. It frightened the children, especially at night when its eyes seemed to glow with malice. It had been the same for Fayne once upon a time.

Inside, valets took people's coats and placed them safely in a room protected by guards. It was the only place that treated Fayne and her family with such respect.

“It's because they want our money,” Lyran whispered in her ear.

Saria, the matriarch of the family, nudged him a warning. Frowning, her intense blue-grey gaze met his. When she wanted to, she was even more frightening than the dragon.

“Lyran! Watch your mouth, especially here.”

She stepped forward proudly in her beautiful green dress with white trim. Her thick, wavy hair had been tied back in a bun. She was a perfect blend of graciousness and ferocity as she was.

In the sanctuary, rows of wooden benches and a crowd of a hundred people awaited. There were hardly any seats left. Those who could not get in would have to give their tithe and leave.

The family took seats in the back. Fayne looked around for the Kindirah family. She spotted the tall Argent, the eldest of the girls, sitting next to a teenager with an athletic physique and an ebony mane. Sérus. He was looking ahead to the platform on which the Archpriest would be preaching. He didn't see Fayne, who was so eager to meet his gaze.

All the Kindirahs were seated in the front row, which was reserved for the suzerain family. They were all there, the parents and five children, dressed in their best attires, except Azéna.

“Ah, seems Azéna got lucky in her misfortune,” said Lyran, a playful expression on his face.

He treated Azéna like his own daughter. He wouldn't admit it, but Fayne could feel his paternal love toward her. It was the same with her mother. They adored having Azéna around since her and Fayne met.

“She's going to get herself into trouble, that scamp,” Saria said, pursing her lips.

“I think that’s already accomplished,” her husband chuckled, muffling his powerful voice with his hand. “My sweet love, you do realize this is Azéna we’re talking about.”

The Kindirah patriarch, Bayrne, was always hard on Azéna, but he had never done anything drastic. Fayne could do nothing for her friend but worry. For now, the handsome Sérus would distract her with his presence alone.

The bell churned through the church like a hammer smashing against people's skulls. The service was about to begin.

Finally, Sérus turned his head back and crossed gaze with Fayne. The redhead greeted him shyly as she felt her cheeks overheat. She could see his piercing blue eyes from where she was. He smiled and she felt herself melting like a piece of cheese left under the twin suns’ fiery wrath. Her knees went weak for a moment.

The Archpriest climbed onto the high altar and opened his arms as if he was giving a spiritual hug to his audience. 

“Children of the Father and the Mother!” he called like a king. “Let's talk about the dragons. A few days ago, a handful of farms around our proud city were destroyed, blown away by a wind dragon!”

Most people nodded, overwhelmed by the food shortage that was already beginning to be felt.

“You might ask: "What does this dragon have to do with the Pantheon?" Well, I'll tell you!”

He lifted his hands above his head as if he was about to summon a spirit. He closed his eyes as he adjusted the loose sleeves of his black robe embroidered with a white woodruff on his back. He also wore an odd religious crown that identified his rank in the church.

“The source of life in this world, its soul, is not meant to be mastered by mortals, be it man, elf or dragon. These selfish and cruel creatures use the precious power of the Creators to their advantage and spread terror! This is an insult to the Father and Mother.”

Most people replied with: lyirüm. This word originated from the ancient language and there was no translation in Aerindian. No one here except the Archpriest understood its meaning. The people repeated it mindlessly during the masses when they approved of what he preached.

“What about the dragon riders?” asked a man in the audience. “I have travelled far, and some cultures claim the opposite.”

He was well dressed, clean and seated more towards the front. His feathered hat suggested he was a merchant or bard who was living well.

“They don't know the true path to the Pantheon,” the Archpriest claimed passionately. “Beware, for charlatans lurk everywhere. Do not listen to them. The dragon riders are arrogant, corrupted souls who circumvent the wishes of the Father and Mother to fornicate with these dangerous beasts. They have no respect for the Pantheon!”

Lyran crossed his powerful hairy arms and snarled.

“Life is not so white or black.”

“Don't start. Not here,” Saria begged in a whisper.

She took his hand and offered him her most radiant smile. The kind he could never resist. He sighed, spellbound, and nodded.

“Didn't Cohennar say something about that?” Fayne mentioned in a low tone.

“Don't repeat what Azéna's great-uncle said,” hissed Saria, who was becoming agitated. “That kind of talk is frowned upon here. You know that, Fayne. Now listen.”

Lyran shrugged, unable to help his daughter. He simply wanted peace. At least, until their debauchery later in the evening.

The Archpriest continued his sermon, his energy most ferocious. His words were like thunder.

“Our minds do not have the capacity to understand the miracle of these deities! It is not ours to master or question! Never forget, my children, that mercy is granted to us. We receive all that is good in our lives through the mercy of the deities. Most of us do not even deserve these blessings. Dragons and their riders are not humble! They don't even take the time to thank our Father and Mother for their infinite goodness. Instead, they take their power selfishly.”

He paused to take a sip of water from his golden cup. Meanwhile, once again, everybody chanted: lyirüm.

“The deities understand us simply because they walk the lands of this world just like us. Not only that, but they elevate their most devoted followers and share a portion of their power with them, transforming them for eternity. These champions are graced to become demigods. Bow down before them!”

Now, all together, lyirüm.