13th Day of Frost, 112th Year of the Age of Steel
“You shouldn’t worry yourself about him, my lord.”
“But he’s hurt.” Talon stared at the boy in the bed. There were too many bruises to count. One of his wings was set at an odd angle. He looked thin and malnourished. He didn’t know of any Avialae in the whole of Kalzasi that looked like this. Well, at least not unless they had completed their Warren March but there had been no such ceremony that year. Talon knew, his was to be that Searing and part of him was afraid, so very afraid.
“You wouldn’t want to miss the rest of your party, my lord.” Talon gave the nurse a dubious look. The most excitement that had occurred all night was the crash in the gardens. They had been in the middle of cutting Talon’s cake honoring his birthday and the coming days in which he would devote himself purely to preparing for the Warren March. Talon had felt alone and isolated the entire night. People kept congratulating him but also staring at him as though he were either a ghost or a prize. The subtle smiles, the fake pats on his back, the way they never spoke of what he might do after he successfully completed the rite of passage.
Talon knew why. It was because no matter who well one prepared for the Warren March, there was never any telling how it would go. It was a death sentence for many and though dozens of young men went every year, it seemed as though less and less returned as of late. Talon understood why the barbaric practice was still in place. The Warrens were a real threat. They always would be. But Kalzasi depended on the resources that could be mined from its depths. The city had grown too prosperous from its cache of secrets to abandon it. So the Avialae sacrificed themselves in order to keep it. Like a fat beast that was ever hungry, it was fed the young of the city’s elite in order to appease it.
“I think I’ll stay here.” The nurse gave him a sad look then. A look of understanding. She curtsied and then stepped out of the room, having finished her work for the time being. Talon grabbed a chair and brought it next to the side of the bed as he looked over the boy who slumbered there.
It had been quite a spectacle when he’d crashed into the gardens. Like a caster shell bolting through the night, it had his father rocketing up out of his seat. His brothers and sisters had all let out gasps and his mother had immediately called the guards. They’d rushed forward and had brought the boy, bloody and broken back to them. Talon’s heart had immediately softened upon seeing him. This was no threat. He’d moved to go to the boy then but a hand gripping his shoulder tightly had stopped him. It had been his father. His father who had stared hard at the boy. His father who had nearly let out a hiss of anger and disgust. His father who has whispered that word.
Kathar.
They’d called the boy a Kathar. Talon suspected it had something to do with recognizing something in the symbols on the boy’s clothing. He knew what that meant. Their brothers in the ancient lands of Lorien. Far across the dangerous wilderness and into the bitter reaches of Turoth’s frozen north. Talon had only ever heard stories of them. Nothing positive, only that they were the slave soldiers of the Kindred and just as poisoned as those wretched spirits. But looking at the boy who was resting fitfully in the bed in front of him, all Talon saw was someone who had been hurt and who needed help.
He wasn’t sure what moved him to do it, perhaps it was because he saw something of himself in the boy. Something that wanted to be comforted. That wanted to be safe. But Talon began humming. It was a soft melody that spoke of the starry dark mountains of Astralar. Talon hummed and gently took up a cloth to wipe at the sweat forming on the boy’s face.
