Ireth had been going to say something about her going to the Nykian Employment Office that morning. About how she was going to be making music in the streets of this strange city. About how she probably needed to learn appropriate songs for Nyka. She'd been just about to launch into a whole other topic, until...
"Syliras?" Her upper lip curled in innate disgust. "Why were you there? There's nothing there but filthy Knights of Sylir and enemies of my Lord Rhysol." Ireth halted her walk and tugged at Savio's hand to turn him around. Her eyes narrowed in confusion.
All her life she'd been raised to fear that, one day, Sylirian Knights would attempt to overrun her beautiful Rhysol and kidnap all the children and feed them to vicious monsters with huge teeth. Now that she was older, she knew that the monsters were simply stories, planted by her parents and watered by her teasing older brothers. But there was truth to the hatred of the Knights. They were the mirror-opposite of her city's Ebonstryfe, without honor or chivalry or truth. They were faithful only to was the memory of the dead god Sylir, a deity all Ravokians hated with gusto. Sylir had been bad blood, a god of misfortune and fear. Rhysol's triumph over the dead god was praised and sung about in her city, his greatest achievement.
Why would her lover have gone to such a city?
x
"Syliras?" Her upper lip curled in innate disgust. "Why were you there? There's nothing there but filthy Knights of Sylir and enemies of my Lord Rhysol." Ireth halted her walk and tugged at Savio's hand to turn him around. Her eyes narrowed in confusion.
All her life she'd been raised to fear that, one day, Sylirian Knights would attempt to overrun her beautiful Rhysol and kidnap all the children and feed them to vicious monsters with huge teeth. Now that she was older, she knew that the monsters were simply stories, planted by her parents and watered by her teasing older brothers. But there was truth to the hatred of the Knights. They were the mirror-opposite of her city's Ebonstryfe, without honor or chivalry or truth. They were faithful only to was the memory of the dead god Sylir, a deity all Ravokians hated with gusto. Sylir had been bad blood, a god of misfortune and fear. Rhysol's triumph over the dead god was praised and sung about in her city, his greatest achievement.
Why would her lover have gone to such a city?
x