Flashback: 14th Summer 510AV
It was on nights like these that the street urchins of Alvadas would miss the home they had once known, if any. The freak and unpredictable weather of Alvadas could change at any moment, depending on the city's whims. It was Summer, and yet, on this night, it was cold and rainy, a constant downpour unrelenting and intense. The urchins of the streets huddled in doorways, under arches, stairwells: rocking to themselves, trying to remind themselves that by morning, it would all be over, by morning, it would all be over, by morning, it would all be over...
The streets of Alvadas were twisting and entwining, ensnaring the unaware, but the children of the illusionary city were more hardy than most: and Kit Rowan, girl of fourteen, having left the uncle and aunt who so graciously took her in from uninterested parents, was more hardy than even most of the children she ran with. Her flips and jumps more able than most, she ran through the wet night, heading who-knows-where: undaunted by the twisting streets of Alvadas, a living breathing city that might swallow the distracted at any one moment.
The lights of inns lit the streets, candlelight spilling out through the glass windows of houses. It was easy enough to survive in Alvadas, if you were savvy, getting to recognise landmarks and making bargains with the city and those who held power. The trick was to always be light on your toes. As Kit ran through the streets, heading wherever she wanted as was the luxury of a street urchin, she would be able to see the twists and turns of Alvadian streets quite easily.
But she would also see something strange, something that would mean nothing to the children she ran with, but would mean the world to her: on one of the walls of an inn, scrawled in what looked like dripping blood, was a cipher she could not read, but would recognise in an instant. Her father's code. From the Treval Codex. If she looked around, Kit would see that it was repeated on every wall, on the sign of the inn. Over and over, that strange script, that she could not read in the least.
It was on nights like these that the street urchins of Alvadas would miss the home they had once known, if any. The freak and unpredictable weather of Alvadas could change at any moment, depending on the city's whims. It was Summer, and yet, on this night, it was cold and rainy, a constant downpour unrelenting and intense. The urchins of the streets huddled in doorways, under arches, stairwells: rocking to themselves, trying to remind themselves that by morning, it would all be over, by morning, it would all be over, by morning, it would all be over...
The streets of Alvadas were twisting and entwining, ensnaring the unaware, but the children of the illusionary city were more hardy than most: and Kit Rowan, girl of fourteen, having left the uncle and aunt who so graciously took her in from uninterested parents, was more hardy than even most of the children she ran with. Her flips and jumps more able than most, she ran through the wet night, heading who-knows-where: undaunted by the twisting streets of Alvadas, a living breathing city that might swallow the distracted at any one moment.
The lights of inns lit the streets, candlelight spilling out through the glass windows of houses. It was easy enough to survive in Alvadas, if you were savvy, getting to recognise landmarks and making bargains with the city and those who held power. The trick was to always be light on your toes. As Kit ran through the streets, heading wherever she wanted as was the luxury of a street urchin, she would be able to see the twists and turns of Alvadian streets quite easily.
But she would also see something strange, something that would mean nothing to the children she ran with, but would mean the world to her: on one of the walls of an inn, scrawled in what looked like dripping blood, was a cipher she could not read, but would recognise in an instant. Her father's code. From the Treval Codex. If she looked around, Kit would see that it was repeated on every wall, on the sign of the inn. Over and over, that strange script, that she could not read in the least.
.
