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The Reluctant Inquisitor

@thereluctantinquisitor / thereluctantinquisitor.tumblr.com

My Characters Stonebreaker Blog (original fiction)
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OKAY for the new ask game, let's put all our eggs in exactly one (1) basket. If you don't like that one though you can do it 10 more times ;)

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SONG: Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

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“You know coin doesn’t grow on trees, right?”

A laugh bubbled from Sylda’s lips, her mouth and chin coated in a brown, sticky syrup. “I know,” she said as she sucked more droplets from her fingertips. “See? No waste.” As if in proof, she locked eyes with Delver and licked all the way up the back of her hand, on skin that Delver knew couldn’t possibly have syrup on it.

Anything to make a point.

With a put-upon sigh, Delver shook his head and cast his attention around the street. Most of the smaller towns didn’t have a market quite so crowded, but with Cheln ravaged by who the fuck knows what and abandoned, Karrak had seized the opportunity to put itself on the map with both hands. Now, the once emaciated town was practically bursting at the seams, a river of people and wagons and colourful stalls threatening to make cobbles of the smooth road that ran its length.

“You’re thinking.”

Delver’s eyes cut across at Sylda’s accusation. She was mercifully done with the sticky breaded mess she’d been inhaling. “This may come as a shock, but most people do.”

That earned him a swat on the arm - honestly, a little harder than was necessary - but he huffed a laugh as he shook her off and nodded to the far side of the market road. “See that house? The small one beside the baker. I know the woman who lives there.”

Sylda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as if launched by a catapult. “Oh? Know her, eh?”

“It’s not what you think.”

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OKAY for the new ask game, let's put all our eggs in exactly one (1) basket. If you don't like that one though you can do it 10 more times ;) <3

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SONG: Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

______

“You know coin doesn’t grow on trees, right?”

A laugh bubbled from Sylda’s lips, her mouth and chin coated in a brown, sticky syrup. “I know,” she said as she sucked more droplets from her fingertips. “See? No waste.” As if in proof, she locked eyes with Delver and licked all the way up the back of her hand, on skin that Delver knew couldn’t possibly have syrup on it.

Anything to make a point.

With a put-upon sigh, Delver shook his head and cast his attention around the street. Most of the smaller towns didn’t have a market quite so crowded, but with Cheln ravaged by who the fuck knows what and abandoned, Karrak had seized the opportunity to put itself on the map with both hands. Now, the once emaciated town was practically bursting at the seams, a river of people and wagons and colourful stalls threatening to make cobbles of the smooth road that ran its length.

“You’re thinking.”

Delver’s eyes cut across at Sylda’s accusation. She was mercifully done with the sticky breaded mess she’d been inhaling. “This may come as a shock, but most people do.”

That earned him a swat on the arm - honestly, a little harder than was necessary - but he huffed a laugh as he shook her off and nodded to the far side of the market road. “See that house? The small one beside the baker. I know the woman who lives there.”

Sylda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as if launched by a catapult. “Oh? Know her, eh?”

“It’s not what you think.”

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OC-tember Day 5 - Throne

Thank you @oc-growth-and-development for the OC-tember prompts!

CW: panic attacks. PTSD.

This one focuses on Lorvain, Adiran’s eldest brother. Recovering from a nasty injury he received while fighting in the north, he sneaks off one night and finds himself alone in the throne room… (700 words)

Lorvain hadn’t set eyes on the Talveran thrones in almost two years. 

Wincing, he limped his way into the grandiose hall, nodding to the guard stationed at the entrance. While clearly confused, the man saluted and made no attempt to stop him. Any why would he? Lorvain was still the crown prince, despite the efforts of some. While he had no doubt the guard would inform the King and Queen of his visit come morning, at that precise moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He was finding it harder and harder, of late. To care.

Nothing had changed. He had been sent away to the frozen north, held the line for over two years with meagre supplies and miserable soldiers, nearly lost a leg for all his efforts… and nothing here had changed. The polished floor - massive slabs of pale, rippled stone - remained just as spotless as he remembered. The weavelit chandelier, blazing like a silver sun, still hung proudly at the centre of the room’s vaulted ceiling. The smaller weavelights, hung on walls and pillars in smokey casings to offset the harshness of the chandelier, continued to tint the air a softer honey-gold. They’d been fitted just before he was sent away. Just in time for the tournament season.

Lorvain had to stop halfway, pressing a shaking hand to one of the pillars that lined the hall from entry to dais. His right leg throbbed, burning beneath the freshly wrapped bandages. They reeked of alcohol and some kind of salve. The thaumist had almost killed herself, trying to undo the damage. He’d watched, near-mindless with fever, as she’d grit her teeth and pushed through the pain. As a larger tear had opened on her own thigh, hidden beneath the folds of her robe. Apparently he’d stopped her, when he noticed the dark, spreading stain. Demanded a physicker instead - bandages and salves - then immediately passed out.

Divider, he hoped she had stopped.

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OC-tember Day 5 - Throne

Thank you @oc-growth-and-development for the OC-tember prompts!

CW: panic attacks. PTSD.

This one focuses on Lorvain, Adiran’s eldest brother. Recovering from a nasty injury he received while fighting in the north, he sneaks off one night and finds himself alone in the throne room... (700 words)

--

Lorvain hadn’t set eyes on the Talveran thrones in almost two years. 

Wincing, he limped his way into the grandiose hall, nodding to the guard stationed at the entrance. While clearly confused, the man saluted and made no attempt to stop him. And why would he? Lorvain was still the crown prince, despite the efforts of some. While he had no doubt the guard would inform the King and Queen of his visit come morning, at that precise moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He was finding it harder and harder, of late. To care.

Nothing had changed. He had been sent away to the frozen north, held the line for over two years with meagre supplies and miserable soldiers, nearly lost a leg for all his efforts... and nothing here had changed. The polished floor - massive slabs of pale, rippled stone - remained just as spotless as he remembered. The weavelit chandelier, blazing like a silver sun, still hung proudly at the centre of the room’s vaulted ceiling. The smaller weavelights, hung on walls and pillars in smokey casings to offset the harshness of the chandelier, continued to tint the air a softer honey-gold. They’d been fitted just before he was sent away. Just in time for the tournament season.

Lorvain had to stop halfway, pressing a shaking hand to one of the pillars that lined the hall from entry to dais. His right leg throbbed, burning beneath the freshly wrapped bandages. They reeked of alcohol and some kind of salve. The thaumist had almost killed herself, trying to undo the damage. He’d watched, near-mindless with fever, as she’d grit her teeth and pushed through the pain. As a larger tear had opened on her own thigh, hidden beneath the folds of her robe. Apparently he’d stopped her, when he noticed the dark, spreading stain. Demanded a physicker instead - bandages and salves - then immediately passed out.

Divider, he hoped she had stopped.

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OC-tober Day 4 - Medicine

So heads up for (the, like, five lol) people who might be familiar with Stonebreaker up to this point - there has been some adjusting/reshuffling of the characters to balance things out and help dig me out of this deep writer’s block. So… yeah, just roll with it!

In which Adiran is just relaxing in the one place he feels safe, only for that to all go out (or through) the window (1000 words).

CW for cheap, nasty alcohol.

Prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list!

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There were very few places Adiran felt were truly his own. The palace belonged to his parents. The city to the people. The training grounds to the soldiers. The gardens were close, but there were always people passing by. Servants whispering as they walked. Gardeners clipping branches and tending to new blooms.

But Adiran’s private rooms? His bedroom, his bath, and the spacious entry for relaxing and receiving guests? Those were his.

It was an unspoken thing, mostly. A person’s private quarters was their space away from the demands of the outside world. Even his mother and father had separate entry rooms and baths, connected by a central bedchamber. As it turned out, even Kings and Queens needed a break from each other. 

Which was what made it all the stranger when he heard a frantic tapping at his window. 

On the third floor.

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OC-tober Day 3 - Duel

It seems I will be doing these very sporadically, but I managed to produce something! The prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list - thank you for putting it together!

Here we have Adiran finally in his element, and a bit of how Riin’s experiences with the prickly prince of Talvera have softened over time into something resembling mutual understanding. (996 words)

There were a lot of things about Adiran that were ‘unideal’ for a Talveran noble. Over the years, Riin had come to know them one by one, as though the princeling was intentionally collecting them out of spite. He was brash and hot-headed, until he found himself at a ball or a celebration. Whenever he needed to be social, he retreated into himself, his perfectly tailored clothes a weak shield to deflect the worst of people’s judgement. When he was younger, he had endured his studies until the moment the bell tolled, then fled with his books and ink still scattered on the table, the work half-done. Alone in his rooms, he would read. About the histories he had abandoned just hours before under his tutor’s watchful gaze. About tactics and leaders and all the brilliant ways they had failed. He would thumb through plays - tragedies, comedies, dramas - until his eyes began to blur and the sun was a ghost at the horizon, translucent and pale. 

He hid the romances under his bed. Riin had asked which one was his favourite once. Adiran, his face bright red, had responded by avoiding him for an entire season.

All in all, Adiran was a series of contradictions. Quick-witted, but only when he chose to be. Compassionate, but only in certain company. Everything he felt, he felt too deeply. Everything he thought, he thought about too much.

But when Adiran dueled, he danced.

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OC-tober Day 3 - Duel

It seems I will be doing these very sporadically, but I managed to produce something! The prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list - thank you for putting it together!

Here we have Adiran finally in his element, and a bit of how Riin’s experiences with the prickly prince of Talvera have softened over time into something resembling mutual understanding. (996 words)

--

There were a lot of things about Adiran that were ‘unideal’ for a Talveran noble. Over the years, Riin had come to know them one by one, as though the princeling was intentionally collecting them out of spite. He was brash and hot-headed, until he found himself at a ball or a celebration. Whenever he needed to be social, he retreated into himself, his perfectly tailored clothes a weak shield to deflect the worst of people’s judgement. When he was younger, he had endured his studies until the moment the bell tolled, then fled with his books and ink still scattered on the table, the work half-done. Alone in his rooms, he would read. About the histories he had abandoned just hours before under his tutor’s watchful gaze. About tactics and leaders and all the brilliant ways they had failed. He would thumb through plays - tragedies, comedies, dramas - until his eyes began to blur and the sun was a ghost at the horizon, translucent and pale. 

He hid the romances under his bed. Riin had asked which one was his favourite once. Adiran, his face bright red, had responded by avoiding him for an entire season.

All in all, Adiran was a series of contradictions. Quick-witted, but only when he chose to be. Compassionate, but only in certain company. Everything he felt, he felt too deeply. Everything he thought, he thought about too much.

But when Adiran dueled, he danced.

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list your ocs and name one thing they want to hear, one thing they need to hear, and one thing they would dread to hear:

Thank you for the tag @livjnoodles!!!

I’ll put half under the cut because it got a little long!

Stonebreaker

Delver

  • “Your work really is excellent. Here, let me pay you double. No no - triple! I insist.”
  • “Why does it matter if the world needs you? We need you.”
  • “Your mother was right all along. You should have let her finish the job.”

Kyri

  • “It’s okay to slow down and take a breath, you know. Nothing will break just because you’re not looking at it.”
  • “You’re not losing your mind. I believe you.”
  • “It was all a lie. You’re just a gullible puppet, praising its strings.”

Taelan

  • “What do you think about ______?”
  • “You’re safe, and you have options. No one will make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
  • “You’re not capable of being more. You never have been. Freedom is wasted on you.”

Adiran

  • “I heard you playing the lyre before. And cursing at every missed note. Go easy on yourself - you’re better than you think.”
  • “It’s okay not to want what everyone thinks you should want. Your differences make you who you are. I like who you are.”
  • “You are no better than your father. Go ahead - make all the excuses you like. All it does is prove the point.”
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Gift Fic - Of a Hand’s Span

It’s officially over two months past due, so idk if I can call this a birthday gift, but I bludgeoned my way through a serious case of writer’s block for the very lovely @thereluctantinquisitor anyway! I realized too late that this might read as a bit of a rehash of the birthday fic you wrote me Kay, and I don’t consider myself an expert enough on your delightful OCs to think it’s at all in character, but I hope you enjoy the effort all the same! Thank you for always being a voice of encouragement and an incredible friend!! <3

~ 2500 words, of the Stonebreaker variety

——

When your year included a day spent swinging from the gallows, it seemed poor luck not to celebrate surviving it. 

The realization found Sylda quietly, one scorching afternoon in the height of summer as she idled around the dingy inn room that she and Delver had spent too much of their dwindling coin on. They hadn’t had much choice in the matter; the little inn was about the only place a reasonable person could wait out the arrival of the caravans that ferried travelers through the heart of the wilds beyond the bustling little trade stop. So they had spent the last two days waiting, until the waiting turned to bickering, and the bickering to silence, and the silence to sudden, glaring memory. 

Staring up at the pock-marked ceiling, Sylda checked the date against the calendar in her head, checked it a second time for good measure, then sighed and heaved herself up off of the groaning springs of the bed beneath her. Its complaints drew Delver’s attention from his third reread of the book that he was definitely not falling asleep to. 

“Where are you going?” he asked hazily, on reflex. There was resistance in his voice already. Sylda shrugged.

“Out,” she said, just to annoy him. “Maybe down to the market. Maybe to a tavern with some better wine. Hey, if I’m bored enough, maybe I’ll find my way over to the Gilded Keys. That could be fun.”

“We need to be here when the caravan arrives,” Delver reminded her, blinking the mirage of the book’s pages from his eyes as she crossed to the door.

“Mhm.”

“And I’m not going to climb around the whole city looking for you.”

“Of course not. I’ll be back.”

“Sure.” Delver sighed, scrubbing half-heartedly at what Sylda assumed was the beginning of his latest headache. Then he straightened.

“Isn’t the Gilded Keys a brothel?”

Her answer was the door falling shut behind her.

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Thank you for the tag @frenchy-and-the-sea (and for finding the first Picrew I truly vibed with lol)

These are the main cast from Stonebreaker, my original fiction WIP, as imagined in THIS awesome Picrew!

Right to left, top to bottom: Adiran, Riin, Syldana, Delver, Taelan (minus the dark eye stain bc i was too lazy to edit it in), Kyri

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Gift Fic - Of a Hand’s Span

It’s officially over two months past due, so idk if I can call this a birthday gift, but I bludgeoned my way through a serious case of writer’s block for the very lovely @thereluctantinquisitor anyway! I realized too late that this might read as a bit of a rehash of the birthday fic you wrote me Kay, and I don’t consider myself an expert enough on your delightful OCs to think it’s at all in character, but I hope you enjoy the effort all the same! Thank you for always being a voice of encouragement and an incredible friend!! <3

~ 2500 words, of the Stonebreaker variety

——

When your year included a day spent swinging from the gallows, it seemed poor luck not to celebrate surviving it. 

The realization found Sylda quietly, one scorching afternoon in the height of summer as she idled around the dingy inn room that she and Delver had spent too much of their dwindling coin on. They hadn’t had much choice in the matter; the little inn was about the only place a reasonable person could wait out the arrival of the caravans that ferried travelers through the heart of the wilds beyond the bustling little trade stop. So they had spent the last two days waiting, until the waiting turned to bickering, and the bickering to silence, and the silence to sudden, glaring memory. 

Staring up at the pock-marked ceiling, Sylda checked the date against the calendar in her head, checked it a second time for good measure, then sighed and heaved herself up off of the groaning springs of the bed beneath her. Its complaints drew Delver’s attention from his third reread of the book that he was definitely not falling asleep to. 

“Where are you going?” he asked hazily, on reflex. There was resistance in his voice already. Sylda shrugged.

“Out,” she said, just to annoy him. “Maybe down to the market. Maybe to a tavern with some better wine. Hey, if I’m bored enough, maybe I’ll find my way over to the Gilded Keys. That could be fun.”

“We need to be here when the caravan arrives,” Delver reminded her, blinking the mirage of the book’s pages from his eyes as she crossed to the door.

“Mhm.”

“And I’m not going to climb around the whole city looking for you.”

“Of course not. I’ll be back.”

“Sure.” Delver sighed, scrubbing half-heartedly at what Sylda assumed was the beginning of his latest headache. Then he straightened.

“Isn’t the Gilded Keys a brothel?”

Her answer was the door falling shut behind her.

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Thank you for the tag @frenchy-and-the-sea (and for finding the first Picrew I truly vibed with lol)

These are the main cast from Stonebreaker, my original fiction WIP, as imagined in THIS awesome Picrew!

Right to left, top to bottom: Adiran, Riin, Syldana, Delver, Taelan (minus the dark eye stain bc i was too lazy to edit it in), Kyri

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How about 18, 24 or 37?

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Thank you for the prompt! <3

37. Defy (850 words). In which Adiran’s older brother is recovering in the palace from a bad injury, and his visit to his room took a bitter, resentful turn.

“What? You think you can just show up half-dead, and that somehow gives you the right to tell me what to do? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m your brother, Adiran.” Even with his torso thickly bandaged, Lorvain still struggled to sit higher in the bed. Breathing gingerly, he tried to speak through gritted teeth, his brow damp with sweat. “If you... if you would just listen to me—”

Any hope of that was dashed when Adiran barked a dry, bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you want to act like my brother? When you’re bed-bound with nothing better to do?” Still laughing humourlessly, he paced the length of the room, his footsteps a low counterpoint to the sharpness of his words. He wielded each one like a weapon - hurled them across the space between them. “You’re not trying to help me, so just drop the act. I’m not backing out of the tournament.”

His brother’s dark hair fell limp to either side of his face, its ragged ends barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was gaunt. Unusually pale. Some part of Adiran knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Not right now. But damn it, Lorvain gave up the right to tell him what to do a long time ago. Back when he had the chance to care. “Adiran, I am trying to help you,” Lorvain argued weakly. Despite Adiran’s derisive snort, he pressed on. “I know that tournament. The Red Fury. I fought in it when I was near your age. People die. All the time. And Crosus? Divider, if he” —a cough, sharp and short, wracked his frame, earning a second wince— “i-if I’d had to face a beast like that? I don’t... I couldn’t have...” Out of breath, Lorvain sank back down, shaking his head slowly. For a moment, standing in that sickly-smelling room, Adiran felt a twist of fear. A twist of truth, like a dagger in his gut, because Lorvain had always been the better duelist.

But it only lasted a moment.

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How about 18, 24 or 37?

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Thank you for the prompt! <3

37. Defy (850 words). In which Adiran’s older brother is recovering in the palace from a bad injury, and his visit to his room took a bitter, resentful turn.

“What? You think you can just show up half-dead, and that somehow gives you the right to tell me what to do? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m your brother, Adiran.” Even with his torso and leg thickly bandaged, Lorvain still struggled to sit higher in the bed. Breathing gingerly, he tried to speak through gritted teeth, his brow damp with sweat. “If you... if you would just listen to me—”

Any hope of that was dashed when Adiran barked a dry, bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you want to act like my brother? When you’re bed-bound with nothing better to do?” Still laughing humourlessly, he paced the length of the room, his footsteps a low counterpoint to the sharpness of his words. He wielded each one like a weapon - hurled them across the space between them. “You’re not trying to help me, so just drop the act. I’m not backing out of the tournament.”

His brother’s dark hair fell limp to either side of his face, its ragged ends barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was gaunt. Unusually pale. Some part of Adiran knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Not right now. But damn it, Lorvain gave up the right to tell him what to do a long time ago. Back when he had the chance to care. “Adiran, I am trying to help you,” Lorvain argued weakly. Despite Adiran’s derisive snort, he pressed on. “I know that tournament. The Red Fury. I fought in it when I was near your age. People die. All the time. And Crosus? Divider, if he” —a cough, sharp and short, wracked his frame, earning a second wince— “i-if I’d had to face a beast like that? I don’t... I couldn’t have...” Out of breath, Lorvain sank back down, shaking his head slowly. For a moment, standing in that sickly-smelling room, Adiran felt a twist of fear. A twist of truth, like a dagger in his gut, because Lorvain had always been the better duelist.

But it only lasted a moment.

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“You always do that. You always warm me up.” for Adiran and “I’ll never get over hearing you say my name.” for Riin? (heart eyes) No pressure, as always!

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Thank you for the prompt! At first I was certain that I couldn’t combine them, but it somehow happened so TWO FOR ONE - WOO (although I cheated a little with the first one >.>)

Adiran x Riin, in which Adiran’s hands are hopeless in the cold, and Riin just happens to be a human oven. (1412 words)

                                                          --

Adiran hated Hoarfrost. Between the occasional snowfall and the biting wind from the north, everything about the season seemed to conspire to make his life a special kind of miserable. Sure, it would be worse having to brave it outside the palace walls, away from the crackling hearths and heat-trapping stone. But even with all of the luxuries his royal blood afforded, he couldn’t keep the cold from seeping through his skin and into the core of his being. And Divider knows the last thing he needed to be was icier than he already was.

Even training couldn’t solve the problem. Sure, his arms burned and his blood pumped almost audibly through his veins, but when Riin swung down, he fumbled the parry, his grip slipping on the hilt of his blade. Realising what was happening, Adiran braced as best he could, and let himself be thrown down by the blow. The sand rushed up to meet him, and he hit it with a heavy grunt, barely managing to keep his own weapon from smacking him square in the face, broadside.

Sprawled there, with sand in places it had no business being, Adiran just wanted to die.

Or go inside.

Either one would do.

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“You always do that. You always warm me up.” for Adiran and “I’ll never get over hearing you say my name.” for Riin? (heart eyes) No pressure, as always!

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Thank you for the prompt! At first I was certain that I couldn’t combine them, but it somehow happened so TWO FOR ONE - WOO (although I cheated a little with the first one >.>)

Adiran x Riin, in which Adiran’s hands are hopeless in the cold, and Riin just happens to be a human oven. (1412 words)

                                                          --

Adiran hated Hoarfrost. Between the occasional snowfall and the biting wind from the north, everything about the season seemed to conspire to make his life a special kind of miserable. Sure, it would be worse having to brave it outside the palace walls, away from the crackling hearths and heat-trapping stone. But even with all of the luxuries his royal blood afforded, he couldn’t keep the cold from seeping through his skin and into the core of his being. And Divider knows the last thing he needed to be was icier than he already was.

Even training couldn’t solve the problem. Sure, his arms burned and his blood pumped almost audibly through his veins, but when Riin swung down, he fumbled the parry, his grip slipping on the hilt of his blade. Realising what was happening, Adiran braced as best he could, and let himself be thrown down by the blow. The sand rushed up to meet him, and he hit it with a heavy grunt, barely managing to keep his own weapon from smacking him square in the face, broadside.

Sprawled there, with sand in places it had no business being, Adiran just wanted to die.

Or go inside.

Either one would do.

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