It was quite a hot day, and so Salīa had to cut down her skirt and put on a cropped top just to feel cool. She even cut down to the tops of her boots so that they only reached just above her ankles.
Once done, she nodded to Bazil that she was ready.
His eyes flitted, then averted, then stared, and so it went on for a few cycles until he walked away. She raised a brow, wondering what had him so jumpy.
Sure, her clothes were shorter than what she'd been wearing recently, but this was no different from how she dressed usually in Salazā. And it was certainly more concealed than she was the day before, when they pressed up against each other by the river.
He came back with her cloak and wrapped it around her. Once he folded the hood over her, he patted her head in approval.
Ha! How charming.
With that, they tread forth at a steady, but firm pace.
Since he was somewhat worn from not having slept much since the afternoon before, he didn't make many words. And Salīa didn't attempt to share any either, seeing how he tsked every time his locked hair swung and hit his face.
He had already refused her offer to cut out some fabric to make one.
It's not that he was extremely fussy about other items of clothing and adornment, but his headband was one accessory he took extreme pride in.
She even heard him cursing under his breath every few moments or so, always something along the line of wringing someone's neck.
I guess he was only partly joking about wanting to find them to get his headband back.
After hours floated by, they finally met a forked path.
The map was of no use in deciding, since these markings didn't even exist on it. It appeared both paths of the forest would get them there, but it was up to them to choose which they'd take.
The right path was verdant, full of fragrant bloom, and gleamed with soft dew made iridescent by being wrapped in the sun's glow.
In turn, the left path was barren, full of towering weeds, and choked with thorned vines, made obscure by being engulfed in the cloud's gloom.
If they had any hesitancy before, it fled the instant they saw palm-sized butterflies flitting through the vivid shrubs and heard the playful hopping from animals to the right, then caught sight of skull-sized spiders weaving thick gossamer over trees and heard the eerie trudging of…whatever that was…to the left.
"Well, obviously, we're taking the left, right?" Salīa joked, nudging him.
Bazil shot her a scowl through his mop of loose locks matted to his sweaty face, clearly not in the mood.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know," she smiled. "But are you sure we should take the right?"
"Līa…"
"I swear I'm not teasing you this time. What if…I don't know…it might sound strange, but…what if we go through that path?"
He cocked his head to the side and kept quiet for a while as if trying to think of a way to maintain the last shred of his dissipating patience before erupting.
"You can't even be in the same room as a spider as small as your pinky. And you want to go through that path?" he gestured, just as a particular chunky one, about the size of a newborn baby, happened to creep by.
Salīa shivered, feeling her skin prick up.
"I didn't say we'd go through there without me pissing myself. But still, maybe…"
"She's right."
They immediately spun around and met a pretty lady with mischievous green eyes and wavy, red hair.
"A flameborn?" Salīa said.
Red hair was rare in the realm.
Most of those who had it descended from Palosa, Crystali, and the lands between. It was even rarer in the outskirts of Shimbali, Priea, Timbana, and some islands. Yet those descendants usually had auburn to ruddy shaded hair.
There was a different kind of shade. Hair that wasn't light enough to be yellow, dark enough to be red, or blended enough to be orange.
It was like a flame, reflecting all three. The people with this hair were called the Flameborn. All descendants of Foloh, the official lower land near Bhuan.
While their bloodline has spread far and wide, even into the islands and outlands, and they've mingled for generations with common to royal bloodlines, there was still a lot of mystery around them.
A long time ago, there used to be suspicions that the flameborn had flame-colored hair to symbolize their link to some magic tribe.
But unlike most members of magic tribes, the flameborn never seemed to flock together or seemed to have a preference for each other's company over others.
There were plenty of rumors that the flameborn cultivated otherworldly magic, yet it all seemed unfounded in the end.
Since most of them only practiced basic magic, if at all, and none of them seemed to follow any concrete united faith.
The only thing they really had in common was that they proudly referred to themselves as vagarī. But being a wanderer in this realm was as common as being a leaf on a tree.
Even upon extreme interrogation from royal authorities over many years, the conclusions that came to be were that the flameborn were just 'ordinary orange-haired wanderers.' That's why they were spared during the disbandment and executions of magic tribes twenty years ago.
Prince Kian, as The Judge, tried filing a request for reinterrogation many times around then, but it was one of the few times the realm's authorities denied him.
This was because the flameborn had never, not once in recorded history, ever posed as a threat to the realm or its people.
Yet still, there are some flameborn with such imposing auras and secretive natures that many believe that while they might not be of a magic tribe, their hair is a symbol that they are…
"A witch!" Bazil spat.
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