The early Flowerbith sun filters through the lichen-stained water and casts rippling red light across the forest floor, dancing over my skin. My boots are placed slowly, one after another. I’m not watching where I’m going, but I’m well balanced while I stare up at the floating river. I wear a faint smile. I’ve been here before, at least, more than once. Mom always was thrilled by beautiful displays of magic, and so stops here were common enough.
I’ve come for Frey and Rae’s shrine. Frey aged me, they’re why I can be out on my own at all—the least I can do is keep paying my respects. My thumb rubs absently over the offering in my hand, the folded parchment whispering against my skin — a soft sound under the flow of the Crimson Cataract.
I slow, and I pause under the red water. I’m nineteen. Sometimes that’s strange to think about. I was fourteen just last season. I wasn’t alone last season. I don’t really know what I expected, striking out like this. Maybe more success. Maybe a way to just reach my uncles, or even just someone to travel with.
Hand shoved in my jacket pockets, I turn on my heel toward a large rock against a tree, maybe an old river rock, before the war. I plant myself down and dig into my bag. Breakfast, shrine, then on with my travels. Why did I have to start so far away?
but my god, you're alive and it's spectacular
