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“…I will walk to the Trial of Gold, and put myself in the hands of the Sun-Birther. As it has been Willed since the discovery of Dawn.”
The words leave your lips and they leave you much lighter.
Almost hollowed out.
Are those strings, wrapped around your limbs, tied over your heart?
You lean against the harsh wall.
The Stilladìa winces.
A frown of pain snaps between her eyes, a cloud of sorrow passes over her knitted brow. The glowing contract dissipates, like a ghost that has reached its timely end.
Between you, the cameo slows its spinning, scrapes on the stone floor and at last falls, face up, displaying Bragia’s lost visage, pointed towards you.
“It is your decision, Argia Candente,” she sighs, picking up the tiny ivory thing, rubbing her thumb over the visage of the Knight she used to be. “At the very least you are making it with full awareness of what it is at stake.” She sets her lips into a thin, troubled line. “I could have made you great. Yet how could I claim to stand for liberty if I did not accept it, especially when it is most inconvenient… or painful. Give me your hand, please.”
[cont.]
