>>6334488# # # # # #
Carnaval is not used to slowing down.
She flings herself from one end of the world to another, flying on wings that are faster than the vengeance storms she brings within herself.
She blinks, and she is in the Thronelands. She sighs, and she is dispensing justice over Frigéian ships.
She bows, and she is at the presence of the Sun-Birther.
But this time, she is carrying a precious cargo.
Argia Candente’s friends, no matter the care Ansàrra might have for them, are made of mortal flesh.
As such, she spans her wings out and with a tinkling noise she catches the winds, letting them catch her.
With each flap, the crimson comet comes closer to the burning houses of Rasena.
The Maduan capital is already filling with people. They have all answered the Call, as it is their duty. Covering their heads with shawls they walk out of their abodes, holding up torches, though there is little need.
Many raise their eyes at her passage, pointing at her.
Carnaval’s left wing fans out when her right one curls and she takes a long turn, flying over the Temple of Flame that holds Argia Candente in its bowls. She folds her wings and taps on the stone, surrounded by the dancing flames without fuel nor custodian.
The Priests taking guard at the entrance gasp at her from behind their veiled faces and bow on one knee, giving her passage.
At least in this, they are wiser than Astoria di Ottava Ora.
[cont.]
