Chance Encounter

The blood has dried somewhat, sticky and acidic, when Zephyr gets to the hostel.  Normally xe wouldn’t be caught within a league of this place this time of night, but the owner owes xem a favor and isn’t religious, so xe’s hoping it’ll be fine.  

Xir eye burns. It will continue to burn, hot and dark and dead. Xe can’t go back, now, not for lifetime. Not until xe finds xir attacker, and return what he stole from xem. 

The knives burn, too. They crackle and sear as if they want to purge Zephyr from the very world. Maybe they do. The sculpted fuchsia blades flash electrum in the light. What had xir mother said about it, the spiritore? Cursed, cursed. Not for mortals like us.

Zephyr is nauseous. Which did it — the spiritore or the blood loss? What, really, is the difference? The knives on the counter glisten like eels. Xe gets up and retches into the basin, but xe draws nothing but ichor.

-

Zephyr’s at the border of the Whisperwood before xe looks at the knives again. Xe’s trying to find a burroc before the trail goes cold, but nobody’s willing to sell to a foreign vagrant. Xe hovers at the counter of an outdoor canteen, burying xir frustration in the mediocre soup.

The knives might be beautiful, if xe looked at them long enough. They gleam like crystal or glass, but crueler, more potent. It’s said that spiritore comes from the bones of dead gods. Zephyr doesn’t buy it. Those blades are distinctly alive. 

There’s a symbol carved into the handles, like an eye, like smoke. Zephyr hadn’t noticed it before. Xe turns a blade over in xir hand.

They don’t burn, anymore. They only thrum, low and distinct, but ever still malevolent.

A woman watches xem from the other side of the square. She looms over the wispy crowd of merchants and farmers like a grand shrine. Her hair is done up in so many braids of every size, almost haphazard, and her hand rests on the hilt of a spiritforged claymore on her belt. It glitters salty orange and she holds it like a holy warrior. Zephyr has never been Sight-gifted, but xe still knows she’s been touched by gods. 

She strides across the distance between them, stately and cool, and settles on the stool beside xem. She smells like low tide and musselweed.  “Aiéla.” Contralto.

“Hmm?”

“Those knives. They have been forged from Aiéla, the old spirit of cycles.”

“Religious, are you?”

She side-eyes xem. “Hardly religion when it is reality.” 

“You’re not from around here?”

“Neither are you.” 

“Tell me about your sword.”

“Hah!” she barks. “No. Random vagabonds do not get to know about the weapon.”

“Fair enough.” The lone remaining crouton in Zephyr’s soup succumbs and dissolves. “Say, have you seen a man around here, maybe a head taller than me, with a facial tattoo?”

She seems to ignore xem. “You’re not godblooded.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Those spiritore blades, do they burn? Do you yet feel their poison?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“I know your type. Little grifters who snarl and fight and never get what you want. Those blades will burn you away, you realize. Nothing left.” She sighs, low and without rush. “Listen, traveler, if you ever meet a godblood wearing that symbol on those knives, run far the other way. They’ll be no good for someone like you. They’re agents of the Mah’irah, based in Desola. Never go there. Understand?”

“Mhmm.” Zephyr hums. The man that attacked xem wore that symbol. The strange woman moves to leave, and for the first time in hours, Zephyr does too.

Xe has a lead, and the knives are finally comfortable in xir palms.