Cerylia stared at Rivan through the crackling fire between them, chewing slowly. He looked like he could be her age, but she knew that humans had much shorter life spans than the Fae did. It was entirely possible that her entire childhood had preceded his existence, maybe even longer. Not like she cared; he was only here because the Old Magic couldn’t be broken, or, at least, she hadn’t figured out a way yet. She looked away, back out over Stonespire Lake, before he could catch her, though even if he had it didn’t matter. She was just curious—despite how much she hated humans for what they’d done to her people, she knew almost nothing about them. That was a disadvantage. Warfare, she’d been taught, wasn’t about the strongest or largest forces. It was about knowing what drove those forces, and how best to break them down. She would need to find what made Rivan tick, and perhaps then he would break the Bond between them that she so desperately wanted to sever. She got the feeling that he also didn’t like being dragged into the mess that she’d found herself thrown into, but the Old Magic was more powerful than she’d ever thought. Rivan finally broke the heavy silence. “So where are you from?” “Ostet,” she replied, looking away from the black water lapping the edges of the firelight. His brow furrowed. “What’s that, a village?”
“It’s the capital of the forest fae,” she spat, incensed at his ignorance. “The proudest city in the Faewood.” “How should I know, if we aren’t allowed in there?”
Cerylia scowled. “That was your own people's doing. It’s for the best, anyway. All you humans like to do is cut down our trees and hunt our animals.” Rivan looked down at the piece of meat he pulled off the fire. “You don’t eat them too?”
“Not usually. Only on special occasions, and even then we’re respectful about it.” “Funny to talk about respect of life to a seasoned warrior,” he mused, taking a bite. “Or so you say.” “I’m not even answering that, human.” She popped a berry in her mouth, chewing furiously. “How old are you anyway? You don’t look old enough to be a Captain.” “I’ve seen 56 annals,” she frowned. “You don’t look a day over twenty,” he said, leaning forward to scrutinize her.
Now was the perfect time to garner some information. “I don’t think we age the same. How long do your people live?” “I don’t know, about seventy years if you’re lucky. Yours?”
“My mother is nearing her 400th annal.” Rivan sucked in a breath. “Damn, that’s a long time.” “For you, yes, but she will live a great many more.” Cerylia paused, realization sinking in. How could she have forgotten so quickly? “Or, would have, had she not been murdered,” she added, eating more berries to combat the tears rising in the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t about to let this human see her cry. [500 words]
