![]() The flag of Keltania is pinned above her ample bosom-an iron-black X on a rectangle of bloodred linen. She stands with one fist propped on a broad hip, her apple-cheeked face twisted up into a triumphant sneer, strands of her blond hair escaping her crimson kerchief. We’re not doing business with Crows, Mistress Darrow states. When they painted Heretics on our barn and set fire to it, I thought that was the worst it could get.īut they didn’t count on us having dragons of our own. And the way my skin shimmers a faint emerald in the dark-perhaps the most undeniable sign of all-makes it impossible for me to hide what I am. My forest-green eyes and dark hair might seem unremarkable, but the black tunic and long skirt I wear, paired with a silver Erthia orb necklace, mark me as one of the First Children. ![]() It would be easier, perhaps, if my appearance didn’t set me apart so much. ![]() I endure their mocking, hateful glares and the signs of protection they make against me to ward off my perceived evil.Īs such, I’m barely tolerated here, stranded in a sea of Kelts, allowed to exist only because my aptitude for healing brews is considered useful in this tiny, remote village. ![]() I no longer cry when I’m shoved in the market or spat on in the streets. ![]() I’ve gotten used to the names they call us. ![]()
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