From elven forge shall come a sword, its blade as pure as the silver light of Earoni and its soul of the Storm. In the hands of the Child of the Storm, its power is great, but it obeys only the child.

Elven Prophecy

Sheala perched on the edge of the modest bed in the small dwelling. The accommodations were offered to her upon their arrival in the Elven Capitol; a journey that had taken another five days after they first encountered the scouting party in the forest. But this was not the sort of city she was used to. Everything was so sparse, exuding a very rustic nature. Tucked under the forest canopy, this house was nothing more than a single room with meager furnishings. Other than the bed, there was only a nightstand and an armoire where her clothes now hung. The amenities included a private well and cooking pit outside and the outhouse. But, as she had observed, none of the houses here seemed bigger than one room to each person residing there.

What furniture existed was all made of natural materials and kept in as close to their original form as possible to still function for their intended tasks. The posts of her bed, for example, retained their crooked and unhewn forms, revealing every knot and imperfection of the trees from which they had come.

It was hard for Sheala to contain herself in such a small residence; one where she could almost reach out and touch all four walls from where she sat. She could easily walk across the entirety of the space in ten steps. The meager room she kept back in Catersburg was similar in size, but she was more at home in that she deemed a more traditional city and never really spent much time there anyway.

The thief turned royal ambassador fiddled with the pearl buttons on the drop neck of her latest dress, her mind wandering more than a little. Because of her distraction, one of those posts now sported hundreds of fresh groves from the tip of the knife in Sheala's hand. She had repeatedly gouged at the wood in her boredom until a small pile of shavings had formed on the floor. Something inside her kept calling for her to break free of these self-imposed bonds she had established upon herself. But she fought back that desire, waiting.

The worst part of it all, however, was she was starving. Anthony had advised her how women in elven society were strict vegetarians. They didn't eat meat of any sort, seeing taking a life, even that of an animal, as against their nature to preserve and nurture living things. Since setting foot in the Elven Kingdoms, both she and Reane had been on a rigid diet of assorted vegetables, nuts, and berries out of respect for elven culture. Which had left her unsatisfied and antsy.

A light knock on the door caused her head to pick up "About time," she moaned. As she rose and approached the lone entrance, the rapping came again, perhaps feeling as though no one was home. Sheala covered the final steps as a third knock came. "Geez Brentai," she started to speak before even reaching it. "You wait until all hours of the night and then-" Her voice trailed off as the door opened in her hand to reveal the silver-haired Sayra, not Brentai, stood there.

"Pardon?"

"Um-nothing," Sheala lamented, her fingers falling away from the handle. She also realized how warm the medallion she wore had become. It had been humming with long-lost heat lately, but it was noticeably warmer with Sayra and her own once more so close by. The knife in Sheala's hand retreated with a smooth motion into the makeshift pocket she had altered in the cuff of her dress's sleeve, and her stomach rumbled, demanding to be fed. "I thought you were someone else."

"I'm sure you did." Sayra produced a covered white ceramic plate from behind her back and displayed it. "The Pelsan, um Brentai is it? He sends his regards and is regretful he could not deliver this magnificent meal to you himself." 

Sheala considered the offering brought by the elven woman in stunned silence. As she peaked under the matching cover, the smell of roasted meats filled her senses and her stomach cried for the food.

Sayra smiled.

"You know what's under here?" Sheala questioned.

"Let me see," Sayra tapped her finger on her lips in mock contemplation. "Deer, some rabbit, and I believe a slice or two of some specially seasoned beef." With the realization Sayra was teasing her, Sheala took the cover off and sat the meal down on the table at her bedside.

The elf shut the door and entered, making the one-room residence seem crowded.

Sheala, unconcerned with etiquette, began peeling apart the food with her fingers and enjoyed the very first bite. Despite her mouth being full, the ambassador spoke. "Anthony said it wasn't proper for women to eat meat in elvish culture." She pushed another slice of beef in, allowing her tastebuds to savor every ounce of flavor.

"That would explain why you asked the Pelsan to sneak you some food then." Sayra gave off the slightest laugh.

"I am glad I could amuse you." Sheala partook of more meat from the tray.

"It is not proper for elven women to eat meat. You are not elven. Are you?" Sayra saw Sheala was annoyed at having gone this long being deprived of what she considered real food. "I would not blame him too much, though. While he has elven blood, he has never lived among us. I believe some of our traditions have most likely been lost in translation through the years since his House resided here. So it is a forgivable oversight on his part. Although the House of Nador was one of the most strictly traditional of all the Houses and has not existed in my lifetime. They may have had some slightly different interpretations to what we today consider elven custom. I simply wanted to make sure that everything was straight before the Fayna Roule."

"The Fa-la What?"

"Fayna Roule," Sayra repeated. "It means Dinner To Welcome The Most Honored and Revered Guest of the Elven People Who Has Come to Sit at Our Table."

"But," Sheala started counting on her fingers. "That's only two words in elvish to twenty words in common."

"Twenty-one, to be exact. And it is a loose translation. I didn't want you to insult Olara, our Chief Cook of House Tynara. She can get a little touchy when people don't try all the food she prepares." Sayra's hand started rubbing at the nicks in the wood, taking an interest in the damage Sheala had done to the bedpost,

"Oh." Sheala's face reddened. "Sorry about that. I hope that wasn't a family heirloom or something."

Drawing her hand away from the wood, Sayra only smiled. "No worries. The Fayna Roule will be tomorrow evening. And it is our pleasure to host you, Child of the Storm." And with that, she removed herself and allowed Sheala to finish her meal in peace.

A moment after the silver-haired elven woman left was when Sheala noticed the condition of the post she had been massaging. The gouges and scrapes were all gone and the wood appearied as pristine as when she first arrived.

"You're sure about this?" An elven man, his shoulder-length hair straight and brown, lingered outside as Sayra as exited the small home. "Esse has his doubts." Every word spoken was in his native tongue to avoid their guests from overhearing.

From one of his shoulders to the other, a cat-sized dragon, blue as cobalt, scampered back and forth. He held up a small bit of raw meat between two of his fingers, and the creature stopped, cocked its head to the side, and chirped. Then snatched the morsel with its beak and devoured it in a pair of quick bites.

"Why are you always so suspicious?" She humored him and continued on the conversation in elvish. Holding out her hand, the blue dragon leaped from him to her, scampering along her arm and perching on her shoulder with much more poise and control than it had exhibited for the man. She scratched behind its head. "Maybe you can tell me? Huh? Sheettah? Why is Ittan always so suspicious?"

Rolling his eyes, "I really strongly dislike it when you do that. I'm right here. Talk to me. Not through your pet to me."

"Are you saying there is something about me you hate?" She smiled.

"I didn't say I hated anything about you." There was a bit of fluster in his tone. "I said I 'strongly dislike' it."

"Most people would call that hate. Why can't you just admit that there are things about me that are less than perfect? Huh? Why can't Ittan do that, Sheettah?"

Ittan folded his arms. "Now you're just deliberately trying to antagonize me."

Sayra shrugged. "Do you love me any less because of it?"

With a sigh, his posture softening, Ittan cupped her chin in his hand. The small blue dragon perked its head up. "I could never love you less. As each day passes, I must admit that I love you more."

"Our pending nuptials were arranged before we were born." She stared back into his eyes. "I would never hold you to them. Not if you told me, honestly, that you did not love me."

"First Son and First Daughter," he reminded her. "House Reywa and House Tynara. Bound together forever."

A sigh. "It is a silly tradition."

Ittan took a moment to study the seriousness etched on her face. "Every day, I show you I love you. I live and I breathe for you. Not because of some tradition. But because of what is in my heart. But the real question is, do you love me?"

In and out went Sayra's breath. "You know I was against this arrangement from the day I was old enough to understand it."

"Not the question I asked."

Eyes closed, Sayra composed herself. "But in those years since, while I do not agree with the means, I do agree with the ends. For I have fallen in love with you."

"Why is that so hard for you to say?"

"Because, it is a stupid tradition."

As Ittan leaned in to kiss her, Sheettah chittered with agitation. "Quiet, you." And then he did so.