49: Melistia Point, Part XII

Samira centers herself in the aftermath of the trial in the reading room; In the present, Torren takes stock of her tale, reconciling Samira's true nature as a Tresspire.

Last we left off…

Samira — battered and concussed — stood her ground against the hostile record keeper… and then some. Catching her off guard with a hanging skylight chain, Samira rushed the elf and used the metal links to strangle her adversary in a visceral battle for survival.

As the threat diminished, Samira fell to the floor, hands bruised and bloodied from the effort. No death she had ever brought about had ever been so brutal.

After recovering, she got up to read the parchment on the table: a letter from her guardian, Lillian.

Lillian, who in reality was the bastard child of Kalys Tresspire, or so she wrote. Exiled from Kiren, and owing a favor to friends that happened to be Samira’s parents —cwhile she would tell not of their names or occupation, Lillian does reveal that Samira, legally, is her own daughter via adoption.

The name Tresspire is hers to claim, along with every consequence that such a family bears.

I fold my arms into my jacket so that Torren can’t see my hands. My hood hangs loosely over my forehead. Hopefully my unkempt hair covers my face enough that neither he nor Secar wish to interrogate my puffy eyes.

Tresspire. Lillian. Kalys.

My family?

The nausea riles deep down in my stomach. I don’t know if it’s the concussion, or the flashing image of the elf’s body, or the simple fact that I don’t know what to do with this information, but as I listen to my body I feel it recoil in a way that is altogether unpleasant.

I brace my hand on the wall for a moment as I squeeze my opposite thumb tightly, knowing that if I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth that it will only come right back up.

Torren’s footsteps close behind me, “You ok?”

I do my best not to give direct eye contact with him, and deflect with a plausible circumstance.

“Yeah. It’s nothing. Just… an unexpected cramp.”

I see his figure out of the corner of my peripheral vision. He reaches back for something, and presents a waterskin.

“Here. It’s sweetwater from the Respite.”

I take it, looking down as I nod forward, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, squeezing me on the shoulder as he walks past.