Kyrae stumbled up the ramp toward the temple’s entrance, her heart pounding and her eyes frantic. The young elf’s knee scraped against the dark stone, leaving behind a smear of dirt and a thin streak of blood. Other visitors paid little heed to Kyrae’s struggle, slithering or walking around the young vagrant like she was a particularly large rat.
Kyrae pulled her rags closer, trying to cover what she could. Everyone’s always judging us, but it’s not our fault! We need to eat, too, and it’s not like anyone’s gonna take us in. Despite the warm, wet air, Kyrae shivered; she was feverish, although she wasn’t worried about herself right now.
The young elf was worried about Issa. Her best friend. Her sister, if not by blood. Her one and only companion who, despite being a troublemaker, held more than her share of their burdens. Her driving force who now lay dying in an alley while Kyrae was unable to do a single thing to help her.
She never told me how bad things had gotten, did she? Temples are open to all, right? The Serpent God wouldn’t let Issa die like this, would they?
Tears ran down Kyrae’s face, streaking through the dirt and showing clean lines of dark skin under her shaggy, dirty hair. She stumbled upward, nearly falling again. Stairs for the elves were to one side, but in her panic, the ramp had seemed faster. Hungry, frightened, swaying and stumbling, she kept her gaze fixed on the symbol of the Serpent God above the immense open doors to the temple complex. The massive green-painted, faux-scale sculpture was ringed with glittering emeralds, and the fang across the center gleamed bone white, reflecting the dim evening light back down onto the young, struggling elf.
Back where they used to live, the Temple had never helped her or Issa. Maybe here, at the Grand Temple in the heart of the Empire’s capital, she could find aid. She had to try—if she wasn’t already too late. Kyrae forced that thought down and away. She couldn’t lose her sister…
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Heaving and huffing, Kyrae half-walked, half-climbed to the top of the ramp and forced herself to stand. Dizziness washed over her and she had to fight back the urge to vomit—not that she had anything in her stomach to cough back up. She staggered forward, uncaring of the stares directed at her by the other people coming and going. Hssen to ssen’iir—all were welcome, regardless of class. At least, that was what Kyrae hoped.
The ssyri’taaniir to the sides of the doors coiled relaxedly, but were watchful under their elaborate helmets. They lifted not a finger nor stirred their tails at the deluge of people passing through. As holy guards of the Temple of Jaezotl, their spears were not just for show, and their watchful gazes sent a shiver down the young elf’s spine. These were much more than the guards she and her sister usually had to watch out for. These guards, like all holy people, were far above common ssen’iir like Kyrae and Issa.
Kyrae stumbled on—she was here for no crime. Neither she nor Issa would ever dare defile a holy site, and right now she had to hope that faint thread of faith would carry the day. Across the threshold, the Grand Temple’s interior was even more elaborate and grandiose than its exterior, almost impossibly so. Jewels and metal accents glittered in the light cast by green flames, reflecting nauseatingly off the polished black stone of the ziggurat’s main chamber. It felt like everyone in the room was staring at Kyrae, like she was a stain on its beauty. Why did I think these people would bother to help us?
She shivered suddenly, exhaustion creeping through the panic that was keeping her going. The young elf hadn’t eaten in days and her limbs started to deaden, feeling heavier and heavier. Ahead, she could see holy vestments through the parting crowd of worshippers. Just a little more…
Twenty steps, then ten. And then Kyrae fell. Her leg buckled and the small elf fell to the ground in a heap, hardly able to do more than grunt in pain. She tried to scream, but in her panic all that came out was a dry cough. They were going to throw her out. And then she and Issa would die.
“Make space!” a voice hardly older than her own shouted. Cold hands found Kyrae’s shoulders and pulled her upright. The voice’s accent was a mix of Lamian and Elven, and through the haze of delirium, the young elf saw robes of green, white, and gold wash over her. “Young ea, are you—"
“Please,” Kyrae moaned, voice a desperate pained rattle. “You have to help… my sister—she…”