It was a plain flaxen dress, the hem a bit too long as it dragged ever so lightly on the leaf covered ground. A young woman, her hair braided and twisted up out of her face stood by an enormous tree, her back to the trunk, nearly camouflaged from potential passerbys. She was inspecting her necklace in light, its rays making the gold edge on her veil sparkle. As she tucked the necklace back into her high collar she was tackled to the ground.

She did not scream, but instead quickly unsheathed a dagger with a short but very sharp blade from her waist, the metal a distinct purple hue. This type of alloy was only able to be forged by Huldra. The Huldra were master alchemists and swordsmiths, but an insular tribe who only dealt with the empires in trade. They governed nothing, nor did they abide by any laws other than their own and their whereabouts were unknown and thought to be inaccessible. A dagger of this kind was typically passed down for generations and eventually landed in a woman’s hands as a wedding gift. It was customary, but Cyprian was not in the business of getting married.

The blade sliced the man’s hand deeply, squirting blood in all directions as it drew away. The sound of the man groaning was muffled, when he instantly released her in pain and dropped to his knees. He placed his head on the ground in a deep and purposeful bow. Another man grabbed Cyprian’s arm tightly from behind her.

“Let her go! She’s a Sibyll!” The bowing man’s voice commanded in a panic. The second man obliged unhanding the young woman and backing away instantly. “Kneel! And bow your head!” He added, as he whimpered, clutching his blood stained wrist.

His companion did not kneel. Instead, he glared with icy eyes. Their sky blue hue showed in stark contrast to his ebony face which was exceptionally smooth except for a bit of flesh that was missing from his nose tip. It had long since healed, but the scar was twisted and prominent.

“Thowl! Kneel!” The blonde one persisted. Thowl threw up his hands but never broke eye contact as he dropped to his knees. “Forgive me Your Grace, we thought you were someone else! Please don’t kill us!”

“Speak for yourself Simka, I’d like to see her try,” Thowl half threatened, smirking as he said it.

“Are you Callery?” Cyprian asked, using the tip of her boot to lift Simka’s chin up in her direction for inspection. He too had eyes like the sky that looked off to the side. He was not permitted to make eye contact with her, and he knew it. His skin was pale. His vest hung away from his body, the flesh slightly olive where the sun cast its rays.

“Yes. We were looking for our princess-“ Simka sputtered.

“She’s not the princess yet, Simka,” Thowl warned. “Why are you telling this stranger anything at all? Let us go!”

“Why would your princess find herself in Yggrad Wood?” Cyprian asked, pulling her foot back causing Simka’s head to drop all at once. “This forest is quite far from The Merline Empire’s borders.”

“She’s been missing and-“ Simka attempted to elaborate but Thowl punched Simka’s arm to silence him.

“You’re going to start a war!” Thowl growled.

“Can you blame her?” Cyprian returned, folding her arms. “Would you want to marry Prince Lemnos?”

“All Hail The Cheshires!” Simka declared, not daring to disrespect his home sovereign, especially outside the border. The Merline and The Ovates had not been at war for many sky changes, but seemed always on the brink of it.

The Merline Empire sought to merge with The Berserker Empire, but the Ovates had won and absorbed all Berserk territories including the Jauf Mountains and Uriah Lake. Now four generations of intermarriage and children made The Ovates Empire unique in the Ikeda Universe, having many of its citizens part Sibylline and part Berserker.

Interclass marriage was still taboo in The Merline however. There was no mixing. Callery and Majeria were to remain separated. Huldrian people weren’t even considered, wherever it was that they lived.

No matter what The Cheshire Royals wanted to believe about their reign over The Merline, the law of all the lands in the Ikeda Universe demanded the respect of The Sibylline  Class irregardless.

Sibylline people held enormous divine power because those chosen among them spoke directly with Glossos, the creator of everything. This had been since the start, when the sky and ground were knitted together by the divine being Pleko. Not even King Prolth Cheshire dared to mess with this holy higher order. Thowl should have been averting his gaze and bowing in Cyprian’s presence like Simka was, but he was bravely stubborn.

“Do you have a death wish?” Simka huffed at Thowl who now had his gaze fixed on Cyprian’s dagger. Cyprian noticed the blood drying on the blade and was reminded of its source.

“Your hand!” She shrieked, rifling her pockets and eventually withdrawing a vial. “Stop bowing!”

Simka stood, and was taller than Cyprian expected, her green eyes slowly gazing up at him in a doe like fashion. Although he was clearly strong and tall, he nonetheless tightly shut his eyes in painful anticipation before offering his calloused palm to be healed. He winced as she poked the wound a bit and then doused it with a mysterious fluid. The healing skin amazed Thowl, who was now peering over Simka’s shoulder in amazement at this curative power he had likely never seen before.

“Thank you,” Simka sighed, inspecting the perfectly healed flesh in the light.

“You’re right,” Thowl shuddered suddenly, grabbing Simka’s arm and pulling him back down to the ground to kneel, “she’s a Sibyll.” Both Thowl and Simka were now deeply bowing together.

“Oh, stand up, this bores me,” Cyprian huffed. She watched as the men rose to their feet once more and then took a moment to inspect Simka more closely, tenderly tugging out a few leaves from his tousled blonde hair. She admired the golden streaks which shone brightly in the light. Bringing her nose right to the exposed bit of skin above the top latch of his gambeson, she took a long breath in.

“Why do you smell so strangely?”

“We’re hung over,” Thowl chuckled.

“What does that mean?” Cyprian asked.

“You know,” Thowl gestured, throwing back a few drinks. “Inebriated.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We consumed spirits-“ Simka began but Cyprian gasped.

“That’s-“

“Blasphemous but in our empire not illegal. So I guess it’s true then? Spirits are not permitted in The Ovates?”

“That is true. Legal or not it’s a violation of The Opus.”

“This bores me,” Thowl mocked, but withered when Simka gave him a stern look.

“He’s just joking,” Simka tried to recover.

“You dare lie to me?” Cyprian scowled, drawing her dagger once more.

“Huldrian forged...I’ve never seen one in real life…” Simka sighed longingly, reaching out towards the dagger with interest. Cyprian rested the tip of her blade just beneath Simka’s throat causing him to whimper and tightly shut his eyes.  He seemed genuinely afraid. If she had been anyone else, the two Callery men would have slaughtered her on the spot. The Callery class were known for their prowess in combat and weaponry, hence making up the entire Myriad, or military forces, in The Merline. This is why it was such a surprise when they ultimately lost the TriGebied War. Perhaps the result of a nation who had turned their back on their creators or simply the mess of a sloppy king.

Being from the Sibylline class protected her; they weren’t permitted to even pluck a hair from her head. She could not be hurt and quite frankly they would have behead themselves on command if she had asked. She was the closest thing any citizen of the Ikeda Universe had to the divine and was respected as such.  

“I want something before you leave,” Cyprian explained gently, pulling the dagger slowly down the blonde one's chest and then lifting her wrist so that the point nearly pierced his skin.

“Anything, Your Grace,” Simka squealed, nearly crossing his eyes trying to stop the blade with his thoughts as it begged to draw blood. With her free hand, Cyprian withdrew her Courrier Book. It was bound in a thick brown cover. Tucking her thumb between the pages she displayed a page full of small unique stamps. “I want your Hanko,” Cyprian smiled, putting the dagger back into its sheath around her waist.

“Really?” Simka raised his eyebrows, panting as he fingered his neck to ensure it had not been pierced.

“Would I ask for something I didn’t want?” Cyprian returned sassily.

“Of course not. Forgive me,” Simka fumbled reaching into the satchel on his belt and procuring a small cylindrical stamp with a unique carving on the bottom. He pressed it down onto the parchment leaving a bold red design. Cyprian wafted the book in the air to encourage the ink to dry before closing it. Then she placed her hand on Simka’s chest gently.

“Well met, Callery Simka of The Merline,” Cyprian whispered.

“And you are?” Simka asked, as Cyprian took off in the opposite direction.

She giggled before replying over her shoulder,  “Sibyll Cyprian of The Ovates. All Hail Her Majesty, Queen Isha!”

Cyprian made her way back to Hotepshka, the capital of The Ovates and her home city. A thin curved line in the soil was all that marked the threshold of The Ovates from The Equitable Expanse. In order to reenter she had to cross this line, known as The Partition. It was Cyprian’s turn to fall to her knees as she offered the crystal around her neck to the line marking their border. Before the war this was where the new empire seperated top and bottom into The Ovates and The “Former Berserk” as it was called. They lived as two separate regions, their people only crossing into each other with complicated and privileged magic. However, they were now whole, and The Partition was all that remained of their former divide.

A low bass like sound echoed through the edge of the trees as a gust of wind displaced them quickly, bending their trunks. The sound was indicating that the empire accepted the offering and would allow her passage. She tucked the pendant and its long braided cord back into her blouse and crossed The Partition quickly before the two halves meshed once more. At the precipice of the hill a birds eye view of the city appeared. Puffs of white smoke flowed out of one stone hut in particular that smelled of yuzu and honey, and Cyprian headed straight for it.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Are you alright?” A slender girl with bronze skin yelled upon seeing Cyprian turn the corner, her wild black curls were a crown about her head.

“Of course I am Selene, why?” Cyprian huffed in annoyance, hastening her pace towards her favorite bakery.

“You’re covered in blood!” Selene persisted, jumping in front of her. Cyprian cursed under her breath, as she looked down to see the sanguine splatter on her apron. She doffed it in a hurry, hiding it in her pocket. “What happened?”

“Not now, Selene, please,” Cyprian sighed, “I’m so hungry.”

“First story, then buns,” Selene scolded, a threatening finger in the air. Cyprian looked up at her big sister, and the worry on her face was the only thing that stopped her from continuing on.

“I encountered two Callery boys in Yggrad Wood,” Cyprian started, “they mistook me for someone else and I attacked one in defense but I healed him and he’s fine now.”

“You attacked a child?” Selene persisted.

Cyprian cleared her throat, “they were men actually-“

“Are you out of your mind? That’s it. You’re not going in the Equitable Expanse alone anymore!” Selene raved.

“Then I’ll kill myself,” Cyprian quipped dramatically, plowing through her doting older sister, but Selene was quick to grab her wrist.

“You could have been killed!”

“The one realized I was a Sibyll immediately and the two of them were literally groveling. They begged for forgiveness at my feet. It was the worst kind of pathetic,” Cyprian clarified, approaching the stall counter and handing over a few wooden squares with holes in them. Each square had a different amount of holes indicating amounts.  

“Food? Is that all you can think about right now?” Selene whined.

“You’re not going to get fat from one treat,” Cyprian smirked, swaying the glaze beneath Selene’s nose until she took a bite.

“Where did you get four Robis? You’re not allowed to handle currency,” Selene half reprimanded, bits of half chewed pastry escaping her mouth corner as she spoke.

“I’m not?” Cyprian feigned shock, inspecting her hand where she had just held the coins. “Oh no! It’s the end for me!”

“Stop,” Selene shook her head, “I just don’t want you to get into trouble or worse, hurt.”

“I may have conjured them,” Cyprian explained with a shrug.

Selene swallowed the last bite of her bun and then her expression turned blank, “So you stole these?”

“Something like that,” Cyprian giggled, taking off in a run down the street.

“Why can’t we walk?” Selene called during the chase. Cyprian encouraged her sister by reminding her that this would certainly burn off any gained weight from the treat. When they rounded the corner a familiar scene was unfolding and Cyprian wanted to disappear upon seeing it. A muscular average height young man with a half shaved head stood in the garden. The other half of his head had an ear length plait that flopped over his skull.

“Oliveri, you know you’re like a son to me, but I can’t change her mind,” a stout man explained, gesturing with a carrot in his hand, his fingernails blackened with freshly turned earth. There was a break just left of the stout man’s filtrim that pulled up into his nostril just like Oliveri had. It marked him as a Sibylline man; every single one had a healed cleft in their lip.

So the story went, Glossos, poured every prophecy a Sibylline boy will ever tell into their mouth when still being formed in their mother’s womb. Such a small body simply can not fit all of these words, so their mouth tears upon being stuffed full. When the infant swallows their gift, Glossos rewards them by repairing the tear. Sibylline women had no markings, supposedly to prevent them from being spotted and made vulnerable. Sibylline boys were born prophets, but Sibylline girls were chosen. Cyprian was chosen. Selene was not. Neither sister was pleased with Glossos’s decision, but with the fates, they meddled not.

“Hello girls, and Oliveri,” their mother, Ame, greeted in a jovial fashion as she lifted a basket full of freshly picked vegetables from Tuime’s feet. “Please don’t forget to pray.” Ame was always happy, she even smiled during arguments and when she scolded them.

“Oh, wow...give it a rest, Oliveri!” This voice came with the clacking sound of the gate closing and the jingle of Huldrian forged chainmail.

“Silas. I promise. No marriage proposals! I just wanted to accompany Cyprian to the temple,” Oliveri tried, wincing as he finished his sentence. Silas had fiery red hair and his eyes were two storm clouds. He too, had the lip marking. He was Selene and Cyprian’s big brother, and born first. He turned his meteorological head towards the girls for their opinion.

“I can walk there myself-” Cyprian tried, but Selene interfered.  

“How kind of you. Keep her safe.”

Cyprian audibly grumbled her face winding up with aggravation. Silas handed a small satchel to Oliveri to provide as an offering to The Temple; tithe was obligatory in The Ovates.

“I can hold it,” Cyprian suggested outstretching her arm.

“Very funny, Your Grace,” Oliveri forced a chuckle, pinning the satchel to his belt, his golden eyes matching his skin as he smiled. Tuime and Ame thanked Oliveri for his companionship and hurried them off the property towards The Temple. Cyprian stuck her tongue out at Silas in protest. He did it back.

The two walked in silence for a while, listening to a bout of children laugh and play in the school yard and then noticed people bartering along the merchant alley. Cyprian was jolted out of her daydreaming when Oliveri’s finger wiped her cheek. “Is that blood?”

“No! It’s yuzu bun,” Cyprian rolled her eyes, rubbing her face with her sleeve.

“Are you sure?” Oliveri pouted.

“Yes,” Cyprian was curt.

“Cyprian,” Oliveri’s voice was desperate.

“Oliveri, Your Grace,” Cyprian pleaded, “I’m not going to marry you. I’m not going to marry anyone.”

“If you want to become Haruspex, I support you fully,” Oliveri was so honest and sincere, it was difficult for anyone to turn him down. “And don’t call me that.”

“But you call me that.”

“My Perusals are rubbish, I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” Oliveri frowned.

“I do not want to be Haruspex, Oliveri. I don’t even want to be chosen-”

“Don’t say such terrible things aloud. Glossos will be angry,” Oliveri warned. Cyprian snatched the satchel of robis and took off with them. He chased after her desperately on the lacquered wood steps of the temple. As her want-to-be-betrothed shouted about Tolmec Law, and started reciting The Opus, Cyprian did everything she could to keep the satchel from the anxious man. She was sick and tired of all the rules and would give anything to not be a chosen one. If she could have she would have easily given all her powers to Selene, who in her opinion, was far more deserving.

Then the robis came tumbling out of the satchel; the drawstring had caught a metal ornament upon the railing and tugged it open. Cyprian collapsed to the ground in pain as her skin instantly singed where the wooden robis touched her arms. The offering lay askew on the landing where footwear was meant to be stored prior to passing through the half raised portcullis. Cyprian’s whimpers were drawing attention. Oliveri kicked off his boots, and tore hers from her feet before he dragged her through the entry.  Many people who were visiting the temple were disturbed at the site of him thrusting her towards the fountain in the center. Cyprian plunged her burnt arms into the cold basin for some relief. She held back tears as Oliveri rubbed her back to comfort her.

“Your Grace! What happened?” An elderly voice called. There was a man in a heavily patched saffron cloak limping over to Cyprian as she cried, her arms elbow deep in the holy fountain waters.

“The robis...they fell out of the bag...they touched her skin,” Oliveri barely managed to explain.

“I’ll get The Haruspex,” the old priest replied calmly, disappearing through an archway at the side. Oliveri began apologizing to Cyprian over and over again, but she reassured him that this was her own fault.

“What happened?” A wise female voice sighed from somewhere above. They both looked up to see the Haruspex, her slender frame emphasized by a gossamer cloak and a crystal pin, much like Cyprian’s necklace, holding up lengthy white hair that likely reached the floor when unfurled. Her veil matched.

Oliveri and Cyprian bowed deeply like The Callery men had done. The Haruspex was the highest authority in Ikeda, some may even say, she had more power than Queen Isha, herself.  “Go home, Oliveri. Collect the robis and give them to Brother Rit.” The Haruspex handed Oliveri a pair of gloves with which to handle the coins.

Oliveri climbed to his feet and departed at once, never turning his back on the enormous glass window at the back wall. It had been designed carefully and pieced together as a tribute to Glossos. To turn your back to the glass was to deny the divine, and although Oliveri was a kind but insufferable pest most of the time, he was after all a pious man who had the unfortunate plight of being hopelessly in love with a woman who loved him not.

Cyprian crawled behind The Haruspex towards the same side room from whence she came. Brother Rit closed the door behind them. There was an agonizing silence between the two Sibylline women until the Haruspex finally drew an audible breath. “Is it painful?”

“Yes,” Cyprian whispered into the floor where she continued to bow.

“It ought to be,” the leader of the temple sneered, her tone no longer passive but angry. “How forgiving is Glossos?” The Haruspex added, lifting Cyprian up towards her chair with a gentle wave of her hand. “If Oliveri had not brought you to the fountain so quickly, I think those could have been permanent.” Cyprian was gently lowered to her bare feet and although she could not look in her direction she could feel the glares of The Haruspex stabbing her with disappointment.

“If we can not touch currency then why does the temple require tithe?” Cyprian asked.

“It’s the only thing they understand,” The Haruspex explained, “and you know that all the robis is returned to the people. How else would every single citizen of The Ovates have guaranteed food and shelter? Do you think it a better disposition to allow the royal families to control the tithe as they do in The Merline Empire? Perpetuating homelessness and starvation is your solution? All because you couldn’t let Oliveri hold a bag?”

“I misspoke,” Cyprian returned.

“Please confess, Cyprian. The secret you’re holding in is literally hurting my ears,” The Haruspex lounged in her chair now, preparing to listen.

“I don’t want to marry Oliveri-“

“Oh, Cyprian! Then don’t marry him. Everyone in the world knows you’re not going to marry that boy. Everyone that is, except Oliveri himself, poor chap.” Cyprian sniggered a bit, covering her mouth with her hand to conceal it. “We both know that’s not the secret. What happened? I was alerted that Callery blood crossed The Partition.” Cyprian’s head craned back, her eyes wide as they looked at The Haruspex in disbelief. How could she have possibly known? “Avert your gaze!” She shouted at Cyprian who quickly bowed her head once more. Cyprian had caught a few glances of The Haruspex. She had a narrow face with close together features, the tip of her nose and her eyes equally beady. There was a suggestion that she had once been a redhead like Silas’s, a few strands holding on for dear life as they weaved through her carefully pinned white hair.

“I took a walk in the Equitable Expanse and two Callery men attacked me. They mistook me for a runaway bride. It seems Prince Lemnos may marry.”

“Well thank Glossos you’re alive-“

“They knew I was a Sibyll. How could they have known?”

“First of all, you are not to be entering the EE alone under any circumstances-“

“I know. Selene already scolded me,” Cyprian frowned. “But how did they know? We are not marked like the men!”

“I’ve always admired your bravery, Cyprian. Her Majesty doesn’t even speak to me the way you do.”

“Your Highest Grace, are there Sibylls among The Merline?” Cyprian asked. Total silence followed, not even the sound of the people walking in and out of the temple for prayers could be heard beneath the door. The shuffling of their feet disappeared as the shadows they cast along the floor paused.

The Haruspex was pausing life, her greatest of privileges.

“Oh Cyprian. I didn’t want you to find out this way,” The Haruspex’s voice was regretful. “We do in fact provide Sibylls to The Merline.”

“What?” Cyprian shouted, then averted her gaze again, forgetting herself.

“I have declined Her Majesty Queen Isha’s request for your transfer thrice already-“

“Transfer?” Cyprian asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

“You are not wed, Cy. The Merline requires a Sibyll. It is a part of the peace treaty that I am least proud, but that is how the TriGebied War finally ended. You are up next. I can not manage any more deferments. Unless of course, you marry.”

“Would I ever come back?” Cyprian sobbed.

“I’m afraid not.”

“But Silas and Selene! Can they come with me?”

“It’s out of the question.”

“My parents!”

“They will be incredibly proud of this. There is no higher honor.”

“Haruspex, this is unacceptable!”

“Silence!” her voice bounded through the chamber with enormous volume.

Cyprian’s tears fell like rain onto the shiny wooden floor. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried. A trickle of sound made its way beneath the door again, followed by the shadows of the passerby. Cyprian pulled a glass vial from her pocket and collected her tears. As soon as she pushed the cork down securely, The Haruspex willed the vessel into her hand. Sibylline tears had special powers, healing powers, and in an empire devoid of most water sources, precious.

The Haruspex spoke authoritatively, “Find a husband. Marry. Have children, Cy. Otherwise, upon the next Hyperboloid Chime, you are property of King Prolth Cheshire of The Merline Empire, for the rest of your life.”