The news struck like a thunderclap. "Big Brother was taken by nobles?" Frela's first instinct was disbelief. The idea of her rigidly disciplined elder brother making a mistake before nobility seemed as likely as pigs taking flight.
Yet the messenger's panicked expression held no deceit. Frela hurriedly hid the herbal formula Ankamroth had recently given her beneath a basket of fresh horsetail grass. Tugging her heavy bangs lower over her distinctive violet eyes - that cursed mark of her mixed heritage - she hitched up her patched skirts and ran toward the main estate.
The scene at the training grounds froze her blood. Her entire family knelt in perfect formation except for Mensir. Old Dort's theatric wails carried across the courtyard: "I swear by the Harvest Mother, my second daughter's been gathering fodder in the far pastures these three days! As for my eldest boy-"
"Enough." The ducal steward twirled his waxed mustache, cold eyes flickering to Frela's arrival. "You'll plead your case before His Grace."
Old Dort's glare could have curdled milk as Frela dropped to her knees. Beside her, stepsister Linbor flashed a venomous smile that promised future reckonings.
The opulent audience chamber reeked of rosewater and impending doom. Frela's gaze climbed the mountain of lace adorning their accuser - the strawberry-maned noble girl from their fateful encounter, now sporting an artfully exaggerated bruise. "That peasant tried to murder me!" came the shrill accusation.
Before Frela could counter, a thunderous slap echoed through the hall. All watched stunned as the lace-clad girl sprawled on marble tiles, her military father's ceremonial spurs clinking with suppressed fury.
"Four years guarding the frontier," the general boomed, "and my household breeds such weakness! These whelps couldn't best a stablehand's get?" His glare swept over the trembling siblings as the ducal lord moved to mediate.
When Mensir was dragged in shackled, Frela's nails bit bloody crescents into her palms. The general's verdict fell like an executioner's axe: "Dispose of your vermin, Your Grace."
Old Dort's life savings changed hands with metallic finality. By sunset, the siblings stood clutching their meager bundles as the estate gates clanged shut behind them.
Frela stared at their stolen map by flickering candlelight. Two roads diverged - passive surrender to the slave markets, or the perilous gamble of flight. Her fingers traced the inked contours of their continent, lingering on the legend at its heart: The Floating Citadel.
"That's suicide," came Ankamroth's voice from the shadows. The elven prince materialized with characteristic disdain, though his emerald eyes betrayed concern. "The borderlands swarm with Fellspawn that devour armies whole. What hope have two untrained-"
"-Three." The correction slipped out unbidden. Ankamroth studied the crude pewter earring Frela nervously twisted - his people's symbol of transient companionship. "My father requires an envoy to... consult... with a borderland seer. We depart at dawn."
The moon hung high when Mensir finally exploded. "You bargained with elves? Traded servitude for fey whims?" His tirade shook their ramshackle lodgings, yet when morning came, his calloused hand stayed steady guiding Frela into the mercenaries' caravan.
As their hometown vanished in dust clouds, Frela inventoried her pitiful arsenal: A militia dagger, homemade soporifics, and Ankamroth's parting gift - a spatial ring containing her entire world. Her thumb brushed the carved wooden lark from Old Dort, its wings eternally poised for flight.
The road unwound before them like a serpent's coil. Somewhere beyond the bloodsoaked border, the Floating Citadel's inverted mountains defied both earth and empire. Frela gripped her brother's arm, their silent pact heavier than any chain. Whether through destiny or desperation, the horse girl would ride the winds of change - or be dashed upon the rocks of ambition.