“Struggling farm probably, family agriculture isn’t as profitable as it used to be.” “You grew up on a farm, in the deep south.” “I’m free to come up with my own story then.”

Following her line of reasoning always led in endless circles and never got to a straight answer. “Or I come from somewhere you wouldn’t usually think of.” “And maybe I didn’t grow up in one place in particular,” she challenged. “I’d bet on Mithra.” She’d fit right in on the Capital streets with her mixed heritage. Though hints of that high-class capital lingo slipped through whenever she wasn’t paying attention. “But you don’t strike me as having grown up in the northern crags.” Not just because the borders were closed and true Elathrians rare, but she had the southern farmer dialect down perfectly. Where the steely grey eyes came from was anyone’s guess. But there was something of the southern softness too, not to mention the warm tan. She had that hint of Elathrian with her coal black hair and the alien sharpness of her features. “You could be from the north,” I continued.

She eyed me as if I was lame, with that furrow in her brow and slightly disgusted look that never failed to make me feel inept. “I would, if you’d just answer the question.” “We don’t get as many storms as the west-coast, but fogs develop in a flash in winter and hang around for days, sometimes weeks.” I didn’t know which I preferred less: the gloomy, damp Tule winters or the oppressively hot midland summers. Not far enough to get much snow in winter, though it’s still cold and the rain never lets up.”Ī small huff slipped her lips, telling me she knew exactly where the town was. She kept her eyes forward and pretended that I didn’t exist. “I’m from Tule myself,” I continued talking, filling in the stifling atmosphere. Her cold silence was not unexpected and the distance between us, as we sat opposite each other on the stairs, might as well have spanned the continent. Nia and I sat in the shade of a decaying building of unrecognizable historical function on a particularly hot midland afternoon, in a block of abandoned industrial warehouses haunted by the local youths. While trained to enforce the rules and maintain the peace in a society with little tolerance for magic-wielding elementals, an encounter with a young boy leads him to make hard choices - and bear the consequences. Dear readers, tonight we listen in on a conversation between the protagonist and his friend.

Rising Wind by Mary Evans