THE RÓMENTÁRI

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Recognisable characters, places and events belong to Tolkien.

Unrecognisable characters, places and events are a product of my own unparalleled genius.

Rated T for some violence. Rated SPICY for the slow-burn romance that will appear after approximately 49 chapters of characterisation (just kidding, it's only like 17). Rated AWESOME because it is.

Please excuse my excessive lack of modesty; I am truly thrilled that your curiosity drew you here, and I hope that you enjoy!

"He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace – all in a flash of thought that was quickly driven from his mind."
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

1 – THE PROPHECY

The red sun set over the desert behind Tchakhura Makhyë as she walked through the camp. She nodded to the old women who each sat outside their patchu, the tent-houses. Each patchi was dome shaped, crafted by stretching animal skins around wooden frames. They were light and easily carried, but also strong, standing the worst of the sandstorms, scorching days and cold nights of the desert.

The camp was quiet, almost eerily so. So many people were gone. Many of the patchu were empty. The children were more wide eyed now, Tchakhura thought, more subdued and wary, never straying too far from their mothers. They had seen too many things for people so young. They laughed as children should, but warily. War had taken that from them. Gondor had.

The Khondyë's patchi was the biggest; it was at the centre of the camp, close to the fire, and that was where Tchakhura was headed now. The Khondyë had called a meeting, and Tchakhura knew very well what they would be discussing. Gondor had once again increased their attacks on the bamyë, and they were far too strong. They could not continue like this and expect to survive.

Tchakhura stopped outside the Khondyë's patchi. She could hear voices inside.

"Khuma Khondyë," she called.

"Enter," came the reply. Tchakhura pulled back the door-flap and went in.

Inside the patchi were three men and a woman seated around a low wooden table, their faces illuminated in the flickering red light of the lamp hung from the roof beams.
The Khondyë looked up.

"Khuma, daughter."

"Khuma, Vadrë," she replied, sitting down next to Tcharum. He shifted slightly to make room for her nodding in greeting.

"How goes it at the boundaries, sister?" he asked.

"I left them quiet," Tchakhura replied. "Borund's patrol ends now, so he will join us soon."

Tcharum sighed. "The borders might be peaceful now, but they won't be for long. Gondor has been biding their time, but the next attack will come before the full moon, mark my words."

Tchakhura shrugged. "Perhaps they have decided we are no longer a threat," she said, knowing it was not true.

Tcharum snorted. "We haven't threatened Gondor for years, and they know that. They will attack yet again, whatever their reasons; they have proven themselves cruel and spiteful, so why wouldn't they keep hitting us while we're down? But as for us..." He shook his head in frustration. "We must decide on yet another strategy of avoidance."

"Hence the meeting," said Tchakhura, half smiling. She lowered her voice. "Is Vadrë… in a mood?"

Tcharum shook his head, glancing at the Khondyë and speaking just as quietly. "He seemed angry this afternoon, but he's better now. Probably. You should spend more time with him, Tchakhura, I am tired of always being the one bringing him to reason."

"You know I can't, brother," Tchakhura bit out under her breath. "I only wish I could."

They were interrupted when the door-flap was pulled back again, and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered the patchi.

"Khuma Khondyë," he said. "All's quiet on the boundaries — for now, at least. Am I the last?"

"Khuma, Borund. You are the last," replied the Khondyë. "We will begin our council."

Borund sat next to Viatchund, and everyone settled. The Khondyë was not a tall man, but he was stocky and muscled. Although he was growing older, his hair showed no sign of greying, and his black eyes glared with an intensity that had reduced many crowds to silence over their time.

"We can only assume that Gondor, if they follow their usual patterns, will send another raid within three to four weeks. A course of action must be decided upon." There were murmurs of agreement. The Khondyë continued.

"Our casualties grow every raid," he said. "Many of our variag, our warriors, have been lost in battle. The bamyë is forced to keep on the move by the threat of attack. Considering these, I ask first: what measures would each of you have taken to save the tribe?"

"As you say, every time Gondor attacks we lose more of our people," Viatchund said. "Before this we have survived by relocating, time after time, but we are staving off the inevitable. We are the largest of all the tribes of Khand, and we cannot move fast or far enough to truly outrun the raids. We must try to negotiate again."

Tcharum leaned in and shook his head. "It is useless to try. Four months ago, we sent a party to parley when the attackers arrived. They were shot down by archers and were killed before they had advanced ten yards. The raid before that, the same thing happened. Clearly this path was never open to us."

"Moreover, they do not speak our language," said Borund. "Nor we theirs. Our lands are too far removed and any one of the bamyë who understood the dialect of Gondor is long dead. Negotiation is useless – even if they allowed us to approach them, we couldn't communicate. The only path which I see could remain open to us is to go East, if we could just convince the Kheviag tribe..."

"That way also is closed to us," said Tchakhura. "East are the lands of the Kheviag bamyë. Their Khondyë has been clear that he will not have us on his lands. The Kheviag Khondyë does not want his people in danger from Gondor's raids, for he has seen as an example what they have done to us. He fears their wrath, and well he might. The Maruvikh tribe is insulation for the Kheviag; we are a shield, if you like, to weather the blows and keep them safe."

For a moment, there was silence, then Tcharum spoke. "So physically, we are as far East as we can go. We cannot run. We cannot fight. We cannot negotiate. What futures other than execution, or slavery to Gondor are open to us? Clearly they hate us."

All at the table nodded. "It is just the way of things," said the woman, Petakh. "For as long as our fathers' fathers remember, Khand has opposed Gondor. We are allies with the Haradrim too, another enemy of Gondor. Could it be that they fight us just because it is all we have ever known?"

"That's ridiculous," said Borund. "Enemies and alliances are made and unmade all the time, and I cannot believe that is their motive. We are as far from their land as we could be, and we are not in any position to attack. Were we in their position, and they in ours, I would not have us raid again and again a people so helpless just for old times' sake."

"Nor would I. Yet what we would do means nothing," Viatchund argued. "Perhaps they wish to drive us from our land, too. And what Gondor does is not foolish. A soldier does not give his enemies time to recover, then attack anew."

"Yet they will not parley!" Petakh cried, smacking her hand down on the table.

"It matters not! Perhaps it is some twisted Western tradition of revenge. The fact remains that they are thirsty still for the blood of our bamyë. Their motives –"

"It is immaterial whether or not we know the motive of Gondor." Tcharum interrupted Viatchund. "We will be attacked in any case. Therefore, we must make a choice. What can we do?"

"My son speaks with wisdom," said the Khondyë, finally speaking. "As for what you have said before, we can neither parley nor hide… But there is a chance for us to fight."

Tchakhura looked up sharply. How could they fight? Her father knew as well as any how outnumbered the bamyë was.

Petakh too was frowning, her face puzzled. "We cannot, Khondyë," she said. "We are too few."

The Khondyë nodded. "Your words are true. I do not speak of fighting independently, but of joining forces."

"With whom?" Viatchund asked.

The Khondyë smiled grimly. "With Mekakhond."

"No," said Tchakhura immediately, shaking her head. "That would be folly. His tongue may be silver, but his heart is blacker than coal. We have our laws, we do not deal with dark magic of that kind."

But Viatchund was scratching his beard thoughtfully. "What advantage would it give us?" he asked.

"Greater numbers, greater strength," said the Khondyë, leaning forwards. Tchakhura flushed, wondering how many of the others had noticed how her father ignored her. He continued. "Banding with Mekakhond could mean a chance to strike at Gondor. It seems to me to be our only choice. And by your discussion before, I think you all would agree with me."

"Surely not," she spoke up again, unable to stay quiet. "You have seen his orc armies, the atrocities they commit with — with pleasure, for their own amusement. Torture, even, needless torture. They are a foul breed, yet they comprise the armies of Mekakhond. You would have us join with them, become one with them, for revenge on Gondor? We may be desperate, but never have we stooped so low." Borund was nodding, but the others would not meet her eye; none of them save the Khondyë, who looked at her with contempt. Her stomach sunk to her toes.

"You are to be Khondyë when I am gone, girl," he said, his voice full of contempt. "But if it is the fate of the bamyë to have a leader so weak, then it is a dark fate indeed."

There was stiff silence. Tchakhura lowered her gaze.

Her father was a strong Khondyë, even a great Khondyë. She knew he hated being forced to subdue to Gondor's constant attacks. She was his daughter, his own blood, and the tribe's powerlessness chafed at her too. She just wished she was not always a disappointment to him. Being the firstborn of the twins only made it worse; Tchakhura knew her father had wanted Tcharum, his son, to succeed him. She wished it too.

Certainly, Mekakhond was powerful. He had a mighty stronghold in the North, in the arms of the Encircling Mountains, and he had not ventured forth for a long time. In fact, the rumours held that he had been absent for hundreds of years, driven out by some greater force, an alliance of all peoples in the North. But, some fifty years before Tchakhura and Tcharum had been born, the tribes of Khand had felt the return of Mekakhond to his dominion. The elders described it in their fire-stories as a heaviness falling upon the land, a malice which could be felt in the sand and in the air. They said he was always watching, looking — though they never claimed to know what for — with his fiery red eyes. Tchakhura had dismissed these as old wives' tales, but now it seemed at least some were true: Mekakhond was returning to power.

"Let us then consider joining Mekakhond," Borund said reluctantly, breaking the silence. "Is this the wisest course? We have all heard the stories from the Easterlings in the North. Banding with Mekakhond gave them temporary strength, it is true, but it was strength in numbers only. Mekakhond never brought them to any great victory, nor did the battles bring them honour. May we not find strength in numbers without Mekakhond?"

"And with whom would you join forces?" the Khondyë asked. "The Easterlings from the North? They are already joined with Mekakhond. The Haradrim? They too. The opinion of our neighbouring tribes has been made clear. They will not band with us. So, our strength in numbers will be found with Mekakhond, or not at all."

"He is evil," Tchakhura said, her voice barely a whisper. She knew her father would not listen.

Tcharum looked up at her. "What else would you have us do?" he asked softly. Tchakhura shook her head hopelessly, holding her brother's eye. The patchi fell silent again.

Finally, the Khondyë spoke. "We will adjourn for the present and meet again come sunrise. Think on what has been said, but know that in truth, little choice lies before us. Khuma. Go in peace."

Tchakhura waited in the patchi with Tcharum until the others had left and they were alone with their father. The silence stretched on.

"Vadrë," Tchakhura began, but stopped when her father looked up sharply.

"I wish to hear no more of this, girl," he said, his voice growing in volume. "Did I raise you to be weak? Did you learn from me to think like a cowering thief?"

"Vadrë, she wishes only to speak," said Tcharum softly. The Khondyë glared at him but lowered his voice as he turned back to Tchakhura. His eyes were no gentler.

"Think as your brother thinks," he said. "Then you may be a worthy leader." He stood, brushed off his tunic, and left the patchi.

For a moment, all was quiet. Then Tcharum sighed. "Sister –"

"I hate it, brother. You do not know how I hate it when he does it! When he calls me girl in front of the others."

"I do."

She shook her head, her voice growing bitter and loud. "But no matter what I do to please him, no matter how hard I try, he is never happy. I am unerringly loyal to him. I am the strongest of our women fighters, the best of all the variagura. I do my share of border watch and I try, Tcharum, I try to think like a warrior should."

"I know."

"But I cannot be good enough for him. I cannot be as good as you. And nobody will respect me as Khondyë when he treats me like this in front of them."

"You have already won our respect, sister. Do not fear that. And he loves you, you know," Tcharum said quietly. "In his own way."

Tchakhura looked at her hands, clenched in her lap. "As long as he rejects me, the tribe has licence to reject me. They will follow the Khondyë no matter what."

Tcharum sighed. "He is under stress at the moment, perhaps that is why he is hard on you. This business with Mekakhond worries him."

"It does us all. It is bigger than Mekakhond, though. Bigger than our Vadrë, bigger than us, bigger than Gondor and Khand. The world is moving. It is now that we must choose where to stand when it has settled; that is why we cannot join the shadow in the North."

Tcharum seemed to hesitate a moment, then he spoke. "Has Vadrë told you in full of Mekakhond's… bargain?"

Tchakhura sat forward, frowning. "Bargain? I haven't heard anything about that..."

"Then here is the truth, a truth the Khondyë would not have any others in the bamyë know: if we do not join the armies of Mekakhond, he will send to us his armies of orcs. And they will have no mercy."

Tchakhura processed this in silence. So, that was it. They joined him, or they died. "That's how he recruited the Haradrim and the Easterlings," she murmured in realisation. "Why doesn't Vadrë want the tribe to know?"

"It is dishonest, but he wants them to think it is their own choice when they march to war." She nodded slowly, but somehow felt she still didn't understand. Everything seemed numb somehow; the colours of the patchi cloth were muted, the lamps duller. After everything, there was no choice. And the Khondyë did not see fit to tell her, his successor.

The twins walked to the fire-ring together in silence, accepting their food from the fire-tenders and sitting to eat. The night was still, and the voices of the bamyë, dampened by the vastness of the desert, joined the dull roaring of the fire. Tchakhura stared broodingly into the flames. This was her home: the fire, the desert sand, the sun, the millions of familiar stars. Her bamyë, her tribe, was her family, and this was where they belonged.

To leave, for them, would be like losing half their identity. They were a part of the desert, and the desert was a part of them. If they left, if they joined forces with the Easterlings, the Haradrim, and the orc spawn of the Encircling Mountains, they would no longer be the people of Khand, because Khand would no longer recognise them.

Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë, she thought. Loyalty to tribe and loyalty to family, a mantra drilled into every child in Khand before they even learned to walk. It was the essence of their way of life, their most sacredly kept law. The penalty for betrayal was death. But this felt like a new betrayal; leaving their home would be betraying themselves, even though they had no choice. There is always a choice, her father's voice whispered in her mind.

She looked at her brother. "What path would you choose?" she asked. "If you had the choice."

He was staring into the fire, and the reflected flames danced in his dark eyes. "If I could choose, I would have us live in peace for all the ages," he said. Then he smiled ruefully and shook his head. "We are too far from being so to think of it. So now, I choose between staying or going? I do not pretend to love Mekakhond and his dark ways... but Gondor I hate. I hate them for being ruthless, I hate them for being without mercy, I hate them for killing my friends and my family and my bamyë… We may have little choice, but we could also use this war as an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what?" said somebody. Tchakhura looked up, and despite everything couldn't help but smile. It was Borund. "Khuma, you two," he said, sitting down by Tcharum.

"An opportunity for revenge on Gondor," said Tcharum.

"That is too heavy a topic to speak of outside the Khondyë's patchi," Borund said. "A change in subject would be welcome."

"Then tell me," Tcharum said innocently. "How fare the wedding plans?" Borund groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Save me," he mumbled.

"From your wife to be, or the wedding itself?" asked Tchakhura.

"Ah, not from you, my sweetest," said Borund, reaching across Tcharum to grab her hand, but he was pushed out of the way by Tcharum.

"Do not keep me from my beloved," Borund said, glaring. Tcharum and Tchakhura snorted in unison.

"Beloved? You two will be as happily married together as a mûmakil is happy living in a patchi," Tcharum said. "And do not think Tchakhura wishes to wed you herself too soon either."

"It is true," Tchakhura admitted. "I'm not exactly looking forward to stowing away my sword to become a mother. Fighting is the only thing I'm good at, and if I don't have that, I'll be the worst Khondyë that ever lived."

"Nonsense," said Borund. "You are too old and slow to fight now. By marrying you, I am saving you."

Tchakhura grinned. "From humiliating myself in battle? Or from humiliating you by showing our enemies you are outmatched by a woman at swordsmanship?"

"Ah, Tchakhura, admit the truth…"

"Just as soon as you admit I am the better fighter of us two."

"I cannot lie, it is forbidden."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem –"

"With every honesty," Tcharum cut in, "I dread the day you two get married. The day of Tchakhura's wedding will be the day my peace ends, I know it."

"You are just afraid of your sister becoming bored by lack of fighting," Borund said. "The law that no mother will fight was not made for Tchakhura Makhyë. She will swing a sword sooner than a broomstick."

"At your head," Tcharum replied. "She will be your wife, not mine."

They were still laughing later when Petakh ran into the fire-ring. "Khondyë!" she cried, saluting quickly. "News from the boundaries!"

The Khondyë stood immediately, his face grave. "Gondor?" he asked. Everyone in the fire-circle stiffened, the fighting men and women reaching for their swords.

"No," replied Petakh, catching her breath. "At least, I think not. There is an old man, travelling alone. He speaks our language with no accent, yet... he does not seem to be of Khand. He claims to have a message for the bamyë."

The Khondyë nodded slowly, but did not sit. "Bring him here."

The people in the fire-ring began whispering amongst themselves as Petakh left to bring the stranger. Tchakhura, Tcharum and Borund stood together and made their way closer to the Khondyë.

Minutes later, Petakh returned with the man. He was old, certainly; his beard was long and white and his face browned and wrinkled by the sun, but his eyes twinkled vigorously. He wore a long, faded blue cloak and carried a staff. On his head was a large, pointed hat, and he also had on a strange silver scarf. He looked about at the circle of people around him now, smiling at some private joke.

The Khondyë stepped forward into the ring of firelight, surveying the man.

"Khuma, stranger. What business have you in our land?" he said, in his voice a warning. The man in the hat laughed and bowed deeply from the waist. His pointed hat fell off, but he caught it and nimbly swept it back onto his head. He looked up at the faces of those around him and smiled in a satisfied way, as though to ensure that everyone had seen his feat. The Khondyë cleared his throat.

The man snapped comically to attention, touching his right shoulder with his left fist in a salute.

"Khuma, Khondyë! Your greeting was impressive, but unfortunately incorrect. I am no stranger in this land!" he cried, dropping the salute and waving his arms about emphatically.

Borund leaned closer to Tchakhura. "Do you know this man?" he whispered in her ear. Tchakhura shook her head, bemused.

At the lack of recognition, the stranger seemed to deflate a little. "Does no one among you remember me? Have I really been forgotten?" Silence met his words, until the Khondyë spoke again.

"State your name, if you are known," he said.

"You know my name," said the old man, his voice now wry, "though perhaps you have forgotten that I belong to it. I am Akhund."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Tchakhura looked more closely at the man. The elders of her bamyë told stories sometimes, stories of a magic-man who did strange things and brought news of a changing world…

Borund spoke up suddenly. "Not Akhund who turned the flames different colours at night?" he said in wonder. "Akhund who told stories of fire-breathing snakes and green mountains higher than a thousand mûmakil, and Fair Men in the West who live forever?"

"But of course!" replied the man. "Khuma, my dear Borund! I am glad to be remembered by one at least, if only for my stories. You have grown much since I last saw you. A good three feet at last."

"Khuma Akhund," said the Khondyë, "if Akhund you are. It is nigh one score and four years since you last came."

Akhund frowned, lifting his hat to scratch his head thoughtfully. "It has been many years," he said. "Why, Rovekh Khondyë, when I visited your bamyë last you were but a boy, not yet thirty!"

The Khondyë's face remained emotionless. "State your business," he said.

"I see you are a boy still," muttered Akhund. Then he raised his voice. "But I have not come merely to see your faces, my dear people! I have come to give advice." He began to turn in a slow circle, speaking to all the bamyë. "A hard time is coming, my friends. Yes!" he added as someone snorted disbelievingly, "harder, perhaps, than now. Greater enemies than Gondor lie ahead, though they may disguise themselves as friends." He paused, completing the circle and catching Tchakhura's eye. His gaze was almost pitying, and she blinked, put off.

"If you wish to be victorious, forget not: greater things than hate will lend you strength." Akhund shifted his gaze away from Tchakhura and looked at the Khondyë. "No matter what orders you are given, choose goodness over cruelty." Then the magic man looked at Tcharum. "When hope seems lost, it is best to head for home. Oh – and never assume that people are dead, because they might not be."

Tcharum's mouth fell slightly open in confusion, but Akhund continued. "One last thing," he said quietly.

Every person went still; to Tchakhura, it seemed that the stars too were listening. Akhund spoke again, his voice still ominously quiet.

"I am gifted with foresight, Rovekh Khondyë. Sometimes the Valar, who you call the Hamariag, send me dreams of what is to come when they deem it necessary. They did so one week ago."

Tchakhura hadn't known she was holding her breath. She exhaled, shaking her head. Why was her heart beating so fast? Borund glanced down at her, then took her hand. She didn't pull away.

"The prophecy concerns this bamyë," Akhund said. "This bamyë, but also all the world and the fate of the Free Peoples. I judge it necessary that I share it here, on this night."

Suddenly, Akhund seemed to grow taller. The fire threw red light and shadow over his face, and his eyes glittered fiercely under the brim of his hat. Tchakhura tensed, prepared to reach for her knife, but then Akhund began to speak in a voice that rasped like the desert sand against the wind:

"Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,
Betrayer of those who hold them most dear:
First for life,
Next for gold,
Last to follow what heart has told.
Light to be in a darkness unseen,
Part of two worlds, yet torn between,
The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn,
The lowest amongst you, the Khondyë's firstborn."

Not one person moved. The only sound to be heard was the low roar of the fire. Finally, the Khondyë seemed to come to his senses.

"These words make no sense," he muttered, then he raised his voice. "These words make no sense! Do you mean to say there is one among us who is a traitor? A khaviga?" He spat the word.

"Yes," Akhund replied. He had shrunk back to his ordinary size, and now leaned heavily on his staff like an old man. "And that person is your daughter."

Tchakhura's blood froze in her veins. Slowly, one by one, the people began turning to look at her.

"No," she whispered. Why would someone say that? Why would anyone say that? It was a lie. She felt a strange urge to laugh. No one in her bamyë could possibly believe that she was a khaviga. She turned to look at Tcharum, and she caught her breath. He, her own brother, was staring back at her, his eyes bewildered, confused. Tchakhura took a shaking breath. Her own brother… why would he doubt her? How was it possible?

Khaviga.

The prophecy began echoing through her head, over and over, the only lines that mattered:

Betrayer of those who hold them most dear…

"No," Borund breathed. His voice seemed bizarrely calm to Tchakhura's whirling mind. He dropped her hand, and stepped back, staring at her. "No, it cannot be…"

"I am no khaviga," Tchakhura whispered, her panic growing. She took a step back. Everywhere she looked there were condemning eyes, a circle of eyes, all of them directed at her…

"Khondyë! I am no khaviga, the prophecy is a lie!" Her voice was growing higher and louder. Her breaths were fast and uneven. How could this be happening? How could it –

"Seize her," the Khondyë said quietly. "The law is unbreakable. Traitors must die."

Time froze. Tchakhura looked disbelievingly into her father's eyes. They were filled with disgust. Fury, and aversion. But worst of all, a shadow of satisfaction: that he had been right about her all along. He had been right, and his daughter had never been good enough. He had been right.

"Vadrë," she whispered. "Please…"

"Seize her!" he bellowed, and the circle of onlookers jolted into action. Four men ran at Tchakhura, and she sprinted straight towards one of them, twisting at the last moment so her shoulder hit his ribs. He grunted and fell backwards. Now she was at the edge of the ring of firelight, on the outside of the circle of people. She turned and suddenly saw everything, frozen in the moment. Her father, the Khondyë, loathing in his eyes. The wizard Akhund, leaning on his staff next to the fire, his eyes sad. The women, men and children, their faces pictures of disbelief. The Khondyë's daughter, the Makhyë, a khaviga… and Borund and Tcharum. Her best friend and her brother. They stood together, motionless, where moments ago she had stood between them. But Tchakhura knew what she had to do.

She backed away, still facing the fire and her bamyë. If this so-called prophecy spoke truly, she was going to betray them. She looked at Tcharum and Borund.

"Khuma," she whispered, her fist to her shoulder in salute, her eyes never leaving them. Then she turned and sprinted away.

She could hear the shouts beginning behind her. Her pursuers were not far behind. Veering left and weaving in and out of the patchu, she quickly came to her own. Loosely tethered outside was her horse. Tchakhura snatched the rope off the post it was looped around and vaulted onto the horse's back. The men chasing her were almost there - they were close, too close…

Khaviga, a voice whispered in her head. Filthy khaviga…

"Go!" she cried, digging her heels into the horse's sides. He took off, fast as the wind, leaving Tchakhura's pursuers shouting in his wake. By the time they found their horses, she would have vanished into the night. They would have to wait until daybreak to see her tracks. Briefly, Tchakhura closed her eyes. She had escaped. She would not die tonight.

The Khondyë watched from the fire, his black eyes furious, as his daughter galloped away from the camp and into the cold, starlit desert. Away from her family, away from her bamyë. Away from all that she had ever known.

Khaviga.

Thanks for reading this far, and I really truly hope you are intrigued enough to read on! Let me know what you thought, and I'll see you in Chapter 2 where the story really starts to heat up...

S