Fennrin is a shadowforger, a type of az-ari who have mastery over shadows. But all it's ever brought him is misery. People are afraid of the power that he himself barely understands, seeing his shadows as omens of bad luck and death.
Forced to bare...
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Fennrin kept his head down as they entered the palace. If he had felt out of place before, now that feeling was on a different level. He tried not to think about this much, though, as it certainly didn't help him feel less anxious.
The thought of soon meeting one of the leaders of Lys-Akkaria made his insides twist in on themselves. How could he possibly prepare for that, even if he had been given time? Fennrin wasn't even certain if whatever first impression he made on the Bulwark would mean anything. Ainreth needed him to defeat a threat, so even if the Bulwark didn't like him, she could hardly stop him from helping Ainreth if he chose to.
And yet his hands were shaking, and his heart was hammering away as he was led deeper and deeper inside of the building, walking through halls and corridors, until finally stopping in a large circular room with an equally circular table in the middle of it with around twenty chairs around it, and as many inkwells with quills on it. There was no one here, and yet Fennrin felt even more nervous as Ainreth told him to sit before doing so himself.
Fennrin ran his eyes over the room as he seated himself next to Ainreth, immediately fascinated by the large circular window on the wall opposite him, letting in sunlight. And yet the room was about halfway obscured in shadow. At least that was something Fennrin could cling onto. Shadows always made him feel calmer.
"They should show up soon," Ainreth said, though he himself sounded annoyed as he tapped his fingers against the shiny dark wood of the table.
"They?"
Ainreth scoffed and shook his head, a scowl on his face as a strand of his slicked-back hair fell in his eyes. "The Herald is coming also. Apparently."
Fennrin stared at Ainreth in shock. The High Herald? What would the de facto leader of their country want with Fennrin? Surely this was between them and the Bulwark. But perhaps the Herald expected trouble from him. Everyone always seemed to think Fennrin would cause trouble due to what he was, even though he had no history of such things.
He swallowed, looking down at the table. The surface was so well polished that he could vaguely see his reflection.
Ainreth proceeded to mutter something under his breath, most of which Fennrin didn't manage to understand. He did manage to catch an insult, though, which likely encompassed the entire idea of whatever Ainreth had said, anyway.
So Ainreth didn't like the High Herald. Fennrin wondered what he was going to think of the man.
He almost flinched when in that moment, a door on the right, close to the window, swung open, and into the room came a middle-aged woman in elegant, purple robes, her dark hair short. And right behind her, an equally middle-aged, ginger, bearded man walked in, dressed shockingly plainly next to the Bulwark, only wearing a simple white tunic with a dark gray vest over it paired with dark brown trousers. The dissonance between the style of dress was so strange to Fennrin, but there was no mistaking him—that was the Herald. He had seen him in a few drawings once, having led Lys-Akkaria for decades.
