MALIN DRASWIST IS TOO YOUNG. With the advent of the new king of Cardina and the control of the state relinquished to Synketros, a covert organization bent on harnessing power, things took the turn for the worse. When soldiers start a siege against t...
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2412, Iclis 07, Daleth
His eyes opened to the pounding footsteps resounding outside his room. His roommates, Pilqen and Rathas, groaned and rolled over their cots, pressing their pillows to their ears. These two acted so alike they could have swapped faces and no one would notice. The only thing Rathas did differently was choosing to join the cleaning department and was thus tapped to work faster than any of them. Ymbril's cleaning moods really came at the most random of times.
"Turn it off," Rathas groaned into his pillow. "I wanna sleep."
Malin blinked once. Twice. Rubbed his eyes off the tricky heaviness. Within seconds, he's folding his blanket and fluffing his single pillow. "If you want to have an easier time waking up," he said to the two sleepyheads writhing under their blankets. "Get up as soon as you get your wits back."
It helped him a lot when he worked as a messenger in the textile factory. While his father weaved yards upon yards of fabric and tapestries, he and his sister spent that time traversing the hazy alleys of the Commons. And they often had to do it as soon as the correspondences arrived, no matter what time of the day it was. There were also times when the volume of letters surpassed their capacity, so waking up and starting early was a must most of the time.
Those were the times Malin wished to not go through again, but at the same time wanted to relive every now and then. Even though his sister left him now, she didn't step a foot away from him in every street they found themselves in.
"I told you to stop lecturing me," Pilqen muttered and shifted to his stomach, pointing his back to the ceiling. His blanket twisted around his legs, and he made no move to cover himself with it. Too much effort, it seemed. "Must you do it so early?"
Malin decided to go for it. "It is the fifth hour of the third quarter."
Pilqen's gray-white hair snapped up. "What? Why did you not wake me?!" he dragged himself off the cot and pushed Malin out of the way in a rush. "I am going to be late. I do not want to be hit with rolled prints—"
He froze, noticing how Rathas had curled into himself. The greenish-blond mop of hair blended with the cot's woven threads as their friend tried hiding the faint quivers of his shoulders. "Wait a minute," he whirled to Malin and jabbed an accusatory finger into his face. "There is no fifth hour!"
Malin cracked a sly grin. "Got you out of bed, though."
"Oh, Rudik's asscheeks," Pilqen stomped to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Rathas straightened his sleep-rumpled tunic as he shot up. "That went well," he commented. His wavy hair stood up to their ends, giving him a look of a startled komodec.
Malin shrugged. "He will get over it," he said. Besides, it's the least of his worries. The footsteps coming alive in the corridors beyond their room turned more and more frantic with every minute. Was there a mass exodus somewhere? Where were they going, though? The Temple was the safest place in the Nobility region.
