Ottopilot Wrote This

I'm ashamed to be giving up, Tahra.

Sarima held the quill in her hand, thinking of what to write next. It should bother her more, to put those words to paper. Yet there it was. Indelible in ink, and so it must be true.

I feel so odd of late. So many of the things that were important to me when I arrived here have lost their appeal. I can't decide if I've changed, or I've just accepted this is the way it will be here. But I don't think I can keep fighting for change. And the more I think about giving up, the more it feels...

Sarima paused, looking for the correct word.

Right. It feels right.

Even Prince Valerian, I've started to warm up to him. Because I was wrong to oppose him. He was born into power, and he will die holding it. The best I can hope to do is be at his side, and accept what power he chooses to share. It was naive to think otherwise.

He's not an especially attractive man. But I feel strangely attracted to his station. I now feel like it's not my place to challenge that, and now that I realize that, we've gotten along much better.

Oh, Tahra, I have heard you are struggling with your training. Perhaps you should also learn to cut your losses. Maybe it's time to comply with your instructors, or maybe it's time to go home. I worry for you that your rebellious nature will hurt you in the long run.

Sincerely,

Sarima of Ryshanam

Sarima sighed as she sealed the letter. She hoped Tahrapi would take her advice and just... comply. It would all be so much easier, and pleasurable, to comply.

A knock sounded at the doorway; it was Severian. Sarima's lips curled into a sleepy smile, she was glad to see him. It was good to have someone she could trust in the castle. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all, Severian. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sarima replied.

Draeven came and sat across from Sarima. He took her hands in his own, which were smooth and free of blemishes or calluses. "You seem not yourself lately, Princess."

She was not a princess yet, Sarima thought, though she didn't feel she should correct him. "Perhaps," she managed, deferentially. "I just feel powerless to change things like I had hoped I could. Though I'm struggling with how easy that is to accept."

Draeven smiled slightly. "I can understand how that must feel," he said. "For an idealistic woman to be confronted with the realities of her place in the world."

Sarima nodded, expressionless.

Draeven smiled. "Princess, what if I told you there might be a way for you to carve out some power of your own?"

Sarima nodded again. That seemed logical. It was what she wanted, or something close to it.

"I could teach you magic. You could be my apprentice."

Sarima looked at Draeven skeptically. "I thought that wasn't allowed."

"Technically it's not," Draeven said. "But I am Archon of Ryshanam, the ultimate authority on magic in the kingdom. It's up to me who I share it with. And you will soon be queen. Who is going to complain about that? Who would even dare to challenge you, other than the king?"

Sarima considered Draeven's words. He was sensible. Maybe there was still hope for her vision of a new Ryshanam. Severian was, after all, a powerful man. Even a fraction of his power, plus the weight of the throne, could give her leverage to make a difference in the kingdom.

"I trust you. When do we start?"

Sanija Chamrath, valkyrie captain turned local barfly, let out a contented sigh before addressing her moody drinking companion. "I'm halfway through my third pint, Mouse, and you've barely gotten started. Try to keep up."

Tahrapi rotated their half-full stein of mead, staring down at the amber liquid. They regretted telling Sanija about the mudrat insult; the elder valkyrie teasingly, though fondly, called the diminutive Tahrapi "Mouse" at every opportunity.

The Broken Wing was the social hub and drinking hole of Kethram Ford, though no one called it that. The idea that some aristocrat thought renaming Kethram would make it respectable rubbed the working-class locals the wrong way. Kethram hosted the valkyrie training ground, up the hill across the river. The only thing valkyries liked better than drinking was fighting, making them a double-edged sword for the local economy. Still, Tahrapi treated the locals with respect, because they knew what it was like to grow up in a place you were either passing through, or never leaving.

Sulking, Tahrapi drank from their mead. What had gotten into Sarima? The intoxicating effect of the sweet brew did nothing to wash away the bitter helplessness and resignation Tahrapi felt from having read that letter.

"Hrrm. I know a troubled soul when I see one. Ya know, I mighta been a grunt, and my hand may be weak nowadays," Sanija said, holding up her scarred left hand. "But my eyes, and my mind. Still working." She pounded her mead, putting the empty stein next to the others in front of her. "Usually."

Tahrapi gave a faint smile. Sanija might have been double their age, but Tahrapi always felt like the adult in the room around her. Stocky and busty, Sanija was once the idealized valkyrie—disciplined, fearless, strong. Nowadays, she hung out at the tavern too often, and drank too much when she did.

Tahrapi changed the subject. "Last day of latrine duty was today."

Sanija laughed, a deep and heavy bellow. "Ha! Don't be so sad, Mouse. Piss off the brass again, and you'll be right back at it. Branek! Another." Sanija motioned to the bald, portly barkeep for another mead. "Though ya ask me, Blondie had it coming. Good for ya ta stand up for yourself."

"They told me warriors show restraint. Breaking ranks to fight an enemy that calls me names will get us all killed."

"True—but in war, your sisters don't usually sucker-punch ya in the kidney, do they?" Sanija spat the word like it was snake venom on her tongue. "Plus, ya get to kill someone says that to ya in war."

Tahrapi chuckled. "Suppose that's true." Their wan smile faded. "I've been thinking,” they said in a hushed, somber tone. "The rigid strikes, the formations, the heavy armor. Didn't it ever strike you as limiting?"

Sanija tossed back her salt-and-pepper hair. "That style's all I've ever known, and it kept me alive many times. It's tradition, but y'think ya could do better?"

Tahrapi leaned forward. "Look at me, Sanija. I'm not built to be a grunt. But I'm quick, and I can scrap. Instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, marching straight at the enemy and waiting to get shot at with arrows, why not split up? Hide and get the jump on them? I—"

"Cheating bitch!"

A valkyrie, blonde, drunk, and roughly the size of a bear, hurled a goblet at the head of a brunette valkyrie. The brunette overturned the heavy wooden table, spilling playing cards and beers across the stone floor. Brankek, the barkeep, rolled his eyes as he dried a clean stein with his towel. Chaos ensued in the boisterous tavern as the two bulky women squared up.

But that's not what caught Tahrapi's eye.

A man in a red cloak, not much taller or heftier than Tahrapi, with dark hair and a trimmed beard, was standing near the blonde valkyrie. An instant before the brunette turned the table, the man nicked a pouch from it and stuffed it into his cloak. He did it so quickly and stealthily he was surely undetected—except by one Uldaran valkyrie trainee, who followed his movement to the door.

"Sanija, I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Don't drink too much tonight, okay?" Tahrapi threw some coins on the bar and gave chase.

Once outside, Tahrapi looked left and right for the man, who wasn't to be found. They needed a better vantage point. They spied a stack of firewood along the side of the tavern and scaled it quickly, using that to get up to the roof. From there, they saw the man in the red cloak approach someone in an alley. They crept along the ledge, unsheathing their dagger from their thigh, holding the blade away from their body as they leaped off the roof.

They landed on their feet, in a low crouch. Startled, the man in the cloak turned to face them, shielding the other figure with his body.

Tahrapi assumed an offensive stance, the dagger's blade gleaming in the moonlight. "Gotcha."

From behind the red cloak, a figure emerged. Dirty. Emaciated. Barefoot, in tattered clothes. He looked half the size of even the slight Tahrapi, and his eyes reflected an emotion they weren't used to seeing. Terror.

A kid. A damn hungry kid. And he was scared to death. Of me.

Their eyes drifted from the boy to the man. He was strikingly handsome, slender, with straight black hair, an olive complexion and a tightly trimmed beard. But what caught Tahrapi's attention were his eyes. Yes, there was a gentle weariness masked by resolve. But they could swear the man's eyes were almost iridescent.

Tahrapi relaxed their posture, sheathing their knife. They saw the man's eyes follow their hand to their thigh holster. They slowed their movements slightly, allowing his gaze to linger just a bit. They were willing to let this play out.

"Told ya you couldn't hide," Tahrapi said, adopting a playful grin. "After you're done talking with your friend, it's my turn to hide."

The man smirked, nodding slowly. "That's okay, he was just on his way," he said. He had a strange accent, hard to place, when he spoke. He squatted to speak to the boy at eye level. "You'd better get going. Remember, if anyone asks, you found that on the ground."

Tahrapi watched as the boy, clutching the valkyrie's satchel, scampered off into the night.

"Thank you," the man said to Tahrapi. "I owe you, for sparing me in front of the child."

Tahrapi paced the entrance to the alley, their eyes never leaving the stranger's. "Hm, no one said anything about sparing you. You're not from these parts, are you?"

"Ah, I could say the same about you." Despite being cornered, his demeanor stayed cool. "You wear the clothing of a valkyrie cadet, but something tells me you know what it's like to be an outsider."

"True," Tahrapi scoffed, "but I'm also supposed to uphold law and order, not steal from drunk soldiers."

"Those valkyries spent the day collecting taxes from peasants," the man said, gesturing first at the tavern, then at the businesses lining the road. "The coins in that purse are but a small fraction of them. The king will still get fat and rich off the backs of his subjects," his voice rose slightly. "This pittance is going to feed a poor orphan and his sister tonight, and the king will never know it was missing. Surely you know the difference between doing what the law says, and doing what's right?"

Tahrapi looked away from the man, suddenly realizing what bothered them the most about the letter from Sarima. She had always been passionate about making the world a just place. Now she was giving up on that—from the throne, no less. Not only was it unlike her, it was wrong. Morally. Their stomach churned. They couldn't put a finger on it, but something was not right with Sarima.

Tahrapi's hand closed into a fist at their side. They weren't about to give up on that dream, and they weren't about to give up on Sarima, either.

"Yes, I do," Tahrapi said, their chestnut eyes like saucers in the moonlight. "And I know what I saw." Their aloof expression softened into a knowing smirk. "You gave that boy money out of your own pocket."

"Thank you," the man in the cloak smiled, dropping his cautious posture. "I am Rukhan Srayun, at your service. I'm in your debt, Miss...?"

"I'm Tahrapi Ruhaka," Tahrapi said, extending their hand and blushing slightly. "The 'miss' isn't necessary."

The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.

Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.

That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.

A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.

With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.

"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.

It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.

"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.

The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."

Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.

Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.

Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.

Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."

...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.

But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.

I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.

I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.

Forever Yours,

Sarima

Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.

Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.

"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.

Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."

Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."

Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.

Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.

Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"

Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."

Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."

Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."

"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

I'm ashamed to be giving up, Tahra.

Sarima held the quill in her hand, thinking of what to write next. It should bother her more, to put those words to paper. Yet there it was. Indelible in ink, and so it must be true.

I feel so odd of late. So many of the things that were important to me when I arrived here have lost their appeal. I can't decide if I've changed, or I've just accepted this is the way it will be here. But I don't think I can keep fighting for change. And the more I think about giving up, the more it feels...

Sarima paused, looking for the correct word.

Right. It feels right.

Even Prince Valerian, I've started to warm up to him. Because I was wrong to oppose him. He was born into power, and he will die holding it. The best I can hope to do is be at his side, and accept what power he chooses to share. It was naive to think otherwise.

He's not an especially attractive man. But I feel strangely attracted to his station. I now feel like it's not my place to challenge that, and now that I realize that, we've gotten along much better.

Oh, Tahra, I have heard you are struggling with your training. Perhaps you should also learn to cut your losses. Maybe it's time to comply with your instructors, or maybe it's time to go home. I worry for you that your rebellious nature will hurt you in the long run.

Sincerely,

Sarima of Ryshanam

Sarima sighed as she sealed the letter. She hoped Tahrapi would take her advice and just... comply. It would all be so much easier, and pleasurable, to comply.

A knock sounded at the doorway; it was Severian. Sarima's lips curled into a sleepy smile, she was glad to see him. It was good to have someone she could trust in the castle. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all, Severian. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sarima replied.

Draeven came and sat across from Sarima. He took her hands in his own, which were smooth and free of blemishes or calluses. "You seem not yourself lately, Princess."

She was not a princess yet, Sarima thought, though she didn't feel she should correct him. "Perhaps," she managed, deferentially. "I just feel powerless to change things like I had hoped I could. Though I'm struggling with how easy that is to accept."

Draeven smiled slightly. "I can understand how that must feel," he said. "For an idealistic woman to be confronted with the realities of her place in the world."

Sarima nodded, expressionless.

Draeven smiled. "Princess, what if I told you there might be a way for you to carve out some power of your own?"

Sarima nodded again. That seemed logical. It was what she wanted, or something close to it.

"I could teach you magic. You could be my apprentice."

Sarima looked at Draeven skeptically. "I thought that wasn't allowed."

"Technically it's not," Draeven said. "But I am Archon of Ryshanam, the ultimate authority on magic in the kingdom. It's up to me who I share it with. And you will soon be queen. Who is going to complain about that? Who would even dare to challenge you, other than the king?"

Sarima considered Draeven's words. He was sensible. Maybe there was still hope for her vision of a new Ryshanam. Severian was, after all, a powerful man. Even a fraction of his power, plus the weight of the throne, could give her leverage to make a difference in the kingdom.

"I trust you. When do we start?"

Sanija Chamrath, valkyrie captain turned local barfly, let out a contented sigh before addressing her moody drinking companion. "I'm halfway through my third pint, Mouse, and you've barely gotten started. Try to keep up."

Tahrapi rotated their half-full stein of mead, staring down at the amber liquid. They regretted telling Sanija about the mudrat insult; the elder valkyrie teasingly, though fondly, called the diminutive Tahrapi "Mouse" at every opportunity.

The Broken Wing was the social hub and drinking hole of Kethram Ford, though no one called it that. The idea that some aristocrat thought renaming Kethram would make it respectable rubbed the working-class locals the wrong way. Kethram hosted the valkyrie training ground, up the hill across the river. The only thing valkyries liked better than drinking was fighting, making them a double-edged sword for the local economy. Still, Tahrapi treated the locals with respect, because they knew what it was like to grow up in a place you were either passing through, or never leaving.

Sulking, Tahrapi drank from their mead. What had gotten into Sarima? The intoxicating effect of the sweet brew did nothing to wash away the bitter helplessness and resignation Tahrapi felt from having read that letter.

"Hrrm. I know a troubled soul when I see one. Ya know, I mighta been a grunt, and my hand may be weak nowadays," Sanija said, holding up her scarred left hand. "But my eyes, and my mind. Still working." She pounded her mead, putting the empty stein next to the others in front of her. "Usually."

Tahrapi gave a faint smile. Sanija might have been double their age, but Tahrapi always felt like the adult in the room around her. Stocky and busty, Sanija was once the idealized valkyrie—disciplined, fearless, strong. Nowadays, she hung out at the tavern too often, and drank too much when she did.

Tahrapi changed the subject. "Last day of latrine duty was today."

Sanija laughed, a deep and heavy bellow. "Ha! Don't be so sad, Mouse. Piss off the brass again, and you'll be right back at it. Branek! Another." Sanija motioned to the bald, portly barkeep for another mead. "Though ya ask me, Blondie had it coming. Good for ya ta stand up for yourself."

"They told me warriors show restraint. Breaking ranks to fight an enemy that calls me names will get us all killed."

"True—but in war, your sisters don't usually sucker-punch ya in the kidney, do they?" Sanija spat the word like it was snake venom on her tongue. "Plus, ya get to kill someone says that to ya in war."

Tahrapi chuckled. "Suppose that's true." Their wan smile faded. "I've been thinking,” they said in a hushed, somber tone. "The rigid strikes, the formations, the heavy armor. Didn't it ever strike you as limiting?"

Sanija tossed back her salt-and-pepper hair. "That style's all I've ever known, and it kept me alive many times. It's tradition, but y'think ya could do better?"

Tahrapi leaned forward. "Look at me, Sanija. I'm not built to be a grunt. But I'm quick, and I can scrap. Instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, marching straight at the enemy and waiting to get shot at with arrows, why not split up? Hide and get the jump on them? I—"

"Cheating bitch!"

A valkyrie, blonde, drunk, and roughly the size of a bear, hurled a goblet at the head of a brunette valkyrie. The brunette overturned the heavy wooden table, spilling playing cards and beers across the stone floor. Brankek, the barkeep, rolled his eyes as he dried a clean stein with his towel. Chaos ensued in the boisterous tavern as the two bulky women squared up.

But that's not what caught Tahrapi's eye.

A man in a red cloak, not much taller or heftier than Tahrapi, with dark hair and a trimmed beard, was standing near the blonde valkyrie. An instant before the brunette turned the table, the man nicked a pouch from it and stuffed it into his cloak. He did it so quickly and stealthily he was surely undetected—except by one Uldaran valkyrie trainee, who followed his movement to the door.

"Sanija, I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Don't drink too much tonight, okay?" Tahrapi threw some coins on the bar and gave chase.

Once outside, Tahrapi looked left and right for the man, who wasn't to be found. They needed a better vantage point. They spied a stack of firewood along the side of the tavern and scaled it quickly, using that to get up to the roof. From there, they saw the man in the red cloak approach someone in an alley. They crept along the ledge, unsheathing their dagger from their thigh, holding the blade away from their body as they leaped off the roof.

They landed on their feet, in a low crouch. Startled, the man in the cloak turned to face them, shielding the other figure with his body.

Tahrapi assumed an offensive stance, the dagger's blade gleaming in the moonlight. "Gotcha."

From behind the red cloak, a figure emerged. Dirty. Emaciated. Barefoot, in tattered clothes. He looked half the size of even the slight Tahrapi, and his eyes reflected an emotion they weren't used to seeing. Terror.

A kid. A damn hungry kid. And he was scared to death. Of me.

Their eyes drifted from the boy to the man. He was strikingly handsome, slender, with straight black hair, an olive complexion and a tightly trimmed beard. But what caught Tahrapi's attention were his eyes. Yes, there was a gentle weariness masked by resolve. But they could swear the man's eyes were almost iridescent.

Tahrapi relaxed their posture, sheathing their knife. They saw the man's eyes follow their hand to their thigh holster. They slowed their movements slightly, allowing his gaze to linger just a bit. They were willing to let this play out.

"Told ya you couldn't hide," Tahrapi said, adopting a playful grin. "After you're done talking with your friend, it's my turn to hide."

The man smirked, nodding slowly. "That's okay, he was just on his way," he said. He had a strange accent, hard to place, when he spoke. He squatted to speak to the boy at eye level. "You'd better get going. Remember, if anyone asks, you found that on the ground."

Tahrapi watched as the boy, clutching the valkyrie's satchel, scampered off into the night.

"Thank you," the man said to Tahrapi. "I owe you, for sparing me in front of the child."

Tahrapi paced the entrance to the alley, their eyes never leaving the stranger's. "Hm, no one said anything about sparing you. You're not from these parts, are you?"

"Ah, I could say the same about you." Despite being cornered, his demeanor stayed cool. "You wear the clothing of a valkyrie cadet, but something tells me you know what it's like to be an outsider."

"True," Tahrapi scoffed, "but I'm also supposed to uphold law and order, not steal from drunk soldiers."

"Those valkyries spent the day collecting taxes from peasants," the man said, gesturing first at the tavern, then at the businesses lining the road. "The coins in that purse are but a small fraction of them. The king will still get fat and rich off the backs of his subjects," his voice rose slightly. "This pittance is going to feed a poor orphan and his sister tonight, and the king will never know it was missing. Surely you know the difference between doing what the law says, and doing what's right?"

Tahrapi looked away from the man, suddenly realizing what bothered them the most about the letter from Sarima. She had always been passionate about making the world a just place. Now she was giving up on that—from the throne, no less. Not only was it unlike her, it was wrong. Morally. Their stomach churned. They couldn't put a finger on it, but something was not right with Sarima.

Tahrapi's hand closed into a fist at their side. They weren't about to give up on that dream, and they weren't about to give up on Sarima, either.

"Yes, I do," Tahrapi said, their chestnut eyes like saucers in the moonlight. "And I know what I saw." Their aloof expression softened into a knowing smirk. "You gave that boy money out of your own pocket."

"Thank you," the man in the cloak smiled, dropping his cautious posture. "I am Rukhan Srayun, at your service. I'm in your debt, Miss...?"

"I'm Tahrapi Ruhaka," Tahrapi said, extending their hand and blushing slightly. "The 'miss' isn't necessary."

The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.

Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.

That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.

A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.

With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.

"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.

It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.

"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.

The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."

Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.

Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.

Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.

Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."

...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.

But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.

I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.

I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.

Forever Yours,

Sarima

Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.

Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.

"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.

Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."

Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."

Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.

Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.

Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"

Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."

Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."

Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."

"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

You cannot go wrong reading Tabico IMO. Her stories hit all the right buttons. Original. Hot. Devious. Rouge and Sub Routine are also standouts.

I wanted to shout out the Omega Girl series by J. Darksong because comic book superheroines are a root of my interest (the non-erotica answer would have been Uncanny X-Men #129-137 by Claremont & Byrne). One thing I really appreciate especially in comparison to Metrobay Comics is the continuity. The stakes feel higher if there are lasting repercussions.

Along the same lines I love @skarlette1 and their Libido League series. As an ADHDer I love there are short-form and long-form stories. I am envious of how they can hit the marks in just a couple of paragraphs.

I wrote a little more here because those authors are not very active anymore, at least I don't see them mentioned much, which is a shame.

Lots of great smut writers are here, including some real OGs: @jukeboxemcsa, @scifiscribbler, @dreamingdarkly22/ @dreamingdarklyblog, @hypnoswriter, @hypdom, @subliminalbo, @laurentidalreborn , @bimbosminder, @callidus-again, I'm sure I've missed many others

Read and reblog their stuff. There are a lot of great stories that don't get their flowers because they aren't at the top of the dashboard.