#final edition!

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.