Sarah Z. Creates

Whispers of the Realms are fragments—moments caught and carried from across the Sundered Realms. They are not full stories, but glimpses. Echoes of lives lived under the weight of magic, memory and choice. Some are quiet. Some are sharp. All of them belong to the world beyond the page.

His father’s fingers were twitching. 

Not much. Not yet. 

But soon enough, those fingers would be drumming on his thigh. His feet would shift, and his head would jerk as his wandering thoughts pulled his gaze this way and that. 

Abyl kept his own eyes trained forward, cataloging the leaves on the golden oak at the end of the Memoriam. 

Beautifully crafted, perfectly worked so that the tree looked real, and pointlessly hoarded away within the depths of the Royal Memoriam.

He kept his fingers relaxed. His hands were on his knees, palms up. Calm. Waiting.

He was supposed to be reflecting on the blessing his offering would bring to his people. 

But though his eyes never left the gilded lobes of those leaves, his attention stayed on his father.

It could have been impatience. The whole process was ridiculous: too much incense, too much ritual and far too much chanting for a simple haircut. 

His knees ached from kneeling on the smooth stone floor, but he stayed still. His face remained placid, even as that ache throbbed into actual pain. 

His father was always short-tempered on offering days. And almost insulting when his offering was made. Shame could make even the best of men short-tempered, and his father … well.

His father was the king.

So Abyl kept his own hair short enough that he could feel the humidity in this room dewing his scalp. 

He would never again make an offering that would exceed the king’s.