Her father’s hand was linked with hers, so much bigger, his skin darker, reminiscent of the people of Stormeye, where he’d spent his childhood. His face was an even darker hue, which she knew was because of the dye he used to hide the golden leaf markings that adorned his skin. She’d only seen them a handful of times, when his dye had begun to fade and he hadn’t yet renewed its coating. She didn’t think much of them, really, though she had asked him what they meant, to which he’d responded, “They remind me of a past I’ll never go back to. A past I must now hide, for not all things are meant to be revealed to the rest of the world.”

Now, though she was only five name days old, she tried to match him stride for stride, the fearless gait of one who expected to claim victory in any contest they set their mind to.

Except this was no contest. This was a holiday. Of sorts, at least. Her father was here on ‘business’, whatever that meant. Something to do with selling his crates of leather boots to the Kestrel locals, most likely. His boots had grown in popularity year by year, until the demand had grown well beyond the bounds of the southern Finfallian city of Last Dawn. Her father had been talking about expansion to Kestrel, Slough and even Dunmire for months now.

Pride swelled in her little chest as she remembered how he’d asked her to accompany him on his trip. ‘I’ll need a partner,’ he’d said. ‘Cainan,’ her mother had chided. ‘She’s too young.’ ‘Bryony? Young?’ her father had said. ‘Maybe in the reckoning of years, but in heart she’s a warrior who’s fought in many battles.’ Her mother had only shaken her head but argued no further.

Kestrel had been everything she’d dreamed about and more. The sights: costumed performers walking on wooden poles that made them twice again as tall as her father; powdered-faced actors parading about on stage, reciting lines that had their audience in stitches one moment and gasping the next; painted dancers spinning and twirling, tossing flaming batons into the air and then catching them without failure every time. The sounds: the beat of drums, the strum of strings, the lifting of bards’ voices on every street corner, drawing crowds as they each sought to spin wilder tales than their competition to fill their upturned hats with the most coin.

Bryony had soaked in every last bit of it like sunshine on her skin.

She’d smiled so much during those two days in Kestrel that her cheeks had felt sore each night.

She let the memory fade, drifting back beneath the water for a long time, keeping her eyes open so she could watch the bubbles escape from her mouth and nose.