The hypothetical implication of other worlds—even if it was folklore and fairytale—made for a good distraction. Ysan was an adventurer at heart. Since the day she died and revived at The Tower beyond the Wish River she had repressed the urge to venture far. However, Imra’s little strategy to avoid the talk of marriage did not work for much longer.

  Ysan puttered around for the earrings she had purchased. It was customary for the woman to propose with earrings in two hands crossed and cupped together in every city of Serpent’s Ramble except Ferrymore. What was not customary, was to propose after knowing someone for longer than one month. It was said hesitation brought ill luck. Ysan and Imra had known each other for years. Though, if Ysan did not care then neither should Imra.

  The rocky cavern ceiling peeled away and revealed the brilliant mountainous surface of Numah rising from the night, its four glowing rings in red, brown, orange, gold, and lavender light. At that, Ysan was in position to propose. Imra gasped.

  At the same time, the enclosure of painted stone shone brightly. Images of fables, places, and faraway spheres. Each one made by either Ysan or Ul.

  “Imra, will you journey with me forever on this sphere, and whatever othersphere that follows after?” Ysan asked.

  At that, Imra looked around at the paintings, breathless. “These are beautiful.”

  It was a deft avoidance to the proposal. Ysan could not believe it. Was she really going to be rejected after all this hard work? Her mind could not make sense of it. She had to do something. She had to change his mind. She had to change his heart.

  Ysan’s smile faded, her expression stern, still keeping the earrings held tight as Imra continued praising her work. Hazahnahkah could feel her blood heat as her mind sped from thought to thought, trying to make sense of things, trying to rectify them. Her desperation grew tenfold by every minute she did not press the issue; Imra had not accepted her proposal. This was nothing less than an indifferent rejection.

  “Yes... Each took me days to paint…” she managed tiredly, not fully all there.

  “I can tell. They just keep getting better and better.”

  “To be honest… Ul helped me out a bit here and there.”

  Imra laughed. “You should be proud regardless. This is amazing. I can see why she would help you—wanting to be a part of something so great.”

  “You really like it that much?”

  “Yes!”

  Imra then went on a great informational and passionate rant, deconstructing every painting they passed.

  First came the detailed surfaces of beautiful dark Ez and blinding green Clest—the two ringed celestial bodies which always hung in the sky, regardless of night or day. They push and pull one another with invisible strings, often forced to share the space between the stars with the sun, the moon, and flying isles. The creative liberties Ysan had taken to color dragons, lovebirds, and other winged beasts in the clouds of each was truly astounding. Hazahnahkah wished he could paint.

  Second was the Fabled Greatblade Eskogowyn, the Laugh. His golden horns bleeding with dark red tassels, rumored to have been sewn from the hair of the founding princes of Xinya. Hazahnahkah had never encountered a weapon—or any inanimate object—that could speak with him. Beyond the fog of his memory he remembered being lonely, and he wondered if all objects felt this way: doomed to have a mind which could understand but could not speak.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Finally there was a depiction of Serpent’s Ramble during Irys, when all the spheres in the sky drew close, twisting the crystallized foliage of Serpent’s Ramble purple and brown. This was what furthered Imra’s excitement most. Ysan’s attention to the flora and fauna. How the bristles of boars were shed for scales. How the snakes finally gave up their scales for fur. It was the only season reptiles changed. All other animals were more willing, even the humans.

  More paintings passed, and Imra eventually exhausted himself speaking. “I really think this should be seen by everyone,” he added, breathless with his ranting.

  “Then maybe… You can drop by and paint with me again?” Ysan asked.

  Imra went quiet at that. Lips pursed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I appreciate your proposal, I really do, but I just don’t see us as a good fit.” Imra reasoned.

  “Why?”

  “I… I think it’s weird you’ve been carrying around that sword with you.”

  “Me?!” Hazahnahkah cried out, although no one could hear him.

  It was like watching a performer turn to you and point the finger, then say you are the one who killed the hero! You are the one at fault! You! Hazahnahkah was most surprised, yanked from his usual role of observer.

  Ysan began to reason. “But Mereese is a swordmaster and people were saying you liked her some seasons ago.”

  Imra looked away as if Ysan was correct. Hazahnahkah had not known Ysan carried him around for such a stupid reason. He had assumed that she carried him around to help learn more about him, or even as a good luck charm. It seemed the sky or the gods or the spheres and the stars still had her gratitude. Those assholes.

  “Why?” Ysan pressed. “I just want a good reason. If I have that I can’t hold you against it. I’m wealthy, well-endowed, and well-educated. Could you just tell me why?”

  “I don’t care about money or education that much.”

  “Then what do you care about?”

  “Your lips.”

  “My lips?”

  “I really love cherry lips.” He smiled bashfully. “My mother used to grow these cherries, you know, before the cindereaters came and killed off the cherry trees. I was young. They were the richest red, the plumpest, the best. I dreamt of a woman with lips like those. Still do. My wife would be someone like that.”

  And at that, Hazahnahkah knew he would need to comfort his wielder somehow. Ysan was deeply injured by the remark. He could feel it as she held him tighter—as her digestive system slowed. Imra’s words were like a knife carving out her guts. The color of her lips was not one that she could change.

  Well, not without Hazahnahkah.

  Over time, Hazahnahkah could even change her body—by manipulating the space around it. It would take time, but he was not a fan of this idea. He did not want Ysan to change just to get one man to like her, one that wasn’t particularly special other than the fact that other humans fancied him.

  Imra sensed the distraught and added words which made things worse. “We can’t control what we find attractive.” He smiled. “I hope you know I’ll always be your friend.”

  But Ysan knew that simply wasn’t true. Hazahnahkah could hear it in her heartbeat. All the advantages of an acquaintance and friend were never spared for the lucky blessing called a lover.

  Later that night, Ysan returned to her little cottage on the water. It was the first night Hazahnahkah had ever seen the woman not talk to Ul before bed. She did not moor her ferry. She did not eat. She did not even lock her door. After crying herself to sleep and waking up and crying herself to sleep again, Ysan got up and stayed up. She had this fierce vengeance to her. This desire to do everything herself. Once more she sat by the mirror, maddened by embarrassment, regret, and a dreadful sense of helplessness.

  She began painting on her face, making it up as she went, drawing whatever she wanted just as she or any other painter had before.

  Ysan discovered something no woman along Serpent’s Ramble had thus far dared to try.

  Makeup.