Jularra kept her eyes on Savili while Vilfarin affirmed Savili’s explanation.
“Yeah, he’s right,” he said, looking around the circle. But his face wrinkled in confusion as he turned back to Savili. “Where is that kind of magic even found anymore?”
Savili stood up and made his way towards a row of hedges, unbuttoning his breeches as he went.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “Hignriten? Messyleio, too. And, uh, Torguria, I think.”
“Torguria?” scoffed Vilfarin. “They don’t know shit about magic up there.”
One of the women peeled herself off her man’s chest.
“Messyleio is just a fucking crazy cult behind that wall,” she giggled. “Now, Hignriten proper… there’s a lot of folks that still study that old Nurudian magic. It might’a come from there.”
The speculation mostly ended there, with the conversation turning to less juicy topics. There was plenty of pork to go around, and despite having full stomachs, there was enough wine to do what it was meant to do. Later, as the group finished their food and drink, some crept off for a round of late-night sex while others wandered into the alleys, or looked for homes ripe and ready to be stolen from. The blackness of night seeped further into the group. After a while, they let it in. There were no additional logs added to the fire, and eventually, the embers were shoveled over with more and more of the surrounding ash and gravel. One by one, the revelers departed, and so too did Jularra.
The smell of smoke had long left Jularra’s nose when she passed through the south gate. By that time, her mind rippled with a gentle wave of drunkenness. She had achieved her favorite stage of drinking. She was free and unencumbered. The air of the mountains filled her lungs and the moon lit her way. As she trekked deeper into the woods, the tall trees seemed to bow slightly over her, as though approving of her debauchery. They encouraged her journey, and encouraged her to risk even more by wandering deeper into the forest.
The night was her home. There was no light like that of the moon, and no other light made her feel as welcome. The only discomfort she felt was that of her warming skin. The wine was advancing on her. But like the easiest of decisions, ingrained and primal, she knew how to cool herself. She knew how to feel more natural.
She skipped and giggled under the moon as she undressed. With each piece of clothing, another giggle would escape. The last few pieces were accompanied by yips and heartier laughter.
At last, she was naked. She slowed her skipping and began to walk, savoring the breeze against her skin and closing her eyes. She lifted her arms up to the moon. She was free, and lost. Free to do as she pleased, and lost from anyone else’s awareness of where she might be. Throne, crown, magic, country, people—all together were lost for an idea of where she might be at that moment. Only the night knew. Only to the night and the moonlight did she have to answer.
Her path was not a new one, nor was it aimless. Even without the moon—without her sight, even—she could have made her way safely. Each twig and pine needle along Wardenon Trail was known to her. She anticipated every dip in the dirt, every muddy mound. The trek was nothing like that of her first trip to the Vacant Grave with her mother so long ago. This hike always filled her with excitement and peace. It brought her power and confidence.
Her destination was a familiar one, and one of her most treasured retreats. It was a site deep off the Wardenon Trail and was home to a grand fire pit, meticulously dug out and lined with stones. Nearby was a large pile of brush, kindling, branches and log chunks—steadily depleted and replenished over the years. The only other ornament to the area was a single log, worn on the top from sitting.
This was her area. This was her spot. Her place. And though she was queen of the entire breadth of Acorilan, she never felt possessive of the country. The entirety of it belonged to each of its citizens as much as to her, but this fire pit was hers.
As she danced along—arms flailing, hands waving, naked skin tingling—Jularra greeted each tree and plant with its own wink or grin. In between, she allowed a few random melodies to escape her lips. They trickled up from the dregs of her memory; by the time the morning came and she had sobered up, the notes would be lost again until her next communion with alcohol.
But as with every visit, the primal carousing had to inevitably end. Even in her inebriated state, the weight of her arrival at the circle slapped a sense of respect into her muddled mind. It had been some time since she had last been visited by the Gift Gods, but this was one of her most cherished spots for focusing, learning, and communing with them.
She stopped to examine the clearing. She fell freshly in love with it each time she visited, and as usual, she wanted to appreciate the moon’s light before her fire stole the show.
She took a weighted and hasty step, but quickly corrected herself. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping night, she tiptoed through soil that eventually turned into a feathery floor of previous fires’ spent ashes. A jolt of energy ran up her spine and quickened her heart.
Slowly, she walked around the stones of the fire circle, letting the powdery ashes spill over her toes. Once she had made her way to the opposing side, she broke off for the pile of fresh wood. Several trips later, she had dropped enough armfuls of brush, kindling and wood to start the fire.
