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  • Writer's pictureWinterflow

Ten Thousand Years in Fragments, 2/10

Serafier’s marriage didn’t match her expectations. Or rather, running a household of her own didn’t meet the young elf’s presumption of an easy life. She took her frustration out on the pearly curtains, slinging them over the broad domed windows to keep out the rising dawn. Dependable servants needed to be found, routines planned for meals, cleaning, laundry, gardening and running errands. Occasions from both sides of the family and friends had to be attended, many of the events warranting fine gifts to be in good graces with the host. A house guard was a necessity, too. Unlike before, Serafier had to keep track of all these expenditures, and learn from her father how to make a business out of memory crystals to keep her coffers full. Whirling around, Serafier absorbed the marble lounge devoid of furniture apart from a purple divan resting on golden paws, and a round mosaic table that had just been carried in. It had been only a week since she and Mafus moved into the parkside villa to establish their life together, and the rooms were yet to be brimmed with things destined to inspire admiration and envy in guests. Many of the lower castes claimed that the Highborne had everything they could possibly want, yet Serafier felt she had time for nothing at all. The nights had never been so short. Mafus strode into the room, the lengths of his red robes lashing at the curtains like fire hissing at snow when he stopped short before Serafier. The azure-haired mage regarded the veiled windows with the same grimace that kept darting on his face of late. “You shouldn’t have bought them.” Given the glistening fabric’s dizzying price, he was perhaps right. But Serafier had a hunch that wasn’t the problem. “They suit every drop of color you’re bound to flood this place with.” “If it was up to you, the whole place would be blinding white, just like your wedding gown.” Serafier’s eyes tightened to cold points. Most Highborne were fond of hues that her ceremony attire lacked. But that, as well as Serafier marrying Mafus, had been her family’s decision. She was of a pale lineage that had adopted the feature as part of its name, and her relatives sought Serafier’s appearance to be symbolic at the union of the noble houses of Winterflow and Nightomen. “Maybe my beloved husband would have more sway in the decisions if he spent time enjoying his new home.” “You know I’ve been busy,” Mafus rejected. “So, how is it going?” “Great.” Serafier meandered around him to the table, checking that the vibrant ceramic pattern resembling a lotus hadn’t been damaged in transportation. “It’s not going well, is it? I thought your mother would be an outstanding teacher.” Dropping on the divan, Mafus crossed his legs and rubbed his thick brows. “I'd rather be distilling the power of the Well than ginger, wouldn't you?” Their equal talent with magic had ruled their matchmakers' choice. “Also, did you order the amphoras that I asked you to?” A thin smile spread on Serafier’s lips. “Yes, I miss it. And no, I told you to do it yourself.”


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