Walking with an almost dancing step through the volcanic desert, Lysara was whistling. A soft, almost irreverent whistle, slicing through the burning silence like an insolent note hurled at the face of the world. The wind, heavy with ash and distant echoes, didn't dare contradict her. It merely brushed past, grazing her face with a resigned warmth, as if even it had learned not to try silencing her anymore.
Surprising, isn't it? Especially when you know what had happened just a few hours earlier.
After her latest defeat — and not a small one — logic would have dictated that she sulk, brood, grit her teeth and clench her fists in that stormy silence she mastered so well. But no. She was whistling. Cheerfully. Almost proudly.
Why? you may ask.
Well… for several reasons.
