1st of Ashan, 721
Their house was a few blocks away from her own cottage. Far enough that she could breathe, but close enough to get to her mom quickly if she needed help with anything.
The dark wooden cottage’s interior walls were painted an alabaster color. Burn marks charred the wall above the oven and a fresh batch of dirty dishes sat on the cracked counter.
The smell of bacon lingered in the air as Roya sat at her parent’s kitchen table, looking out the window. She clutched her grumbling stomach. It was just after lunch and it was already dark. It never got light out during Cylus. Now that it was Ashan, Roya could only hope the season would warm quickly.
The candles flickering in the room did little to warm it or chase away the darkness. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Her thick green sweater and pants didn’t keep the chill out. Not this trial anyway.
Roya stood from the chair and went over the wooden bookshelf in the living area, where her mom kept all her cookbooks. She plucked the newest one off the shelf, returned to the worn kitchen table and set it down in front of her.
She wanted to copy the recipes over to her own books at home, then she’d have a fresh batch of goodies for her Town Square Market stall. Roya was always looking for something different to sell her patrons and her mom had lifetimes of the best recipes. They’d been passed down through the family since way before her grandparents.
A noise sounded from her parent’s bedroom.
Roya held her breath. She looked up from the cookbook and stared down the dark hallway.
Another bang. Louder this time. She could hear her mom mumbling from behind the closed door.
Roya sighed and closed the book. So much for slipping in and out while her mom was sleeping. She hated to bother her with her moods so wild lately. There was no telling what she was walking into.
Her heart quickened. She clutched the book to her chest and headed down the hallway. Even if she didn’t want to see her mom, she couldn’t leave now without making sure she was alright.
Slowly, she made her way to her parent’s room.
The door was closed. Silence stretched out behind it. Which was worse than the noise earlier because she had no idea what she was walking into.
Roya took a deep breath. She opened the door with her right hand, while clutching the book in her sweat-slicked left.
The door budged. Barely. It got stuck on something on the floor as it opened.
Roya wedged her booted foot into the door and threw her hip against it. Pain blossomed where her flesh made contact with the hard wood.
The wooden door strained against her weight, but slowly gave.
Her parent’s room was a mess. Books, blankets, dirty dishes, and rotting food littered the floor. Medora, Roya’s mom, laid on the floor in a heap at the bottom of the bed, staring blankly toward the bedroom window, whose heavy curtains were drawn. Her bloodshot green eyes the same color as Roya’s, always so lost. She didn’t turn to acknowledge Roya when she came into the room.
Roya took a deep breath. She put the book on the dresser inside the door and knelt to the floor where her mom collapsed. She reached out her hands to help her up.
Medora’s black hair was a ratty nest. Bruises and burn scars littered her arms and exposed legs. Her mom batted her hands away.
Roya’s stomach clenched. She gripped her mom, by the shoulders, careful to avoid the purple spots littering her arms, in an attempt to get her up off the ground.
Medora stayed where she was. Refusing to budge.
