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PZ : Chapter 1
- Your highness, are voa listening to me ?
As though caught in the act, Zélée snapped her head around and away from the window and with her sweet smile so charming, but a bit contracted :
- Yes, of course.
Her teacher fetched a weary sigh, eyes lifted up :
- My lesson is boring voa, Io know that. But how will voa manage the planet without knowing anything about it ?!
Zélée whispered to herself, always impressed by this kind of reflection about her future, which was coming nearer and nearer :
- Iam aware of that
- So, in 2123
At last, she could leave this room of which she knew every cleft on the walls, for she spent so much time detailling them in her dreams. She saw Mimisha at the end of the corridor, and she came to her :
- Yoa have come to support me during the exit of my classes now ?
- Ia took pity on voa. Especially when Ia saw the weather today. So ideal ! Ia thought this morning would be a real torture and voa would look outside a lot
PZ : Prologue
She started to run, run again and again Sometimes she staggered along, but that did not matter. Among all the ferns, it was hard to go fast. She also did not want the others to wonder where she was and go looking for her.
She desired to leave so much. Go away over there If only it was possible. She felt discouraged and began to cry, and more tears streamed down her face.
She slackened her arms and rested them a bit. The baby against her her baby was not saying a word, perhaps even afraid too, for she felt the despair of her mother and all her uncertainty. Impassively, Xenia moved her head up : a bright light, dazzling on the forest and on the mist. An engine noise Not them again ? No, it was a different ship (even if she was not an expert, she knew enough about ships to recognize their origins).
Voices, Xenia surmised, would be audible, so she came close slowly, a hand on the mouth of her daughter. She listened and heard voices speak :
- Vus have one
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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