Greatwater Lake Krýo

antigone. she repeated it soundlessly, tasted each syllable upon her tongue as if reluctant to speak it aloud before finding the perfect pronunciation. before she could speak again, he added:

my father was greek.

it did not mean much to her. only that he somehow had found a kindred spirit in her, whether it be her foreign tongue or her polite manners. either way, she dipped her head in greeting at that remark, smile stalwart on her face as she did so. she was beginning to sense a softening of the boy.

what does that mean, antigone? fiamma inquired, tilting her head. i mean—what does your father's blood bring to you that you think worth mentioning?

already, her imagination was running amok. greek wolves, bathed in fire. his mother was plain; father was alight. and so this boy born, burning from the brain down. she had no idea it was a language consideration.

and speaking of such. . .

my name means fire, which is like the color upon your head. perhaps it's fate that has drawn us closer. . .?

she swayed in the water, enjoying the flow, lips pursed in a sigh as the cold water cleansed her.

one of them afire in name; the other in pelt. she wanted to toss her head back in fantasy. it could not be mere coincidence that this happened.