ai don fis disha spichen gona op

Emori considers the question for longer than she intends. She had not sufficiently prepared herself to shed who she was and she fought the answers running through her mind.

She traveled far enough to not expect anyone here to know her tongue, to know of the wingedakru, of their failed heda. She is not that anymore. She is nothing to anyone. She is just Emori. Emori the lopar. She couldn’t even grant herself the title of vagabond.

“Sur,” she answers but a few seconds later she corrects herself, “south.”

There's a lull she lets linger, not quite finished.

“There was fire,” she breathes, her voice still with hints of remnant trauma. “In wi—winter. It destroyed my home.”