8
Firian
Firian hadn’t gone home in four years.
He practiced so much that thin white scars laced his torso from the times he had practiced too hard, been too focused in the Unreal. So how dare Belik tell him that he was distracted?
“Stop! Fir, what are you doing?” cried Bard.
Firian jumped back from the doorway to their room. “What?” he snapped.
Bard presented the broom in his hand. “Erron told me to sweep and you wrecked everything.”
“Why do you have to clean?” he asked, amused now, stepping over the scattered pile of dust.
“Because we’ve hardly cleaned anything since we came.”
Firian laughed. “If we don’t mind, why should Erron care?”
Bard swept out Firian’s footprints with gusto. “It’s his job to tell us what to do,” he grumbled.
Firian jumped onto his bed and sat cross-legge
