Moira could never get use to the soreness accumulated from her long trip. But she could live with it. But boredom. Boredom was a different of enemy, an insidious killer and the worst kind of enemy that Moira has ever faced, always.

Moira sighed exasperatedly, yielding herself to the mercy of her worst enemy. Her elbow solidly clamped down on the oaken armrest of her seat and Moira let the weight of her chin rested against her bony knuckles. Probably out of similarity to her current situation, the grey haze of Moira’s memories slowly returned to Itos, that prison.

As a girl, Moira was always running around father’s cobbled garden in Itos with her wet-nurses and matron mothers chasing after her. Just like any child would, Moira loved imagining herself to be the Great Craxus, the Dragonslayer himself, waving a long stick in her hands and fighting off imaginary battles with the Last Dragon Karijard. She could not remember much of anything else.

Adolescence could not forgive or condone Moira of such unladylike pleasures for she was a noble born girl. Since, she had been confined inside the women’s quarters of the castle with her eldest sister Rosalia, her mother and matron mothers, locked behind oppressive closed doors and towering high walls. She lived under the stern guidance of the elderly matrons and disciplinary of her own mother. Moira remembered that she rebelled against the matrons and her mother for three straight unrelenting years until her willful spirit broke and lost its glimmer. She had succumbed to her boredom and stopped watching her brothers killing their own imaginary dragons with sticks through open gaps in the towering walls.

"At last," cheered the elderly matrons and her own mother in celebration as Moira resigned her fate to live in the uneventful and languorous days, slowly dying in her jail-like surroundings as boredom fell upon her with its dreadful poison.

In Moira’s memory, Rosalia was always the most beautiful person in the world and she could do everything the matron mothers taught her perfectly. Moira could never contest her sister on anything except when it came down to magic. Rosalia inherited all the great parts that made their mother earned the title the Pearl of the North, and even more. It was as if Rosalia were molded by the pure genius of the Goddess of Beauty Niwdar herself. Rosalia’s beauty made all those rich man’s daughters that were invited to her mother’s tea parties green with envy despite they have never shown that to her. In front of Rosalia, they lavished her with praises, all smile, and admiration but behind her back, they were cursing her for being prettier than they were and lived in a luxury that their father could never provide them. Nevertheless, the pure and good Rosalia would never know that.

There has been no lack of prospective suitors for Rosalia, always, the constant flows of messengers, the mountains of mails, the back-and-forth birds, and the piles of the gifts that were sent to Moira’s father almost became a nuisance to him, until one day it suddenly stopped. On one special evening, Rosalia was invited to a night ball, and there, she met the very Crown Prince of the kingdom himself. Immediately after the party, the prince proposed to Rosalia and what happened after that was history. It took him one dance to make such a decision. Rosalia wedded the prince and Moira’s father was elevated to the rank of Marquis.

Unlike Rosalia, the gods have not been kind to Moira. She could never learn to stitch properly. Hers have been always ugly and crooked, not that Moira has spent as much effort as Rosalia to master them. The slow dance of the night balls bore Moira to tears. The draining notes that accompanied such dance killed her with yawns. But the angry barking sounds that Moira’s dancing teacher made would resurrect her only for the slow dance to kill her again. Moira could not make great poetry like her sister either. Unlike Rosalia, Moira found no source of inspiration, no spark of ingenuity, no love for wordplay while being trapped inside the shadow of the walls of the woman quarter. But at least, the lessons of history, the recounting of myth and everything else in the between of the dancing and etiquette lessons kept Moira alive, just for a short while before she was again murdered by the dancing lessons, the stitching lessons and etiquette lessons.

Then, Moira was introduced to magic. The only thing Moira could take pride in herself was magic, civilization magic.

Moira could vividly recall the memories of her first magic lesson like yesterday since it has always tasted as sweet as honey. That was the day when Moira was free from the gripping shackle of needlework duty, the draining lessons of ball etiquettes and the shadow of the towering walls of the woman quarter.

“Magic is a special gift from the gods themselves,” as Moira’s magic tutor explained to her in their first lesson, “It’s not hereditary. You either receive this gift at the moment of your birth or you don’t, little lady.” Neither Moira’s father nor her mother a magic caster themselves, Moira was the odd one of her family, always for one reason after another. However, for the first time, Moira was extremely fine with that.

“To use a magic spell, my little lady, you need to have the gift for it. Your gift of magic comes from the Great Sinintee. Mine, I was lucky to receive my gifts from both the Great Sinintee and the Mighty Wonten. These gifts are given to you at birth, my little lady. However, I have heard stories of people suddenly gained them… but those stories do not concern you. To use this gift of yours, you are required to offer your mana to your gifter, in your case, my little lady, the Great Sinintee himself. The amount of mana you are required to offer to him must be equal to the size of the miracle you ask. Also, this, a magic medium is required,” showing off her oaken magic cane, Moira’s tutor kept talking in that manner for hours.

The old woman then started talking about how the ancient magic casters must also pledge their services to the gods to conjure a magic spell properly for thousands of years until Cipher appeared two hundred years ago. She told how Cipher managed to remove that part about pledging service to the gods by successfully creating a special magic medium. That special magic medium was today’s magic scepters and magic canes.

“Today, most of us hailed Cipher as a hero. Thanks to his discovery, a person did not have to be deeply involved with a Temple to use magic correctly. But, at the time, he was considered an avatar of the demon lords and thus executed for his discovery… I’m sorry for losing you, my little lady.” It was around then the old woman realized she has started to bore Moira with her incessant rambling. That was how Moira was introduced to one of her greatest gifts, even though it was not hereditary.

Speaking of hereditary, Moira herself, was lucky enough to inherit a few of her mother’s features, her rich and full bosoms, her shiny golden hair, her square jawline, and her lush lips, not much of anything else. Her mother told her that her fingers were too big, unladylike, not slim and long like her or her sister. Her father used to tell Moira that she was too tall, her shoulder was too wide and intimidating as a girl. He repeatedly told Moira that her piercing and forbidding amber eyes would instantly douse any flame of passion in the heart of any man who was ill-fated enough to wed her. He repeatedly wept that he felt sorry if such fate to fall on the head of any good man.

Her father has made plans for Moira to become the lady in waiting for the kingdom’s future queen or made her pledged herself to the service of the Great Temple after considering her aptitude for civilization magic. However, one day, without telling her any reason, her father sent Moira to his vacation house in the Broken Shore of Neirra with a handful of his most trusted knights, her magic tutor and a dozen of servants. Since she has lived in the Broken Shore for years without really questioned her father's decision.

Moira sighed.

No longer could she bear her depression, Moira opened the small window of her suffocating carriage to vent out the bad air in her carriage. A tiny snowflake playfully invited itself into Moira’s carriage and she caught it between her hands. It was autumn still. And yet, Moira saw snow.

So, it was true, they said that the snow of the kingdom of Zard was warm. That little discovery brought a small smile to Moira’s full lips.

“Wherever the warm snow touches, the Golden Dragon of Zard reigns,” the first king of Zard once declared, establishing his rightful territory when the War of Dragons concluded. After that, his children and grandchildren repeated the same words as their vow every time a new king of Zard was coronated. Despite knowing that story, Moira still found it was hard to believe that the snow could be warm until she experienced the phenomenon herself.

A gust of silver suddenly blew into Moira’s carriage, with it, the strangeness of the warm snowflakes drifting amidst the cool air and returned Moira to her brightest days on the Broken Shore of Neirra.

Moira missed The Broken Shore of Neirra dearly, everything about it. She missed the strong lapping sound when the icily silver waves of the North Sea crashing against the jaggy shore of Neirra. She missed the picturesque sight of the red dawn and twilight of the Broken Shore when the sun rose and retreated into the silver sea and painted the world in copper color. She missed that biting coldness of the winds and water of Neirra. Above all, Moira missed her sisterhood, the only people in this who could understand her and accept her.

In the Broken Shore of Neirra, Moira had not a single dull moment. She did not just live in the Broken Shore. She thrived like a dragon that has found its sky. She was the master of the villa and thus there is nobody to tell her what to do and what not. Moira had not known such freedom since the moment her confinement in the woman quarter.

Moira quickly befriended herself with the local priestesses of Essence Temple. The priestesses of the Essence Temple were a strange bunch by the normal people’s standard, and that’s what people often said about the Goddess Niwdar herself. Moira has been to an Essence Temple located in Itos, her father’s fiefdom before, when a great fever struck her. If the priestesses of the Essence Temple in Itos made men raise their brows and rounded their eyes, the worshippers of Niwdar who lived in the Broken Shore would make even the most accomplished horsemen in the north fell off their horses at their sighting.

Niwdar’s worshippers are a strange bunch, that’s what people have always said.

The local priestesses taught Moira how to hunt with a bow, to fight with a spear and a shield in formation, to dance with a scimitar in her hand like an elf. They taught Moira to ride a horse, to swim on a moonlit night beach under that freezing water of the Broken Shore, to get drunk with strong wine, to give praise to Niwdar the benevolent Goddess of Nature and Beauty, and to freely speak her ideal like an elven woman. They taught Moira to speak in the elven tongue and to understand the philosophical aspect of the elven tongue.

The knight leader, who traveled with Moira to the Broken Shore, more than often criticized her for her unladylike behavior but Moira could care less. There was no elderly matron there, her mother, or her father to really make Moira stop being herself. In the Broken Shore, Moira was the master of the house, not her matron mothers, her mother nor her father. And the old knight could only lament how he has failed her father, but Moira did not care. In the Broken Shore, Moira was as free as a dragon flying on the sky.

Every month when the three moons became full on the night sky, the priestesses would host a feast among their sisterhood to offer tributes to their patron Goddess Niwdar. The ceremony started at dawn, the priestesses would dress in the saffron and green of their ceremonial dress. They would arrange their tributes, vegetables and fruits and herbs, homegrown completely unaided by magic, and sing their praises to Niwdar, dancing in tune with scimitars, spear, bows, and arrows in their hands.

And when the three moons reached their highest point on the sky and when the strong spirits were served among the sisterhood, Moira and the women danced, this time without weapons in their arms. A secret elven dance, a naked dance of passion and spirit between the sisterhoods, a dance that last until the next morning.

The benevolent Mother of Nature, Beauty and Mercy only condemned intersexual sex, but not homosexual sex. Such was the way of the elves, the self-proclaimed .

The priestess of Niwdar in Neirra, they were like the real sisters that Moira has never had. Moira has intended to pledge herself to the service of Niwdar and joined the sisterhood as one of their priestesses. However, Moira did not pass their test, she had no aptitude for nature magic and in order to be a priestess of the Essence Temple, one had to service their goddess with prayers and one had to serve the people of the realm with their healing nature magic. Niwdar did not gave Moira such gift. That saddened Moira, and she was so confident in her aptitude as a magic caster.

But that did not deter Moira from becoming friends with the priestesses… until the day Moira received the news of her father’s death, her oldest brother has inherited the title of the Marquis and wedded her to the Warden of Golden Triangle Region. All at the same time.

Moira was beside herself with a seething flame of anger when she read that letter. That flame almost consumed her. No, it did. Moira tore the letter apart without a single thought. In her mind, she has made plans to sell all of the furniture and valuables in her father’ vacation house. She intended to hire mercenaries and free riders to fight her way back to Itos and denounced her stupid brother of his title of a Marquis. Then, she would pummel his stupid face until he cried for their mother’s name. And then she would lock him up in that woman quarter for the rest of his life. Had it not for her wet nurse’s words and her mother’s letter, Moira would have probably turned that horribly stupid plan of hers into reality.

Slowly, that all-consuming flame of anger inside her heart subsided. It took a long time but it did. Slowly, that flame turned cold for the lucidity of reasoning to enter her mind and for Moira to think for herself.

To be a priestess of the Essence temple, one must able to service the people with their healing magic through their prayer to Niwdar. To be the daughter of a nobleman, one had to become the breeding mare of powerful noble houses and items to be traded for treaties and alliances. A nobleman’s duty was to make treaties and alliances to protect and manage his land. A noblewoman’s duty was to be the adhesive to solid those treaties and alliances that the nobleman made.

And Moira, she was not a priestess of the Niwdar. She was Moira Farrington, a daughter of a Marquis. She understood that was her role in this world whether she liked or not. Besides, Rosalia was a queen-to-be, thus, all the eyes and ears within the Kingdom of Silver Snow would point at her and her family. Moira did not want to create troubles for her sister and family.

The Warden of the Golden Triangle region was widely known for his warlike temperament, the Great Bear of Madukat himself. It would not be good for the people of her kingdom if Moira was to break this marriage on her own avocation. Thus, Moira bade farewell to her beloved companions and set south to the foreign land of Madukat to wed a man she has never met.

A sudden jolted dragged Moira back from her fondest memories of the Broken Shore, her carriage suddenly halted. Moira leaned out of her carriage window, intended to see what’s going on.

“Bandits, bandits, form lines, protect the lady,” the old knight leader shouted, Moira did not have to ask. He saw Moira looking at him through the open window, he rode his horse next to her carriage, “Stay inside my lady,” and violently closed the window.

“Don’t be scared, my lady,” Iffy, the handmaiden handpicked by Moira’s oldest brother to travel with her to Madukat grabbed Moira’s hand, reassuring her. Moira was not scared. She was startled, probably nervous, but not scared. The scared one was Iffy. Her cold and sweaty hands were shaking miserably while holding to Moira’s hands, and her face was pale white.

Staying inside the carriage was a bad idea. It did not bring the feeling of safeness to Moira or at least alleviated her anxiety. In fact, it only fed into her anxiety of being not able to understand anything that happened on the outside and being not able to protect herself. Inside the carriage, it was a chaotic echoing mess of everything unholy, the sound of horses neighing, the screams of people, the screeching noises of the clashing of steels, the thuds of arrows hitting against the carriage. Somehow, staying behind the closed door of her suffocating and jail-like carriage just fed on to that gripping fear inside Moira’s heart instead. With a sharp breath, Moira dutifully obeyed her nature, shrugging off the sweaty hand of the trembling girl.

“My lady,” the girl gasped.

“Stay inside,” Moira grabbed her decorated magic scepter and jumped out of the carriage.

The sound became real to Moira, no longer a chaotic mess of a bunch of phantom echo inside her head. Silver snowflakes swirled in the wind, carrying with them the stench of blood and the songs of clashing steel to Moira’s ears.

Moira could see at least a hundred of bandits surrounding her convoy with an inspecting glimpse. She saw her old knight leader jumped off his horse and fought back three spear-wielding opponents by himself to keep the circle formation from being breached.

“May Sinintee smiles upon our future,” Moira prayed to the Great Sinintee himself, a simple benediction, not a mana infused chant asking for miracle.

Training her eyes on her target, Moira then pumped her mana into her magic scepter, offering her mana to the Great Sinintee, “Sinintee, o mighty father, please heed the call of your daughter, what I seek is the eye of civilization.”

A red-hot flaming orb appeared at the heavier end of Moira’s ornate magic scepter. She adjusted her aim and launched the orb at a bandit that was circling around her knight leader. Her aim was true. The orb burst like water bubble when it crashed against that man’s beardy face, and the man screamed as he turned into a walking pyre.

The old knight leader glanced back at Moira by reflex for a moment before knocking off the spear of one of his opponents with his tower shield to dive in and impaled the startled bandit with a fine thrust from his long sword. He ignored the human pyre, glared at the other terrified spear wielding opponent and retreated back into the formation with the rest of the knights and the guards.

“Shields, form an inner circle, protect the lady. If she is hit by an arrow I will kill all of you myself.”

The old knight knew Moira’s riotous nature so well through the years he served her at the holiday villa. He understood that he would definitely fail to reason with her anyway, thus acted accordingly.

Immediately, three guards formed a defensive line around Moira with their tower shield holding high.

“Sinintee, o mighty father, please heed the call of your daughter, what I seek is the eye of civilization.”

Moira again prayed to Sinintee, the patron god of the Great Temple and the Great God of Destruction and Civilization. She conjured yet another fire orb at the tip of her magic scepter. She raised her magic scepter high, above the head of her guards and discharged the red orb at another bandit. It hit home this time as well, latched to a self-important looking bandit who was shouting orders to the other bandits. The burly bandit immediately dropped his sword and doubled on the snow, howled like a wounded beast, trying to douse the flame on his body in the warm snow. But the more he howled, the closer to Death he was. The viscous burning water entered his lungs burning him from the inside and took him to the afterlife.

Moira cast her magic again and landed her horrific fire orb on another ill-fated target. He shrieked like a dying pig as the flame melted his face all the way to his lungs. Some bandits have finally noticed Moira. They tried to break through the rank of knights to get to her. However, the knights and guardsmen stood strong. Arrows started aiming at Moira, but the loyal guards and their shield stood in between. Moira spotted a bandit crouched on a tree with his bow drawn. She prayed to Sinintee again and unleashed a world of fire on that single bandit. He howled and dropped to the ground in a sickening crack. He screamed. His scream was so loud and terrible that it almost suppressed the noises of clashing steel and the barking orders of the knight leader.

The bandits slowly felt the effect of Moira’s spell. The agonizing scream of their fellow bandits started to get into their head. In the midst of battle, they conflicted and yelled at each other, argued with each other, some still wanted to fight while the other just wanted to run.

After Moira turned another fifteen bandits into living pyres, the rest of the bandits all ran into the wood without turning back. It was this moment that Moira remembered her magic tutor's words.

“The spell was not a spell designed and crafted to kill a human target. It was a spell initially created to dissuade combats,” lectured Moira’s magic tutor once.

Moira could never understand that. Those fire orbs were easily the most devastating thing she has ever known. They stick to the subject and they burnt. They were horrible. How something like that could be created to dissuade combat?

Moira never understood that reasoning until today.

A sword, or a spear, or an ax, or an arrow could do a better job than the orb of fire, quicker, and with more efficiency. The can mortally wound the target. However, its main purpose in warfare was to by inflicting a maximum level of pain to the target whilst they were still alive.

The horrific screams and the haunting image of the walking pyres were all it took to demoralize an army and dissuade them from fighting a battle. Because its effectiveness in demoralizing and dissuading targets to combat, had ironically become a beloved spell for war, something that went against the reason for its creation.

“My lady, are you unharmed?” the knight leader quickly approached Moira in his bloodied armor, stained with the blood of the bandits.

“I’m fine,” Moira waved her hand, intending to check the casualty of her convoy herself.

“How could you be fine my lady? You fired off more than thirty of those fireballs. You must be exhausted by now. Please get into the carriage and rest,” the old knight opened the carriage door and tried to support Moira as if she was a sickly patient or something.

“I’m totally fine,” Moira assured.

“No, you are not. Please get inside and rest. Leave the rest of the business to me.”

The old knight’s insistence made Moira gave up. She climbed into her carriage and right into the open arms of her scared handmaiden.

“My lady,” the girl hugged Moira with a stuffy hug, sobbing.

Moira could never get used to this, being a lady.

That day, 19 of the guards were wounded, 7 dead, none of the knights was hurt and the bandits did not make away with the gifts that Moira’s brother sent to the Warden. After a quick burial ceremony, Moira and her convoy head south to Madukat again.