Queen Fiaena looked up from her calligraphy with an amused expression, ink-wet brush poised over the parchment-wrapped lap desk balanced on her knees.
“You think I’m a what?” she said.
Reluctantly, Morgan repeated herself. “A Storm-Speaker.”
Fiaena laughed, and sucked a drop of ink from her finger. “You’re positively full of delightful ideas, Lady Morgan. Truly, you keep me quite amused!”
“Your uncle was of the blood.”
“My uncle was many things. I, however, am just a woman.”
Abruptly Luke barreled inside, his sword drawn. “Morgan! We’re under attack.”
“No.” He frowned. “The Eaetori.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: calligraphy, suck, uncle)