She’d left his hands bound, but merely to annoy him, and by the time they’d reached the top of the rocky hill, Arshad had dropped the rope somewhere along the trail. The hike had covered both of them in sweat, and Olivare scraped fingers through her damp, wind-tangled hair, as she surveyed the lights of Alatashara far below.
“I find it easier to channel up here, away from all the noise,” Olivare said.
Arshad nodded, watching as her eyes filmed to white. Energy thrummed around them, and the scent of burning cinnamon replaced the lingering petrichor from the morning’s storm.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: alpha, convulse, refulgent)