Glimmer watched, eyes wet, as Sayla buckled her brother’s sword around her waist. There was a finality in how Sayla tightened the scarred strap, and let her hand linger on the leather-wrapped hilt, before looking up into Glimmer’s eyes.
Both born under the Emerald Moon in the Albaenorin parish, they had been closer than kin, and then closer still.
“After I’m gone, do not let them diagnose you as an Ironblood,” Sayla said. “Leave with Aella, if it comes to that.”
“But how will you find me? It may be years…”
Sayla kissed her. “I will always find you.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: buckle, diagnose, parish)