Page 17 of Crown of Flame

She shakes her head, moving her hand up to her chin. Droplets of water have crystallized across it.

“It’s customary to bury the bodies of people you care about.”

“But you said you didn’t know this creature,” I observe. “So why bury him?”

“First of all, he’s a human, not a ‘creature,’” she says. “Like me. I’m human. Human. Second of all, we bury people as a sign of respect, so the animals won’t devour them.”

I nod my head, now understanding this as a sign of affirmation.

“So you’re a human,” I say. “Were those creatures you escaped from also humans?”

She shakes her head.

“No. As I think I’ve told you several times, those were dark elves.”

She stands up, clearly giving up on her mission.

“And the difference between you and the dark elves is… your ears, and your lack of ability to do magic?”

She chuckles. It feels good to hear something neither terrified nor full of anger.

“I think there’s more to it than that,” she says. “But I guess you get the gist.”

She looks sadly down at the ground.

“I guess the animals must have gotten to him first.”

Parts of this culture fascinate me, like their insistence on keeping things around that no longer serve any purpose. In my eyes, if a creature has perished, its only purpose is as energy.

“And what are you?” she asks. “Do you have a name?”

The question deeply confuses me.

“What am I? Do I have a name?”

“That’s what I asked, yeah.”

There’s something deeply beautiful about her eyes. They swirl green like the leaves on the trees, but also gray like the sky, and blue like some of the gems in my home world.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

I feel a hint of frustration rising in her, which she effectively stifles.

“Like I’m a human, and my name is Serena, which was given to me at birth,” she says. “Those dark elves were also born and given names. What are you, and what name were you given?”

I think about how goblins expel their young and realize this must also be how Serena was created. Then I marvel at the beauty of the name.

“I wasn’t born,” I tell her. “But you can call me Cinis. Somehow, that word resonates with me.”

She seemingly grows distressed by my answer.

“What do you mean you weren’t born?”

“I mean that where I come from, creatures like me are expelled from the core of my world. We don’t have names. We simply exist.”

She starts walking, bringing her hand up to the side of her head and ruffling the blonde strands that fall off of her head.

I think it’s beautiful but trivial, like many of the flammable things in this realm.