Kitewalker

I was still a hatchling when my mother gave me a kite for the first time. It was custom made for me, she said – and how she had smiled then, melting with so much love, using one hand to hold me steady while the other caressed the golden spindle. I gasped in wonder as the kite took into the air and flew – higher and higher – smaller and smaller. My mother gave the spindle to me… and I had been so thrilled, overwhelmed by the fact that I could control something else’s flight. The kite glittered under the spring sun, my own little Beacon of the Radiant Eye, and I tried to take flight with it, become one with that piece of ethereal beauty.
“You can’t fly like that, hun,” My mother said sadly – why was she sad? – pulling me back down. I cried disappointed tears. “To fly a kite, you have to be on the ground.”
“But no dragon stays on the ground!”
“A patient dragon will,” she promised. “A patient dragon can take flight even under the ground – the wings on your back are not the only ones that you have.”
“But why would –”
“You’ll see,” she murmured, as my kite plummeted to the ground. “Sometimes you might have to find a different way to fly.”

I found her body at the bottom of the waterfall – covered in rose petals – a poisoned fan to the heart – the blood was yet swirling in the water, the koi startling against all the reds – she was calling my name, they said – believing that I would make it there in time – I had sprinted – prayed – wept – grew up with her – never knew anyone else but her – who would want to kill her? We offended no one – noble family with a father who had left – only daughter – never into politics – why? Why?
I brushed the petals free from her eyes as I pulled her out of the pond. She was still warm. She could no longer tell me who had done this to her – judging by the reactions, it probably was someone that nobody would dare to reveal – but I knew what I wanted to do. What I had to do.
I will find you, I thought bitterly, and I will kill you.

Kitewalker was born into nobility; her mother had been a well-known courtesan, and her father was a well-respected regional leader before he squandered his wealth and ran away in disgrace. Although Kitewalker was supposed to be her father’s heir, her father’s enemies deliberately sabotaged her inheritance, and she grew up in poverty with her mother, unaware of all the power struggles that happened behind the scenes. When she was nearly a month old, her cousin, paranoid that he would not be able to secure Kitewalker’s rightful inheritance for himself, attempted to take the lives of both Kitewalker and her mother. Although Kitewalker survived – albeit suffering a wound that caused flying to henceforth be almost impossible for her – her mother, unfortunately, did not.
Enraged by the cruelty of her enemies, Kitewalker thoroughly investigated the crime, and soon learned of her heritage. She pledged herself to the mystic Ebon Rose and received the crimson etching of a plague dragon, specializing in assassinations. She soon gained notoriety for always flying a kite with the name of the person she had planned to kill the day she took their lives; many attempted to flee when they saw their names in the air, only to be found dead hours later. The cousin she saved for last – and literally saved for she did not take his life, having planned something worse for him.
Kitewalker’s descent into violence and vengeance was mourned by those who had known her before her mother’s death. They believed that they had lost a great singer and friend. Many of them moved away, unable to watch Kitewalker’s rampage. The only one who remained to watch over her was Kitewielder, Kitewalker’s best friend since early childhood – and now her mate.

“Why are you still here?” I inquired, mixing the ink to later write on the kite. He sat motionlessly by the river, writing into a half-open scroll. His new etching shone in the sunlight.
“So you would live,” he replied drily, not looking back up at me.
I was angry. “I’m not going to die.”
“Not that kind of live,” he said, and his voice was suddenly tender. “Live.” I shivered. “Don’t forget who you are, girl. Don’t take on assignments that you know are wrong.”
“I might not have a choice.” I was lying; I always had a choice. I just didn’t want to admit that I could not kill someone.
“Oh, you do,” he sighed – or was he laughing? “I’m still here. That was your first one.”