Tales from Lanka: To See The Sky

To humans, the sky is beautiful, endless and incomprehensibly vast. By day, the sun reigns supreme, casting its divine light over all beneath it. By night, the stars and moon weave a tapestry of ever-changing beauty, inspiring tales of adventure and transcendence. For humanity, the sky has long been a canvas for imagination, a frontier of endless possibilities.

I have always wondered what it would be like to behold such a magnificent sight. The sky I have known has always been muddled with gray and blue clouds, accompanied by an ostentatious downpour that never ceased in its performance. Even if I try to gaze at our sky, the rain falls directly into my eyes as if to punish me for my transgression.

Yet, there was a time when I hadn’t known the truth.

I vividly remember the day I first saw an illustration of the human sky. I was just a young girl, dressed in my mossy green cloak, frayed strings hugging the folds of my elbow. Though I wasn’t fond of the color, my father believed it went nicely with my warm amber eyes. Underneath, I wore a tan shirt with uneven stitches of hadar flowers along the collar. Their onyx blue petals complimented my similarly colored trousers, which I constantly had to hitch up to my waist.

Perched on my father’s strong shoulders, I absentmindedly played with his soft, curly hair, giggling every time he grumbled in annoyance. I had a habit of trying to grab his horns, unaware of how sensitive they were until he flicked mine in retaliation. That day, he told me he was taking me to see something wonderful—an exhibit of creations made by humans from outside Llanka called “paintings.”

Back then, I thought humans were widely unremarkable—hornless, tailless and unable to communicate with heat. They only entered Llanka for business, trading their bland food and strange devices. They weren’t even devout followers of Aczl, blessed be his name, the deity who birthed existence. What could they possibly offer us?

I held onto that belief, right up until the moment we stepped inside and I saw for myself.

We entered the building alongside several others and were met with a large hallway with smooth oak floors—uncommon for most buildings in the lower ring of the city. Large silver frames were strewn about, various illustrations resting atop their surfaces. The backdrop of the wall was a delicate white with a light orange hue, humming off the phyelia crystal sconces. I froze, eyes darting back and forth. What is this place? I thought, tapping my father’s head to let me down.

My rustic boots tapped onto the foreign surface. The planks sighed beneath me, their softness unexpected, as if the floor itself was welcoming me in. Immediately, I ran off, giving my father no chance to react. The pictures called to me, each holding a story hidden deep within its frame. The humans lacked any of the distinct characteristics of the Melawa, yet some of them were so pretty. How was it possible for them to capture their exact expressions? How—

Out of the corner of my eye, a painting caught my attention.

A dark sapphire canvas, decorated with what I assumed were tiny opulent pearls, much like the ones my mother always wanted. They scattered across the painting, but three stood out from the rest. Luminous orbs, each bigger than the last, bathed the vast landscape below in their soft, silver glow. Clouds, so familiar to me, made themselves scarce, their only purpose to frame the giant pearls.

I stared in a trance, reaching out to touch the painting. I wondered if I could feel what it was like to be there. My clawed fingers glided across the glossy surface, its smooth splendor compelling me further.

“Ah, be careful now, Seneca,” my father’s soft but stern voice whispered as he finally caught up to me. “You don’t want to damage the painting.”

I barely heard him. This was the most delicate I had ever been in my life. The image kept pulling me in until I could no longer contain my thoughts. I need to know.

“...What is this?” I asked, my gaze still attuned to the otherworldly frame.

My father let out a small laugh. “This,” he said, “is the sky of humans. I had heard descriptions before, but it really is something to see in person, huh?”

He wrapped his large but gentle hands around my own, grounding me in a moment that felt both new yet strangely comforting. Was this truly what the human sky looked like all the time?

My father nudged me with his elbow. “This isn’t the only painting with the sky, you know. Would you like to see the others?”

I snapped my head toward him, vehemently shaking it to the point where it could fly off at any moment.

We explored the collection of sky paintings, all created by a man named Lucian Orzho, each evoking a unique feeling. I had never imagined a sky could be so blue, so orange, or shift through so many colors and hues. The fields of grass that danced beneath that sky were so happy, so free.

And the sun—what even was a sun?

A sight like that was absent in the mess of metal, concrete and rain that was Llanka’s lower ring. If, for a moment, I could experience what it would be like to have that kind of freedom, I felt like I would be unstoppable.

I was so lost in this imaginary world, a wide smile permanently etched onto my face, that I barely noticed when the noise had fallen silent. Curious, I turned to see what caused the sudden shift.

A woman lightly glided across the floor. Though her steps were barely audible, the attention she commanded spoke volumes. I couldn’t see her face as she was focused on the paintings. What I could see, however, were the large horns piercing outward like frozen cracks within concrete. Bright orange threads were woven on each side of her horns, encircling golden sigils. The sigil itself was composed of three arrows—one pointing upward, while the other two emerged from a central junction, stabbing outward to the left and right. A perfect circle occupied the center, while a harp-like shape formed on the edges, locking the sigil into place.

I was young, but I was no fool. This was the sigil of the Incrux—the healers and one of the seven most holy tribes of Llanka.

“Why’d you stop observing the painting, little flame?” Her voice was low and lulling, yet it cut through the quiet like a knife.

I froze, uncertain of who she was speaking to. Please, Aczl, blessed be his name, don’t let it be me.

She turned ever so slightly, white hair flowing to the side, a single golden eye falling upon me.

I began to tremble.

It seemed my prayer wasn’t answered.

By: Joshua Lozano