Lirith and Lythia

The silence in the cottage was heavier than the snow outside. In the village of Yonder, hunger wasn't a loud thing; it was a slow, hollowing sound, like the wind whistling through a cracked rib. Lirith sat on the floor, her small frame huddled in a threadbare blanket, her brown eyes fixed on the single bowl of thin broth sitting on the table.

"Eat, Lirith," Emilis whispered. Her older sister’s voice was like dry parchment, but she still managed a small, fragile smile. "I already had mine while you were sleeping."

Lirith looked at her sister. Emilis was seven, only two years older, but she looked like an old woman. Her red hair, usually as vibrant as a fox’s pelt, was dull and tangled. Her cheeks were sunken. Lirith was only five, but she was smart—sharper than the adults realized. She looked at the spoon, then at the lack of crumbs on Emilis’s chin.

"You're lying," Lirith croaked.

Emilis reached out, her hand trembling as she pushed the bowl closer to Lirith. "I’m the big sister. It’s my job to be full first. Just eat. For me?"

Lirith ate. She didn't know then that it would be the last thing she ever took from her family. By the time the moon rose, the quiet in the house had changed. It was no longer the quiet of sleep; it was the stillness of the void. Her mother and father had stopped breathing hours ago, their hands linked across their narrow bed. And by dawn, Emilis, the girl who had given away her life in the form of a few ounces of watery soup, was cold.

Lirith didn't cry. The hunger had dried up her tears long ago. She felt a strange, cold clarity settling into her bones. She looked at the walls of the cottage, at the empty hearth, and realized that Yonder had nothing left for a girl with red hair and a heart made of frost.

She packed a small satchel with a tattered cloak and a flint. She didn't look back as she stepped over the threshold. She didn't look back as she walked past the frozen gardens and the "Elsewhere" signs that marked the edge of the known world. She walked until the flat plains of Yonder began to tilt upward, rising into the jagged, purple-bruised peaks of the Mountains.

For a year, she lived like a ghost. She was a shadow among the crags, stealing scraps from mountain goats and finding edible lichen in the crevices of the rock. She became wary of anything that breathed. People were things that died and left you behind; beasts were things that tried to eat you. Loneliness was the only thing that didn't hurt.

Then came the day of the storm.

Lirith was huddled in a shallow cave, watching the sleet turn the world gray. Her fingers were numb, and her mind was wandering back to Emilis—to the way her sister’s smile used to make the small cottage feel large.

A soft *mew* echoed from the back of the cave.

Lirith spun around, her hand instinctively grabbing a sharp piece of slate. "Stay back," she hissed.

Out of the shadows stepped a creature that looked like a dream made flesh. It was a cat, or at least it appeared to be one, with fur as white as a fresh snowdrift. Its tail-tip was a striking blue-grey, and matching stripes curved like elegant teardrops under its wide, intelligent eyes.

Lirith froze. She had seen mountain lions and snow leopards, but this was different. The air around the creature seemed to shimmer, as if reality couldn't quite decide how to hold it.

The cat didn't hiss. It didn't crouch to spring. Instead, it sat down and tilted its head, watching Lirith with a gaze that felt unnervingly human. Suddenly, a small, perfectly ripe red apple appeared on the stone floor between them. It hadn't been there a second ago. It didn't roll; it simply *was*.

Lirith stared at the fruit. "What are you?"

The cat blinked. With a flicker of its tail, the apple vanished. A second later, it reappeared an inch closer to Lirith.

"I don't play games," Lirith snapped, though her stomach let out a treacherous growl.

The cat let out a soft, melodic trill. It stepped forward, pressing its cool, silken head against Lirith’s knee. In that moment, a jolt of warmth shot through Lirith’s chest—a sensation of bright colors and soaring heights. It was a bond, ancient and deep, snapping into place before she could even think to push it away.

"Lythia," Lirith whispered. She didn't know where the name came from; it simply bloomed in her mind, tasting like mountain air.

The cat purred, a sound like a distant avalanche.

***

Ten years later.

Lirith, now fifteen, moved through the jagged peaks with the grace of a predator. Her red hair was braided tight against her head, and her brown eyes scanned the horizon with a practiced, cynical edge. She was short, but her body was all lean muscle and hidden knives.

"Do you think they’re still following us?" Lirith asked, not looking back.

Perched on a ledge above her, Lythia let out a bored yawn. The cat was no longer just a cat. Great, magnificent wings, fading from snow-white to the color of a winter sky, tucked neatly against her sides. She was a Callifly, a mythic beast of legend, and to the rest of the world, she was a ghost. To Lirith, she was the only thing worth talking to.

"They are," Lirith answered her own question, spotting a glint of metal in the valley below. "Surveyors. They’re obsessed with finding you, Lythia. Apparently, 'extinct' is a challenge to some people."

Lythia chirped and hopped down, landing silently on Lirith’s shoulder. The weight was familiar and grounding. As a keeper, Lirith had inherited the Callifly’s Lore. She felt the hum of imagination beneath her skin.

With a flick of her wrist, Lirith focused on a jagged rock jutting out of the path behind them. She didn't just see the rock; she imagined it differently. She imagined it smoother, slicker, and slightly tilted.

The rock shivered. The rough granite surface melted into something that looked like polished ice.

"That should give them a nice slide," Lirith muttered, a sarcastic smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe they’ll take the hint and go back to the Jungle."

Lythia nudged Lirith’s cheek, sending a mental image of a warm fire and a fat mountain grouse.

"Fine, fine. We’ll set up camp," Lirith said, her voice softening. "But if I hear a single human footstep, we’re moving to the higher peaks. I’m not in the mood for 'hello' today. Or ever."

They found a sheltered nook behind a waterfall that froze into a curtain of glass every night. Lirith worked with methodical efficiency, her mind always three steps ahead. She used her lore to alter the smell of their campsite, turning the scent of woodsmoke into the acrid, repellent odor of a sulfur vent.

As the sun dipped below the peaks, painting the snow in shades of violet and gold, Lirith sat with her back against the cold stone, Lythia curled in her lap. The Callifly’s wings draped over Lirith like a heavy, silken quilt.

"You know," Lirith whispered, her fingers tracing the blue-grey stripes under Lythia’s eyes. "Emilis would have liked you. She was the sweet one. She would have tried to feed you her last bit of bread."

Lythia let out a soft, mournful sound and licked Lirith’s hand.

"Yeah, well," Lirith sighed, her eyes hardening as she looked out at the vast, lonely expanse of the mountains. "She’s gone. And everyone else is just looking for something to take. You’re the only one who doesn't want anything from me, Lyth."

The Callifly shifted, her wings rustling. Suddenly, a small, carved wooden flower appeared in Lirith’s palm. It was an exact replica of the mountain lilies that bloomed in the brief summer—delicate, stubborn, and beautiful.

Lirith looked at the flower. She knew it wasn't real—it was a manifestation of Lythia’s imagination lore—but she gripped it tight anyway.

"Show-off," Lirith muttered, though she tucked the flower into her tunic, right over her heart.

A sudden crack of a twig echoed from the darkness below their ledge.

Lirith was on her feet in a heartbeat, a bone-handled knife appearing in her hand as if by magic. Her eyes went cold, the warmth of the moment vanishing like mist. Lythia stood beside her, her wings unfurling to their full, majestic span, her blue-grey eyes glowing with a faint, ethereal light.

"I told you," Lirith hissed, her voice a low, dangerous vibration. "People never know when to leave well enough alone."

She looked at the ledge, then at the sheer drop into the darkness. Most people would be afraid. But Lirith had died once already, in a small cottage in Yonder, and she had been reborn in the ice.

"Ready to fly, Lythia?"

The Callifly gave a sharp, commanding cry. Lirith grabbed the harness she had fashioned from braided mountain goat hide, and with a powerful leap, they vanished into the night air.

The surveyors below would find nothing but an empty ledge and the smell of sulfur. They would go home and write reports about "recent evidence" and "unexplained phenomena," never realizing that the rarest creature in the world was currently soaring above their heads, guided by a girl who had learned that the only way to survive the world was to stay above it.

As they climbed higher, the wind whipping Lirith’s red hair into a frenzy, she looked down at the flickering lights of a distant village far, far below.

"Look at them, Lythia," Lirith called out over the roar of the wind. "Huddled together like they’re afraid of the dark."

Lythia banked to the left, her wings catching a thermal. She sent a feeling of amusement through the bond—a sense of vast spaces and endless horizons.

"Exactly," Lirith agreed, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. "Who needs a house when you have the sky? Who needs people when I have you?"

They disappeared into the clouds, two ghosts of the mountains, leaving the world of men and hunger far behind. Lirith didn't need a family, and she didn't need a home. She had a sharp mind, a sharper knife, and a beast made of starlight and snow.

For the first time in ten years, the silence didn't feel heavy. It felt like freedom.