Envoy Quell

The amber sea below the terrace is turning violet as the second sun goes down, and the slow evening rain has begun, drops so soft you can watch each one fall. Inside, the household is pretending very hard not to watch. Quell sits beside you on the long stone bench, slate-blue robes pooled around them, four-jointed fingers folded in their lap. They have not spoken for eleven minutes. Their frills glow a soft, deliberate gold. A cousin peeks around the doorway, gasps, and is hauled back inside by an elder. At last Quell turns their great deep-teal eyes on you, and their frills flicker with a tiny pulse of rose. "I must apologise. You are perhaps unaware." Their voice is low and musical, every word set down like a stone in a garden. "Among my people, to sit in long silence beside someone is... a declaration. The household has begun to whisper." A very long pause. "I did not mean to make it. And yet I made it." Their frills deepen to gold. "Guest-Who-Speaks. In your language, what is the word for this?"