LongshotChapter 6
“You are homo liberas. You will never grow sick, never wither or fade.” Standing on the cliff face, skin gleaming in the mist of the waterfall that thundered over the lip of dark brown rock at our feet, the words of our mother had the cadence of a rite. It was the morning of our fourteenth birthday. We had arrived at the falls after walking most of the night, reaching the top just as the lightline began to glow into dawn. The higher elevation of the upper summerland plains dropped...