Lyria stopped struggling some time ago. One, she did not want to die by falling from Goddess-how-high it was. Two, she was determined not to die because of foolishness.
Instead, she took on the chance to see how Voltaire looked from above. It was breathtaking. The land below her was a mixture of green and yellow. In all the five years she had been in Voltaire, Duke Frelie had locked her in the capital. Even so, she had studied the map of Voltaire thinking it would be useful someday.
She could identify the twin peaks at the northwest as the Mountains of Froya. Between the peaks was the precious gold mine of Voltaire. She could also name the river snaking below her. River of Anantha, named after one of Eric the Great’s lovers who cried herself to nothingness because she never could earn t
