reka_eternity [Fated]

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======Réka======

=====Bloodline=====
A cat jumps across the rooftops in a country that has not been home to her for many years now. She is only on a brief trip here, returning to Egyország for reasons not entirely clear to her, even though she feigned confidence to the fox. Doubtless he could see through it.

It’s changed a lot since she last saw it. She hesitates as she reaches a particular house, but only for a moment. And instead she looks through a window. 

It was someone’s home, once – a bright young girl called Anikó, pride of her family, promised to rise in the ranks and be the golden child eternally. She was ready for it. Hid herself to do it perfectly, played cards and ran across roofs only under the cover of night with that girl, with the one who pulled a ribbon free and fell. But still, she hid that. No one knew. Anikó was perfect.

Anikó was a fool.

All the rooms are empty. Hallways stretch with a lazy neglect to them, doorframes dusty and the portraits on the walls are aged, left abandoned. A lineage that was cut off abruptly.

The Veres family were among those who fled when the revolts started. Would’ve been unwise not to, with the bureaucrat family’s involvement in the Párt and its many hidden ties in other countries. It was not unique in this, though – plenty of people had to leave the country, with pressure on all sides. Particularly from Szeresi, although  the popularity of every opposition party made her effect slightly less impactful than //Szabad Egyország// would make it seem. Whether that popularity would last was a different question. Right now, Egyország is on a knife’s edge, where before it was an unstoppable force. Everything is more fragile now. 

Still. Something about this particular family home makes it hard to think about, even though the cat knows she is filing away the information, hoarding it the way she does all her letters and forgeries and tricks. Kept safe for a later date.

She watches for a few more minutes, but of course, nothing changes. That’s not really why she’s looking, anyway. Eventually she stands and returns to her journey, leaping across rooftops, climbing walls.

Her family may be lost to her. But she’s got another one waiting back home.

=====Top Three Rules for a Perfect Runaway=====

//by someone who’s gotten very good at it//


**Rule #1: Always Plan for the Exits**

//Before you even step into a room — find the way out. Better yet, find three. If you can’t map the exits, don’t stay long. And if you’re in a place that has no exit at all? //

//Then you’ve already stayed too long. //


The first lock she learned was wire-wrapped, rusted shut on the garden fence of her home. It was twice her height—still the easiest to pick.

The second, a cabinet under her father’s desk. She memorised the click it made when closing.

Then, the fire door at the Ministry annex. All it needed was a folded paper to jam the catch. The girl with the good boots showed her. 

She still thinks of the broken terrace railings where she parted with her friend sometimes. The drop. The blood-stained ribbon. Réka did not write this one down. It wasn’t an exit, anyway. 

The resistance safe house had two doors — one at the front and one through the storeroom — but she used the window. Smashed the lamp first to cause a distraction. The smoke bought her twenty seconds. More than enough.

Last: a freight barge near the dock. The rusted hatch was left ajar during a storm. Smelled like fish and freedom.

//Two things she liked.// 



**Rule #2: Choose a Partner Who Makes the Risk Worth It**

//Runaways are easier alone, but only at first. You can run alone. You probably will, at least once.//
//But if you’re planning to go far—really far—then runaways are better with company.//

//But not just anyone. Someone who can run, too. Preferably faster.//

<del>Her first ever partner is a girl with a mischievous smile. Too loud for alleyways. Said Holtváros felt too small when she stayed indoors. Réka never told her it felt bigger when she stood close.</del>

Fürge accidentally covered her once, when she didn’t show up for her shift after an Egyország ship docked. He found her, later, curled under the loading tarp behind the roulette table, shivering. She owed him a thousand truths. She gave him silence instead.

Later, she rehearsed with Magnus to cut the Palace open like a rotted fruit. Réka didn’t say that she’d seen that kind of plan before—the kind made by someone who wants to live just long enough to finish it.

Yesterday, she dared Cyo to sneak into the rival casino with a fake moustache and a Royal Weaver’s robe. They made it fifteen minutes in before someone recognised Réka — the way she cut the deck one-handed made her look guilty even when she wasn’t. The chase that followed wrecked two market stalls, a basket of stolen oranges, and ended with an impromptu performance featuring a very startled goose.

**Rule#3 Bring What You Can Lie About**

//The things you carry will answer before your mouth does. Even names are dangerous. Especially names.//

//Travel light. Run fast. You never pack too much.// 


The first time: Half a piece of gum. Half a biscuit, meant to be shared. Spare change in her pocket. A black ribbon in her hand. The Resistance thought she was a street kid. She told them her real name. That was the mistake.

The second time, half a sandwich, two forged stamps, one coin. The window was closer than the door, and the lantern was already falling, and by the time she turned back, the ribbon was already burning. So was her name.

The third time, she packed properly. A dagger, flat against her thigh. A deck of cards, sharp-cornered, hand-cut, and marked. An invitation to the Palace in her pocket. 


**Rule #???**

//You’re not running this time. Just—going somewhere. That counts too.//

Something rustles her awake.

The soft chirp of sparrows hopping across the rail. One’s found a crust of bread, pecking it apart like treasure. Another taps its beak against the empty tin lantern as if it wants in. A third gets tangled in a string of fate-charms, wings flapping.

Typical. Someone must’ve hung them too low. 

Réka blinks, nose still half-buried in the blanket, but the sound keeps going. She slips out of bed, bare feet meeting the floor. 

The sky is still lavender with sleep. The market isn’t awake yet — but it will be. She can feel it stirring: the brine in the air, the creak of canvas, the ropes groaning with the tide. 

She climbs barefoot—railing, then crate, then the slanted roof. Higher still, until the sea unfolds beneath her: vast and pink and full of daybreak.

The sparrows again: a small chaos of wings above the mast. The breeze carries the scent of burnt sugar. From the dock—laughter, a tambourine, the rattle of wheels and crates, and someone shouting about props. It’s the theatre troupe. They’ve arrived.

And then—soft, deliberate—a harp. 

Gwawrddur, probably. She recognises the way the strings settle. The melody skips upward, light on its feet. It sounds like an invitation, the kind of adventure story Réka used to dream of. 

She lingers a little longer, watching the light catch on the water. The sparrows burst into flight. Réka follows them with her eyes, watches them vanish between patched sails and rising steam. When she climbs back in through the window, Malorie's still tangled in the sheets, blinking awake, hair in a mess of curls.

“Mal,” Réka whispers, breathless. “Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere.”

“Window again?” 

“Obviously. Fürge won’t notice if we’re quiet.”

“You should leave a note,” Malorie says, sitting up. “Or Fürge will worry.”

“Then I'd better think hard about what to write,” Réka mutters, already reaching for her satchel. She starts packing without thinking, darting across the room, getting a bit too much of everything. The pile is already far beyond what Rule #3 would’ve allowed. //(So much for traveling light.)//

She pauses mid-step, eyes flicking to the shelf. Right — she should take the felt mouse with her. The one she’d been stitching for forever for Magnus, as a half-finished apology gift. 

“Where’s my glasses?” she asks, mid-chaos.

Malorie laughs, picks them up from the nightstand, and hands them over. “Let me pack. You go write.”

When she turns around again, the cat is curled up on the windowsill, dozing in a patch of early sunlight. Her bag's halfway packed beside her. Her ears flick at a breeze, then go still.

“Of course you’d fall asleep like this,” Malorie smiles.

She crosses the room without a sound, leans down, and scoops Réka gently into her arms. Réka’s not used to sleeping like this. Not so easily. Malorie remembers the first time she’d held her — how it felt more like exhaustion than trust. 

The note can wait. So can the sparrows, the harp, the troupe. Maybe all Réka wants is to wander a little. Do a trick or two. Catch a smile. Steal a kiss.

Perhaps it’s just a morning whim. 

Malorie watches her for a while longer. For now, let her sleep. She thinks. After all, there's no rush. The sun isn’t all the way up. There’s plenty of day left.

The world will still be waiting when she wakes. 

//Written by Xinyi L.//