Among the mountains that touched the sky, there was a village guarded by every cloud that drifted between them. Thanks to these mountains—formed by stones so close to one another—the people of the village had the rare chance to see the sky above their heads.
Though they lived within a small space, at the peaks of these mountains they felt more precious than they ever had before. The households here, deemed unworthy of high rank among the common folk, were made up of artists.
Painters, writers, traditional dancers, and musicians had gathered, forming a small village of their own. The people called these united mountains Freedom Garden.
Whenever the residents descended into the villages near the palace, the locals would refer to them as those who come from Freedom Garden. By that name, it was clear they were artists.
Though the view of Freedom Garden was breathtaking, the locals had to descend these mountains first, whenever they wished to reach the village.
Because of this, every household perched high above had a bamboo ladder secured firmly to a corner of their home.
The highest rank in society belonged to the gods—or at least, that was how the humans saw it. There were many gods and clans governed by their power.
The rank just below the gods was that of the God's Envoys. Those who possessed the gods' power, whether from birth or later in life, were called Envoys. Most who gained such power later did not create it from nothing; rather, they trained to awaken the strength that already resided within them.
Those who provided this training were Envoys themselves—either born as such or later granted the power.
An Envoy's prestige increased in proportion to their level of power. That level was determined by their devotion to the god they served—or by the god's own judgment of them. For example, the more an envoy was able to converse with a god, the stronger they became.
And below the envoys were those whose professions contributed greatly to humanity. Doctors, potion-brewers of healing elixirs, and warriors, for instance, were seen as fitting for this rank.
Beneath them were the people who served those of higher ranks. These were often royal servants or assistants of Envoys.
Below that were individuals who possessed none of the values esteemed by the higher ranks. For example, a person without a profession would fall into this category.
In the rank shunned by society were the artists. Through art, people could express their thoughts with great impact.
For many years, it was believed that this ability of artists disturbed the gods. To society, art had been born from the whispers of demons. Thus, it should never be supported—and, if necessary, it should be eradicated.
At the very bottom were the Demons and their Heirs. Demons and their Heirs were beings that led humans astray, feeding on their negative emotions. So if one ever encountered such a creature, one was to run without looking back—or, if strong enough, destroy them.
One of those living in Freedom Garden was Lael.
Her house lay among these joined high mountains, in a place neither too high nor too low. Beneath her home were several other households.
Part of a waterfall, whose source sprang from the mountain's highest peak, passed through her home—making it a noisy place.
As Lael sat cross-legged inside her room, she was sewing a garment—part of it pooled between her legs, the rest scattered across the floor. With every push and pull of the needle, the movement of her arm made her shoulder ache, and from time to time she straightened her posture, trying to stretch.
She hadn't noticed the low, round dining table placed in front of her, so when her name was called, she raised her eyebrows and looked at the friend standing across from her.
Noa's long black hair, gathered into a careless ponytail, was as untidy as ever. The white sleeves of his dress bore fresh stains of ink, as though he had once again managed to smudge them.
Blinking at Lael, he raised the tray in his hands to show her.
"Stop sewing already—you've been at it since last night," he scolded, setting the tray down on the table. Rolling up the long sleeves of his dress, he sat down across from Lael.
Lael's eyes drifted to the ink stains smudged onto the sleeves Noa had just rolled up. Frowning, she rolled up her own sleeves and reached for the spoon on the table.
She had wanted to pull the dress resting in her lap closer, but since its hem had slipped beneath the round table, she had no choice but to leave it where it was.
The dress Noa wore was one Lael had sewn. It was a traditional garment, made of fine fabric—unlike the clothes most people could afford. Yet Noa had covered the very dress Lael had stitched with such care, sparing no effort nor material, in blotches of ink.
She knew of his passion for writing, and how he wished that one day his novels would reach the palace. But wasn't this a little too much?
After all, how could someone who showed no care for themselves be expected to treat their own creations with care?
Lael sighed deeply before speaking. "You must be enjoying yourself quite a lot, again…"
She tapped the tip of her spoon against the table once or twice, then folded her hands together in a short prayer of thanks to the gods before beginning to sip her soup.
At first, Noa didn't catch the meaning hidden behind her words. But when he noticed Lael's gaze drifting toward his sleeves, he was forced to roll them up a little higher.
"The sleeves of my garment are too long—they sweep across the table whenever I write," he explained.
Lael pursed her lips at his reply, yet continued eating in silence. Seeing the faint displeasure on her face, Noa felt compelled to say something more.
"Alright, I'll be more careful next time. We're leaving today, aren't we?"
But Lael knew that Noa's 'next time' carried little of its true meaning. His next times often never came, and to her, that promise had become like a fruit he kept turning over and over in his mouth—tasting its flavor without ever swallowing it.
Lael shifted in her seat, mumbling under her breath, "Yes. We've already talked about this countless times, Noa."
Noa had just lifted his spoon to his lips when he stopped, raising his eyes from the soup bowl in front of him to glance at his friend. Without setting the spoon down, he brushed a grain of rice from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and ate it before replying.
"We did talk about it. But every time, it's you who says we'll go there the next day, my lady."
Lael set her bowl down on the table with a sharp clatter, clicked her tongue in a sharp tsk tsk. She then thrust her spoon toward his face as if to jab it at him.
"How many more times do I have to tell you not to call me that? I have a name." Her voice softened just slightly. "I know you still feel uneasy after every word we exchange, but we've been friends for years…"
Noa, listening with eyes he hadn't blinked for a while, cut in immediately. "We've been friends for eighteen years."
Lael, his sudden interruption gave her a chance to draw a breath. She exhaled once more before continuing.
"Eighteen years… Has it really been that long? We're growing older so quickly. Anyway, even though you once served for my father, your place with me has been the same since those days. It has never changed. You're a person just like me, and we're friends. We are not gods, Noa. So when you call me anything other than my name, you don't need to feel as though you've committed a sin."
Noa smiled faintly, but just as he opened his mouth to protest, Lael cut him off by striking her spoon against the table again.
"Noa! Did you hear what I said?"