"But fire has no weight, how can it fall?" she asks, more of herself than Irian, brows knitting and then lifting as she scoots closer to the edge of the cliff to look in the direction of the glow.

She's fascinated by the landscape, so different from her own. She's never seen anything like this, though then again she's never seen anything very different from trampled mud and monochrome steel and black, shot with bright unnatural blue--though exceedingly rarely, that--and blood red. "What's the capital called?"