Two large, stony-faced guards grip the handles of the double doors and pry them open.
“Creators,” I mutter, squinting against the overwhelming flood of sunlight. I pluck the last crisp from my dish, crunching through it as I step out into the sticky, sweet-smelling heat, drawing my lungs full.
Blowing out a sigh.
Freedom tastes like fried colk fat and too-hot air, but I’ve never been more thankful. The only thing that could blunt my whetted optimism is a large, scarred, ember-eyed king who sawed off somebody’s head for me.
My heart squirms, like it’s trying to burrow between my ribs. A feeling I want to crush in my clenching fist.
The quicker I get out of here, the better.
The doors snip shut behind me, and I spin, a different set of guards bracketing the doorway on this outside wall catching my attention. I take in their dragonscale armor, the way both males wear their dark hair loose around their shoulders, each armed with a bronze sword in one hand and a wooden spear in the other.
Sucking the last of the salty seasoning off my fingers, I step close to the male on the right somehow not squinting or sweating despite the violent sunlight pouring upon his face. “Would you mind holding this for me?” I ask, nudging my empty dish toward him.
A line forms between his brows, and he glances at the pendant hanging against my sternum, brows bumping up. He dips his head for a few long beats—like a bow—then looks up at the clay dish. Clearing his throat, he extends his sword, which I take, thanking him as I place the dish upon his now-empty hand.
Stepping back, I swing the weapon around, getting a feel for its balance. I frown, yet to find a sword I’ve immediately fallen in love with.
“Too heavy for my hand.” I jerk my chin at the dagger strapped around his thigh. “But I’ll happily swap you for that. And the sheath.”
After a moment of pause, the guards share a look before the male sets the crockery on the ground, along with his spear. He unbuckles his sheath, and I first weigh the dagger’s feel before surrendering my stolen sword.
“Nice doing business with you,” I say, winking.
He clears his throat, stepping back into position with my dish on the ground between his feet. I notice a few beads of sweat now gathered on his brow.
“Quick question.” I set my candlestick bag on the ground and part my robe, easing up the hem of my shift so I can thread the leather strap around my hip and thigh. “You don’t happen to feed folk to the dragons here, do you? In, say … I don’t know, a giant blood-soaked coliseum with a stake in the middle that’s really uncomfortable to be tied to?”
I cut a glance at both males who are casting each other wary looks. They shake their heads in unison, and my brows bump up.
Interesting.
“What about your young elementals? What happens to them?”
“They attend Drohk Academy,” the guard on the left announces in his thick northern accent, dipping his head.
“And the nulls?”
“They’re given the option to discover if they have an affinity for the runes. If not, they may choose to study something else or gain an apprenticeship.”
Apprenti—Huh?
“Right,” I say, head cocked to the side as I blindly thread another buckle.
The doors shove open.
The big shirtless male with fiery hair stands in the hallway beyond, arms crossed, brow raised. “Harassing the guards?”
“Rather presumptuous of you.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” He pokes his head out the door and looks left and right, as though checking we’re all still in one piece.
Mainly them.
His emerald stare shifts between the dish on the ground, the guard’s reddening cheeks, and my freshly donned weapon. “I see you’ve managed to scam your way into being equipped. Quick work.”
I drop my hem. “Hidden talent. What’s yours?”
“Sweet fuck all.” He dashes his hand at the stairs that swoop toward the bouldered city below. “Let’s go.”
My heart drops, frown returning.
Am I not as free as I thought I was?
“What did I do to deserve an escort?”
He flicks me an up and down look, both brows raised. “You look like a tourist unaccustomed to the heat. If you’re going to hock off a solid gold candlestick, you might as well get a good deal. A merchant sees you with me, chances are they won’t short you.”
Actually, that’s thoughtful. Though I wonder if he’d be so supportive if he knew I intended on swapping said candlestick for an armory’s worth of Sabersythe scale blades?
“Thank y—”
“Unless they caught me tangled up with their daughters,” he tacks on, shrugging. “Or their sons. Then they’ll probably refuse to do business with you altogether.”
Creators.
“Weren’t you in the middle of a game you should probably finish?”
“Yes. And I was getting my ass kicked. Grihm’s lethal when he’s in a shit mood, and my pride’s already bruised. Besides, somebody stole our snacks and the fucking brandy ran out.”
Right.
Guess I’m stuck with him.
“In that case,” I say, bending down to snatch my bag off the ground, “shall we?”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his tight brown leather pants and leads the way, his long steps smooth and light despite his hulking size. The sun beats upon us like a distant blow of dragonflame, so I tuck my hood farther forward, casting my face in shadow, immediately easing the discomfort.
“I’m Pyrok.”
“Raeve. Though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Correct.” He extends his left hand across his body toward me, pointer and middle finger outstretched, the others curled in. I frown at it, looking up into his eyes, then back at his hand again before I mimic the motion, our fingers meeting.
He flashes me a half smile that’s so nonchalant it’s infectious. “There you go.”
I stab my stare down the stairs as we ease amongst the bouldered buildings clothed in more of the big inky blooms Essi would’ve loved.
That organ in my chest pangs, and I rub at the ache.
“So, Raeve, what sort of store were you hoping to dump that candlestick at?”
“A Curly Quill. If you have one.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “We do.”
My eyes widen. “It’s called that? The Curly Quill?”
“Parchment, pawn, and all your Runi supplies,” he chimes, and relief bubbles through me, popping against my ribs.
Lightening my steps.
I knew they were elsewhere; I just wasn’t certain there would be one this far north. This is my lucky dae.
“You need a quill?”
“I do.”
Lots of quills with sharp, pointy ends honed enough to slit through all of Rekk’s important bits.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Then I need a sweet drink and a good view,” I tell him, moving the handles of my bag so they’re resting on my shoulder, repressing the urge to scratch at the skin on the side of my nails that’s starting to get a little raw.
“Drink sounds like a premium part of the plan. What sort of view are you after?”
“Best you can find.”
It’s a big city. Figure if I have a view broad enough, I’ll eventually work out where the carter hutch is without forcing any tongues to wag. Then I’ll know where I need to go once I’ve liquidated this heavy golden asset and am packed with a lethal amount of weapons, toting a satchel full of those crispy black fruits Veya was eating.
In front of me.
Shard by crispy, watery shard.
The muscles beneath my tongue tingle …
If I leave this place without some, I’ll never forgive myself.
The aurora sits low, edging toward the west as we move between rounded buildings the color of burnt clay. Urns sprout from the ground, gushing plants and trees and vines that climb all over the rich, organic city, buskers perched within sloped corners blowing tunes from copper flutes.
We jostle through a bustle of folk clothed in garments that drape, pinch, and twist around their bodies like cleverly worn veils, and I can’t help but wonder if everyone in Dhomm has the same garment in brown, black, or rust and just wears it differently—a pin here, a clip there, a copper belt looped around the waist.