Northaven at dusk was a city of shadows and whispers. Torchlight blood in the gathering darkness, each fla casting more questions than answers across the cobblestones.
Soren kept his head down as he moved through the crowded market square, shoulder throbbing with every step. Three weeks since Trescan’s blade had carved its lesson into his flesh, and still the wound protested when he pushed too hard.
Which was precisely what Kaelor had forced him to do all day.
His palms stung beneath fresh bandages, reopened cuts from the morning’s relentless drills leaving sars of blood on anything he touched. The sword at his hip felt heavier than usual, a constant reminder of his limitations. Of the wall he still couldn’t breach.
’Aura,’ he thought bitterly, flexing his aching fingers. The glow that had surrounded Trescan’s blade remained burned into his mory, a physical manifestation of the power that separated nobles from commoners. From him.
A rchant hurriedly shuttered his stall as Soren passed, eyes darting nervously toward the western quarter where the tournant grounds stood empty now, blood-soaked sand raked smooth for the next spectacle.
The entire city seed on edge, conversations dropping to hushed whispers whenever guards passed by.
Kaelor’s warning echoed in Soren’s mind as he navigated the thinning crowd. "Man like that loose in Northaven? He’s watching. Waiting."
Sylas. The na alone sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the evening air. The assassin who had slaughtered half a dozen n in the forest, yet spared him for reasons still unknown.
The shadow who moved like smoke between blades, leaving only corpses to mark his passage.
The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed cold, as if responding to his thoughts. Valenna remained silent, but her presence sharpened, alert and watchful.
Sothing felt wrong.
Soren paused, scanning the street ahead where people moved with unusual urgency, glancing over shoulders, pressing against walls to clear a path for... what?
A ripple of tension passed through the crowd, bodies shifting like schools of fish sensing a predator. rchants abandoned half-closed stalls. Conversations died mid-sentence. The hair on the back of Soren’s neck stood up as the strange agitation spread toward him.
Then she hit him like a battering ram.
The impact drove the air from his lungs, sending him staggering backward as slender hands caught his shoulders for balance.
Dark hair streaked with premature silver whipped across his vision, framing a face all sharp angles and desperate intensity. Her gray eyes locked onto his for a heartbeat, calculating and fierce.
"Move," she hissed, already pushing past.
Too late. Her montum had carried them both off-balance, and the leather satchel slung across her body slipped, spilling its contents across the cobblestones with a series of heavy thuds.
Books. Old ones, from the look of them, bound in materials Soren couldn’t imdiately identify, their covers marked with symbols that seed to shift when viewed directly. The woman cursed, dropping to her knees to gather them with frantic haste.
One volu landed near Soren’s boot, its cover falling open to reveal pages covered in intricate diagrams. Weird figures spiraled across the yellowed parchnt, forming patterns that made his eyes water if he looked too long.
The title caught in the torchlight: "Tessellations of the Eighth Ring: Theoretical Applications."
Not the kind of reading material a street thief would target.
"Stop her! Naeria Veyl!"
The shout cut through the evening air like a blade. City guards pushed through the scattering crowd, their blue-and-silver uniforms marking them as Cathedral Watch rather than common peacekeepers. Their faces were flushed with exertion and sothing that looked uncomfortably like fear.
"Traitor to the faith! Stop her!"
The woman, Naeria, snatched the final book from the ground, clutching the collected volus to her chest with white-knuckled intensity. When she looked up at Soren again, those gray eyes burned with a fierce intelligence that asured him in an instant.
"Move," she repeated, the word sharp as broken glass. "If you want to stay out of this."
But as she rose, her foot caught on the cobblestones, montum carrying her backward toward the narrowing alley behind them. She stumbled, arms tightening around the precious books, leaving herself no hands to break her fall.
The crowd had evaporated like morning dew, leaving them exposed in a rapidly emptying street. The guards were closing fast, swords half-drawn, faces twisted with righteous fury.
Soren had a heartbeat to decide.
Step aside. Let the Cathedral Watch take her. It was their right, their duty, no concern of his. House Velrane wouldn’t thank him for interfering with Church business. Kaelor had warned him about drawing unwanted attention. He had enemies enough already.
The shard against his chest suddenly pulsed with unexpected warmth, a sensation so foreign that Soren nearly gasped aloud. Not the familiar cold of Valenna’s presence, but sothing different, recognition, perhaps, or warning.
His body moved before his mind fully committed, one hand catching Naeria’s elbow to steady her, the other reaching for his sword hilt.
"This way," he muttered, already guiding her toward the shadowed alley mouth. "Quick."
Her eyes widened fractionally, surprise, not fear, before narrowing with sharp assessnt. She didn’t waste breath on questions or gratitude, simply pivoted and ran, books clutched tight against her chest.
"You! Stop right there!" The guard’s voice cracked with authority. "Interfering with Church business is a hanging offense!"
Soren didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the threat. Instead, he stepped sideways into the alley’s entrance, deliberately slowing his pace, making himself the more visible target.
The gambit worked. Two guards broke toward him while the others continued their pursuit of Naeria, who had already disappeared into the warren of narrow passages that ford Northaven’s oldest quarter.
"Idiot boy," one guard snarled as they approached, blade now fully drawn. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"
Soren said nothing, mind racing through his options. Drawing his sword against Cathedral Watch would escalate this from interference to open rebellion. Running would only confirm guilt. Standing his ground might...
The decision was made for him as Naeria suddenly reappeared from a connecting alleyway, moving with the confidence of soone who knew every twist and shadow of the city’s underbelly. She caught his wrist as she passed, yanking him into motion with surprising strength.
"Unless you want to hang for helping ," she hissed, "run."
Reviews
All reviews (0)