Rich.
Salty.
Fatty.
They even pop against my tongue with each bursting bite.
I crunch through another. “What are they?”
“Fried colk fat.”
Huh.
Not my snack of choice since I just watched one bleed into a bowl, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I scoop the entire dish against my chest and wrap my shackled arm around it—the one still gripping hold of my stolen candlestick. I pluck out another crisp of fat, crunching through it. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask, pointing at the bowl.
“Not enough to stop you,” the shirtless male says, his raised brow inching up his head until it’s almost lost amongst his rebellious locks. “Do you want a bag for the candlestick?”
I smile. “How thoughtful! Yes, I’d love one.”
He shares a look with the quiet male and stands, wanders over to a drink bar, grabs a thin cotton bag, and empties a bunch of dimpled orange fruit on the bench. He lumbers back toward me, opening it. I drop the candlestick inside, and he threads the handles over my arm.
“Thank you.” I look between them both. “You don’t need me to kill anyone in exchange for it, do you?”
Silence prevails for so long I almost repeat the question.
“Ahh, no. We’ll pass,” the red-haired male says.
“Nice.”
And strange. That’s usually how it works.
“Let me know if you change your mind. I’m trying to get out of conscription work, but your king saved my life a couple of times, so I’m happy to offer a one-time-only favor.” I hoist the bag farther up my shoulder. “Where’s the front door?”
The male on the seater continues to stare at me like I’m some strange creature he’s never seen before, his complexion so wan I wonder if he’s coming down with something. Poor guy. Probably best I leave before I catch it too, else I’ll never make it back to the wall to flay Rekk Zharos from cock to throat.
The redhead points behind me. “That way. Eighteenth door on your right is the fastest route to the city center.”
I turn, seeing a hallway I hadn’t noticed earlier—lined with windows, beams of light shooting through.
“So helpful.” I pinch another crisp from the bowl cradled against my chest and spin, tossing both males a wave with the same hand. “Nice chatting with you!”
Have a great life.
Silence chases me as I saunter down the hall, gorging on fried fat and the glory of being free.
Supposedly.
I didn’t wake in a cell, strung up, or in a dragon’s mouth. Nobody’s called me a filthy null or made my stabby hand twitch too much. I didn’t get tackled to the floor the moment I stepped free of my suite, painted in the blood of a sacrificial beast, or tied to a stick and offered to the Sabersythes. Nobody called me Kholu or ordered me to stay and breed some world-saving offspring, nor am I being herded by a mythical silver feline.
I’m cautiously optimistic that my short stay in Dhomm is going to be far less traumatic than I was previously anticipating.
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.