“Molten Mead.” He swaps his token for a terracotta mug ladled with a red-toned drink. He looks at me over his shoulder, brow popped. “Want one?”
“Maybe later.”
More small gold tokens glint in the sun as the merchant drops them in Pyrok’s hand. His change, I assume.
Pyrok threads in beside me, whistling to the sway of his steps, leading me on what I suppose will be another lap of our tour.
“Gold is your currency here?”
“Sure is.” He draws a deep sip from his mug, releasing a satisfied hiss. “This kingdom doesn’t support the mining of fossilized dragon blood,” he says, a hardness to his tone that wasn’t there before. “Mining it promotes spilling it.”
My brows pinch together. “Is it used here? For its medicinal purposes?”
He shrugs. “What finds its way into the city wasn’t mined by folk under this kingdom’s protection.”
Interesting.
I move around a busker plucking a pretty tune from a large emberwood string instrument that draws my eye.
My ear.
That makes me want to stop, sit, and listen.
“So The Burn has untapped reserves of bloodstone?” I ask, looking left, only to find Pyrok nowhere.
Just … gone. Like the ground ate him up.
I whip around, catching sight of his blaze of hair down a side alley, standing at least a head taller than everyone else. He waves a hand for me to follow without bothering to turn, and I roll my eyes, pushing through the throng to catch up.
“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter.
“You got one. Not my fault you weren’t paying attention.” He pauses, leaning against a wall clothed in more of those russet vines bearing the bold black flowers, one hand still in his pocket while he sips his mead with the other. “Through there,” he says with a jerk of his chin. “Tell Vruhn I say hi.”
I spin, turning my attention to the wooden door of the domed building opposite him, an aged sign hanging from the awning.
I smile and grab the handle, pausing to glance over my shoulder. “Need anything?”
“Not unless Vruhn’s decided to stock brandy alongside his collection of bug wings,” he says, then takes a deep drag of his drink.
Shaking my head, I shove into the rounded store, drawing the smell of leather and dust. I glance around the curved wall of shelves stacked with books, tinctures, etching sticks, and bits of volcanic rock. Sabersythe tusks hang from the ceiling, suspended from lengths of copper chain, each bearing price tags that mean nothing to me since I’m not used to dealing in gold.
Fingers crossed this heavy lump of a thing I’ve been lugging around the city is worthy enough to fetch the supplies I need, hopefully with some coins left over so I can hire a carter back to the wall.
I move through a labyrinth of shelves until I reach the back of the store pinned with a mosaic of small, medium, and large bug wings, making me frown.
Wonder where the armory is …
My gaze lands on a male with wiry white hair that sticks out in all directions—presumably Vruhn. He’s sitting behind a cluttered stone counter mixing tinctures, white and blue beads threaded through his rebellious locks.
A line forms between his brows, and his hand stills, gaze lifting. His airy eyes cast my feet in stone and pitch my pulse.
They’re milky like the Sól’s—such a contrast to his dark skin—and they’re staring straight through me.
My heart flops into my gut as something flashes to the forefront of my memory, like a piece of flesh thrown on a bed of flaming coals:
A big pair of ivory eyes stare blankly in my direction, a blow of icy breath battering my face as a cold, luminous, leathery nose nudges my chest. My chest that’s so full of love. So full of …
Hurt.
So much hurt—
“Welcome to The Curly Quill,” a serrated voice says, snapping me back to the here.
The now.
Shoving the unsettling image toward my icy lake, I clear my throat, looking at the male, struggling to hold his milky stare. “Hi. I’m—”
“Here to hock off a candlestick you stole from the Imperial Stronghold. I’m quite aware, Raeve.”
I frown, narrowing my gaze on the male’s white robe, searching the many buttons down the front of his seam, seeing one that boasts a branded knot of threads.
“You’re a Mindweft,” I murmur, my voice hitched in awe. “I thought your lot were hunted and forced to work for the imperial families?”
“Painfully aware,” Vruhn says, his voice like a scratchy string. He tips his head sideways, metal mixing stick held between his thumb and finger. “You, my dear, have a very interesting mind.”