My kingdom.
My independence.
She spoke of many things and asked many questions while I stared at the wall and wondered if this is how Haedeon felt all those phases he was mute. Like there was so little point in it all. But then she stopped scrubbing my body, tucked my hair back off my face, told me she teaches combat at Drohk Academy, and asked if I’d like some lessons.
The words lit something in me, and I felt more alive than I have in a very long while, like an aurora had just risen in my chest.
I told her yes—I want some fucking combat lessons.
Her smile was blinding.
Pyrok watches on from the booth seat opposite me—reclined, hands clasped behind his head, an ever-present smirk on his face I certainly don’t appreciate.
I leave the thin metal sharpening tool standing atop the linchpin embedded in my cuff, willing it to stay.
“This is it,” I murmur, attention honed as I move … my hand … slowly … away …
“You think?”
“Gut feeling.” I grasp the rock I stole from the Loff’s bouldered shore and lift it above the rod, count to three, then slam it down—
The rod skitters across the stone like a fucking arrow.
Sighing, I thump the rock on the table, scrambling for the tool to the tune of Pyrok’s deep belly laugh.
The asshole.
“Glad somebody’s finding this amusing.” I reset the scene, trying to get the cuff perfectly level so the pin will stand on end.
Still laughing, Pyrok wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Thirty-seven.”
“Shut up.”
Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck lift, I slash a stare around the space to see if anyone else is taking enjoyment from my erupting well of frustration.
The cozy, domed building consists of three levels, the outer rim segmented into plush leather booths—one of which we’re currently occupying—with a delightful view across the Loff I wish I could fully appreciate.
Cuff free.
A circular bar dominates the center of the room, surrounded by stools mostly occupied with chatting patrons snacking on meat skewers, sipping from tall glasses of foggy liquid, or guzzling mugs of Molten Mead. Upon my surveillance, I catch two folk looking my way, perusing my cuff, passing whispered words to each other.
Waving with my shackled hand, I flash them an exaggerated grin that drops straight off my face the moment I set my attention back on the task at hand.
Essi would’ve had this off in a heartbeat.
“Vruhn hit a nerve?” Pyrok asks, and I flick my lashes up to glare at him. He shrugs. “Your mood plummeted. Significantly.”
Such a nice way to say I’m being a bitch.
“Several,” I mutter, turning my attention back to leveling my cuff. Think I’ll pay a busker to collect my package when it’s ready so I don’t have to face the Mindweft again. Lately, folk are taking far too much interest in my life—past, present, and future.
I’m sick of it.
Kholu this. Offspring that. Let me peer into your mind and help excavate your past grievances—
No fucking thank you.
“I hear you and Veya got off on the wrong foot,” Pyrok muses, then nabs a honey-glazed nut from one of the three terracotta bowls of snacks he ordered with our first round of mead, tossing it in the air. Catching it with his mouth.
“I hadn’t eaten in a while,” I say, setting the rod atop the pin, trying to release my hold without it toppling. “She ate fruit in front of me.”
“Ahh.”
I pull my pinching hand away, slow …
Steady …
“I think you’d like her if you got to know her.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I respond, not bothering to mention that I don’t intend to stay here long enough to find out. Nice city, happy folk. I admit I was wrong. But I’ve still got a hankering to punch my fist through Rekk Zharos’s chest and rip out his heart, the urge itching at my bones like a swarm of frost flies.
I pick up the stone, raise the thing, then slam it down. The rod scatters across the table to the rhythm of my sharp-tongued curses while Pyrok chuckles himself into an impending grave.
“A little help?” I growl, waving my cuffed hand at him while reaching for the rod.
With a shake of his head, he picks up his drink and drains it to the dregs. “That thing is on there for a reason, I’m sure,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his sun-brushed arm.
“Might have something to do with the fact that I bit off the tip of Rekk Zharos’s finger,” I mutter, frowning when the sky releases a heady rumble that seems to shake the air.