Click here to learn more!
Sunday, December 25, 2016
"Rogue Shadows" Sneak-Peak
Chapter 1
Right Killer
A bitter wind howled against Fire-Gem as he flew over the
Ardi’on Sea. He tried to look ahead, his eyes yellow slits, but saw nothing
except the dark sky and churning waters. The cat-like beast felt his tail flop
this way and that with the wind, no matter how hard he tried to hold it still.
He gritted his fanged jowls against the cold and tightened his grip of the
creature that carried him onward.
The siren that kept him in flight was from the sea bird–like
people who swarmed King’s Bay between Suvaria and Tulaun. The beast’s form was
that of a man, yet bird wings stretching twenty feet from feathered tip to
feathered tip replaced his arms. The feathers were dark shades of gray, brown,
and black. Instead of legs, he had feathered bird feet that ended in black
talons. A large tail fanned out behind the siren and guided their flight. His
eyes, black orbs rimmed in copper, stared ahead to their destination and his
dark hair sleeked back as the wind blew against them.
The siren’s flock had owed Fire-Gem, for the pooka had
fulfilled questionable favors for them in the past. The Raptor Flock had agreed
to return those favors without having to be convinced.
The brown-and-black-winged siren flexed his muscles
repeatedly. His beady eyes blinked and his tail swooshed to and fro with the
wind’s current. Fire-Gem glanced over his shoulder and knew Tulaun had faded
from sight long ago. Though he traveled to a nation of ever-watching, tyrant
Treelings, he could not hold back a smile.
He thought of the Wraiths who enveloped Lord Demus’s castle.
They had met with him. They had agreed to train him, agreed to make him a
Spellbinder! At last, he would be powerful! He would be feared! He only had to slay
Lord Demus. That was all. It was nothing, was it not?
The siren’s shoulder muscles stopped their constant flexing
until they soared, the siren’s feathers rippling with the wind. Fire-Gem, eyes
wide, turned his ears ahead. Against the night’s sky and the few stars that
watched, a spiked line of trees rose from Ardi’on’s waters. They had reached
Han Ci. Fire-Gem grinned.
They glided over the land and the trees guarding the
country’s border with long shadows. Without warning, the siren tucked in his
strong wings and the two dropped like a stone. Fire-Gem fought against a cry,
but it fled his lips before he could catch it. They fell toward a meadow
enclosed by trees and, before the ground struck against them, the siren
stretched out his wings, slowing their fall and landing on a tree with a whoosh! Fire-Gem panted as he clung to
the siren, his hands unwilling to let go as his tail trembled.
The siren looked around in a jerky, bird-like fashion, his
feathers bristling against the night’s chill. The tree’s branches swished and a
limb stretched toward the siren. Squawking, the creature leapt from the tree onto
a boulder. The siren eyed the Treeling and two knots on the tree’s trunk glared
back. He looked away, his feathered tail opening and closing like a fan. “Off,”
he ordered the pooka.
Fire-Gem tried, but his white-knuckled hands refused to
release. “Thy flight hath startled—”
The siren shrugged his shoulders and Fire-Gem slipped off
with a shout. His claws scraped down the boulder until he thudded to the
ground. The siren snickered. Fire-Gem staggered to his feet and sat back
against the boulder, his head in his human-like hands.
“Too hard?” The siren smirked with a raised chin. “Just a
little flight, not bad at all.” Fire-Gem, his yellow eyes ablaze in the
darkness, gave the beast an icy stare. The siren beamed and a sound slightly
lower than a raptor’s call rumbled from his chest: a siren’s laugh. “Be back in
hour. Shadow Minstrel likes killing pookas, I hear. I like eating them; pooka’s
liver nice . . .” The siren leaned forward, his copper eyes aglow, and licked
his lips with a moan.
“Thy mockery shall be proven false! I shall be here, alive
and well, when you return!” Fire-Gem spat, his back and tail bristling.
“You die,” the siren muttered. “Shadow Minstrel kill you.”
With a shake of his head, the siren leapt from the boulder and spread his
wings. He shot up with a roaring wind and flew out of sight.
Fire-Gem watched the siren go then looked around him, his
ears upright. His hair stood on end from the back of his neck, down his spine,
to the tip of his tail, every nerve stretched to its limits. He took in a deep
breath and closed his eyes, for he knew he had to be calm with a clear mind. He
sat cross-legged against the boulder with his tail wrapped around him.
The pooka listened to the breeze rustling the forest as conversations
pulsed from the ground. Treelings could talked through their roots. He heard
the quiet chirps of a few birds perched in their limbs, their feathers
ruffling. Most fowl stayed away from the Treelings’ branches for fear of a
swatting bough. Fire-Gem wondered if he would hear a Jaw Jin camp or catch a
glimpse of the nomadic people, the only humans to live in Han Ci.
The meadow stretched out beside him, ringed in trees so old
and tall, they formed a fortress of green. Tall grass and wild flowers swayed
with the breeze. The smell of charred ash showed signs of travelers, dignified
travelers indeed to be given a Fire Permit. A few stars were dotted overhead
and he could hear the sound of the Ardi’on Sea lapping against Han Ci’s shores
in the distance. A werewolf’s mournful howl rose up from the shadows and faded
into nothing like smoke. Another answered. Fire-Gem was not surprised;
werewolves were everywhere in the forested country. The howling called died
down soon after arising.
All else was silent.
Fire-Gem strained to see in the gloom, yet only saw tree
silhouettes, stars, and darkness between. The pooka lifted his chin and smelled
the air. His yellow eyes searched, but saw no one. Had the Shadow Minstrel not
received his message? Ah! Those cursed Raptor Sirens! How could those
bird-people fail him and not deliver his request? He would wrench every feather
from the flock’s tied-down bodies if—
A flute’s song lifted from the stillness.
Fire-Gem sat straight up, his tail flicking. His nose
twitched. He saw no one, and yet the song continued. It was a slow song, almost
sad, with an underlying cold note of foreboding. It drifted between the trees
and across the meadow. Fire-Gem looked to the distant timberline, eyes wide and
spine tingling. His gaze darted from tree to tree, but he saw no movement.
No, no, the song came from the trees closest to him. Fire-Gem
flinched, low to the ground, and faced the Treelings. Nothing moved as the
melody continued. What was going on? The pooka’s chest heaved with each breath
as the flute’s song swirled around him. The Treelings’ roots were quiet as
their limbs stilled, regardless of the breeze. He swallowed hard, knowing they
had withdrawn deeper into their limbs, trunks, and roots to hide.
Fire-Gem lifted his chin and turned to the meadow. He
swallowed hard and closed his eyes. The Shadow Minstrel would arrive when she
saw fit; he had to be patient.
A hand caressed his shoulder.
Fire-Gem flinched and looked behind him with a gasp. He saw
nothing but the boulder and darkness. He sat back, his eyes darting to and fro.
With a shake of his head, he took another deep breath to calm his frantic
heart.
Fingers wrapped around his tail and yanked. Fire-Gem yowled
and spun around. The pooka’s gasps filled the night as he looked for signs of
life. He saw no one; he smelled no one, and nothing stirred. The flute’s melody
filled his ears.
A hand ran down his back.
With a hiss, Fire-Gem lashed out and jumped away. His claws
slashed only air. His eyes looked wildly all around and finally fell on the
boulder. He saw the darkened outline of his shadow. His mouth dropped open. The
shadow stood on its hind legs, high over him, its head cocked to one side. Its
tail flicked, though Fire-Gem’s did not. It soundlessly reached with a dark
hand. Fire-Gem panted and retreated.
Grass rustled from behind, and the pooka’s ears flicked back
in alarm.
Dark forms, their bodies flat against the ground, leapt amid
the trees. They flowed like a dark river pouring across the land, their flush
figures bounding in step with the music. They were the shadowed outlines of
animals: wolves, stags, foxes, and hares. Other beasts weaved between them,
dwarfs, gargoyles, and a troll. They had left their bodies long ago, and now
all that remained were the silent shapes of shadows.
Fire-Gem hunkered to the ground, his tail between his legs,
though he held his head high. He watched the shadows swirl round him. They
stared at him with empty eyes and smiled, their jaws outlined by fangs and
licking tongues. Fire-Gem swallowed again as the flute’s song rose higher and
grew in excitement. As the song changed, so did the shadows. They came closer
until their gliding bodies almost brushed against Fire-Gem’s feet.
One jabbed his side, making him recoil with a hiss. Another
snapped its fangs and he could smell its hot breath on his face. Another came
forward and seized a fistful of his black hair. Fire-Gem dug his claws into the
ground as the shadow tried to lift him off his feet. With a yowl and eyes
ablaze like fire, the pooka tried to force the shadows back. They stepped away,
not because Fire-Gem could harm them, but because their Shadow Minstrel wanted
him alive. Fire-Gem’s own shadow silently watched as it stood on its hind legs
against the boulder, head lowered, tail flicking.
The music stopped and the night was still. The hold on
Fire-Gem released.
The shadows parted in unison, like waves of the sea. Fire-Gem
looked around, fear of the unknown forcing him lower to the ground. Another
dark form emerged from the gloom, yet this newcomer was no shadow. Her form was
small, made of flesh and bone, and she walked straight toward him. Fire-Gem
gulped and looked away. The Shadow Minstrel approached.
She was a Hart and her movements were as soundless as any
shadow. The Hart’s skin was a dark sandy hue and her black hair stuck out in
all directions behind her. Amidst her wild hair were two deer-like antlers,
spiked and bent back to follow the flow of her hair. Large, deer-like ears
pointed from either side of her head, and a long thorn pierced through one. She
was small in height and stature, a bit taller than a dwarf, but no larger than
a human child.
She wore a deer hide dress and was barefoot. An ornately
designed flute swayed in her belt, its end carved to look like a man screaming
in agony, his mouth gaping and eyes wide. Her lips, tongue, and mouth were dyed
black, the mark of a Shadow Minstrel. She stared down at Fire-Gem as her
shadows made way for her. She stopped before the crouched pooka, her black
mouth tightened thin.
Fire-Gem stared straight ahead as he rose on his hind legs,
his hands fidgeting with each other. “Honored Shadow Minstrel . . . um—”
“Thorn,” she whispered.
Fire-Gem looked up at Thorn with an open mouth. Her voice was
so small, so gentle! “Thorn,” he whispered with a bow. He cleared his throat
and straightened. “Thou art as fearful as thy stories proclaim.” Thorn lifted
her chin without a word and Fire-Gem glanced away. “I have come to beseech thee
to employ thy dark arts. The Tulish Spellbinder, Lord Demus? Have . . . have
thy ears heard of such a—”
“Kill Spellbinder?”
“Yes, if you please.”
The Hart nodded and folded her arms over her chest. “I work
for pay. No money, no killing, no deal.”
“Yes, yes, thy ways are sound and respected—”
“You have all money now?”
“I shall have it all for thee whence thy work is complete.”
Thorn scowled and shook her head. “Money. Now.”
Fire-Gem grinned up at the Shadow Minstrel. “I shall pay, my
lady.” Thorn’s eyes narrowed. “Thy hands shall be full of riches. Thou hath
only to wait—”
Fire-Gem’s ears pricked as Thorn’s song filled the air. The
shadows looked at one another, grins stretching their mouths. A shiver ran its
fingers down Fire-Gem’s spine. “My lady,” he began, quivering, “I meant no
disrespect—”
His shadow moved from the boulder with a bound. It streamed
across the ground, its flat form stretched out long. Before the pooka could
react, a shady hand seized his tail and jerked back. Fire-Gem yelled as he
struggled, his shadow forcing him to the ground.
Dark, two-dimensional hands grabbed him from behind; his
shadow held him against the forest floor. Fire-Gem, his yellow eyes wide and
chest heaving, kicked and hissed, his tail thrashing. Thorn watched, her song
as sweet and sad and cold as the look in her eyes.
Fire-Gem’s shadow made not a sound as it held him. The pooka
opened his mouth to cry, but heard nothing but a throaty gag. His eyes bulged
as his shadow wound its tail around his throat. It tightened around his neck.
“Lady—heck!—Thorn!”
he rasped, but she did nothing as she watched, her song climbing higher and
higher into the night.
Fire-Gem’s heart raced. His lungs burned. His throat would
collapse at any moment!
Thorn lifted her chin and closed her eyes. She withdrew the
flute from her blackened lips and placed her hands behind her back. Fire-Gem’s
shadow released him in an instant. The pooka rolled onto his side and coughed
between wheezing gasps. Thorn stared down at him, her head tilted to one side.
“What be your shadow’s name? Pride?”
Fire-Gem did not answer as he tried to breathe.
Thorn sighed and shook her head. “Money. Now,” she whispered.
“Always.” Fire-Gem did not respond. His panting filled the silent night. “A
lot,” Thorn continued. “No little. Yes?” Fire-Gem nodded. Thorn’s black lips
twitched into a smile that disappeared in a heartbeat. “Good,” she whispered.
“Give me before job starts.”
Fire-Gem sat up, his eyes closed and head throbbing. “When .
. . when should I expect thy coming to Tulaun . . .” His words trailed off as
he opened his eyes and looked around. Thorn was gone and her shadows had
followed her. He was alone once again. Fire-Gem glanced warily at his shadow
stretched across the boulder. It sat crouched on the ground, ears up and tail
bristled as it mimicked him exactly. Fire-Gem eyed it a moment longer, but knew
Thorn’s hold over it was no more. He swallowed hard and rubbed his throat. With
a final look to his shadow, the pooka stood to his hind legs.
He looked up into the dark sky. With a shake of his head, he
closed his eyes. He grinned and chuckled, making himself gag. After clearing
his throat, he smiled again. This was the foul play needed to kill Lord Demus!
Shadow Minstrel Thorn, what a lovely name! She was perfect. Perfect!
Fire-Gem’s smile grew. He knew Lord Demus had faced many foes
in the past. Many had hunted him and tried to kill him. He was a survivor,
subduing his foes time after time. Yet, Fire-Gem doubted the Spellbinder had
any defense against his own shadow.
— — —
High in a tower in Black-Wing’s
castle stood a man propped against a windowsill, a cup of warmed wine in his
hand. He leaned heavily to one side due to a wound on his leg, though the pain
had dulled. His brown eyes looked keenly from the villagers below to the
rolling lands of the Hilled Country. With a deep breath of the chilled morning
air, he closed his eyes and was grateful to be free from Wraith’s Hallow.
As Prince Theron scanned Black-Wing, he could smell the twang
of the village and the sharp scent of smoke as it curled from the rings of
huddling villagers. Dar-o-gal and his mercenaries stayed close to their horses’
stalls, jugs of ale and any woman who was willing in their hands. Theron
wondered why the White Dwarf and his ruffians had not left the city, yet he did
not question them. The smell of fresh grass wafted from the distant Hilled
Country and the breeze that carried it waved his dirty-blond hair about his
eyes.
Theron stood in a small room, a decent fireplace warming the
chamber, and a bed stuffed with feathers positioned in a corner. His armor
rested in its stand against the wall. The metal had been recently cleaned by
squires, though no amount of scrubbing could polish out the dents of battle.
His sword hung in its sheath on a chair and waited for its master’s bidding.
Theron sipped the warmed wine and wrapped his thick cloak
around his shoulders. As he looked out, his eyes fell across the horizon to a
shadowed line of trees. His gaze darkened at the sight of Wraith’s Hallow, the
haunted wood he had left only days before. He knew Olivia’s bones were still there.
A corner of his eye twitched and his hold on his cup tightened.
“Ah! My lord!”
Theron turned from the window as Sobriina walked into the
room, her armor and travel wear replaced by a sea-green kirtle that waved
behind her with each step. The she-elf shook her head as she crossed her arms
over her chest and jerked her head toward the chair. “You shan’t stand! Your
leg is still freshly wounded. The honored Seer of this house may send down The
Wizard’s wrath if you cause the wound to bleed further!” With a huff and a
flick of her flowing black hair, she scooted the chair across the room.
Theron limped to her side, the mention of the One in Red
causing him to frown. “The Wizard’s wrath has already come,” he murmured.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Theron said with a cringe as he eased into the
chair. He clutched his leg and eyed the bandage that encased his thigh. Vivid
red seeped through the dried brown blood that dappled the cloth. He sighed as
he leaned back into the chair and took another drink of the wine.
Sobriina groaned and shook her head. “I came too late, I
see,” she muttered with a scowl. Theron grinned and fidgeted with the hem of
his cloak. “Stay put, and do not stand. You are an impossible patient.” The
she-elf turned to a shelf and took down clean bandages. “Impossible!”
“I can’t stay in one place.”
“Stay, my lord!” Sobriina’s hands fisted as she stared down
at him. “Or I will tie you down and force you to sit!” Theron threw back his
head and laughed. When he saw the stern look in her eye, he nodded and looked
away, the laugh dying in his throat. “You are wise to comply,” the she-elf said
as she knelt at his feet.
“Wise? Ha!” Theron laughed again. Sobriina glared at him, her
purple eyes shadowed. “A she-elf against a trained knight.” Theron scratched
his chin as he looked off to imagine the outcome. “That would be interesting to
see.”
“I believe the wine is talking now,” Sobriina mumbled as she
looked to his wounded leg.
“No.” Theron beamed. “You hear me, nothing more.”
Sobriina shook her head, but could not hide the smile in her
eyes. “Hold firm and steady,” she said as she took hold of his old bandages.
“Do not—”
“I won’t move; I heard you.”
Theron sipped his wine as Sobriina unwound the bandages with
gentle hands. He glanced down at her and his eyes glowed. He looked at her long
black hair as it flowed over her firm shoulders and down her back. Her purple
eyes, intent on her work, were more captivating than when he had last seen
them. Her neck was slender and beautiful and her lips were inviting.
Theron cleared his throat and turned away. He shook his head
to clear his mind and raised the cup of wine. Before the cup’s rim touched his
lips, Theron stared down at the liquid and set it aside before he did anything
foolish. Better to not have too much,
he thought.
“Are you well now?” Sobriina whispered.
“Ah, the leg’s not as horrible as you think.”
“No, no. Not that. Is your heart well and calm in accepting
Lady Olivia’s death?”
The light in Theron’s eyes faded like a candle’s flame in a thunderstorm.
He glanced away and cleared his throat. “Yes.” A muscle in his jaw clenched.
“Yes. She is dead; there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Sobriina nodded as she set aside the old, bloodstained cloth
and began to clean the wound. “You did your best,” she said. “The Wizard
understands your pain.”
Theron did not answer as he stared out the window.
The Wizard knew nothing. The One in Red had not helped him
find Olivia. If he had, she would be alive and they would still be betrothed.
She would still be his queen. Theron swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes with
his finger and thumb. No, The Wizard knew nothing.
Though the prince did not realize it, a little hole blemished
the glass of his heart. Root-like cracks jutted from the hole and cut along the
glassy surface. There were other marks scratched alongside it and a crack like
a spider web ran up the side. They were small fractures from the pain of loss
and rejection, the loss of his woman and rejection from his unseen Lord. Small
fractures, but they throbbed with pain, all the same.
“And you and your dear comrade?” Sobriina said. “What of
him?”
Theron’s staring eyes blinked and they turned her way. “Who?
You’re talking in riddles today.”
“Sir Eldie. You two have not shared a conversation since . .
. when was it? In the village we found in Wraith’s Hallow. Is there something
wrong with your bond?” Sobriina looked up at him, her purple eyes searching and
her brows drawn low.
Theron opened his mouth to speak, but did not know what to
say. Why would she ask him such things? “Eldie is not the same,” Theron
muttered as he turned away. He shifted his weight in his seat and looked to his
wine again. “It’s cold this morning.”
“Ah, you shan’t point a finger at
another,” Sobriina continued and set down the wet cloth. “Three fingers are
pointing back at your own heart when you do so. You have transformed into a new
creation as well, my lord.”
Theron did not respond, not wanting to think of his
right-hand man. How had he become such a coward? Eldie, his reliable friend,
was now someone he hardly knew. He shook his head and sighed heavily. “What’s
the cook preparing for our meal?”
“Quail, stuffed with something sweet. It was pleasant to the
eyes and senses. I wish it were stag, though. I favor stag.” The she-elf
grinned and licked her lips at the thought of the savory meat.
“There’s no venison out here.”
“Still.” She shrugged. “I miss the venison of white stags. My
father would hunt through Deep Wilds, and even in Stage Folk territories when
the hunt led down their paths—”
“Just for meat?” Theron’s eyes widened as he shook his head.
“Not worth the dangers, I’d think.”
“For the thrill as well,” Sobriina replied. “I always wanted
to join and ride along and, well, catch any sight of a Wilder. Any! May it be
Stage Folk or Fang!”
Theron grinned as he looked down at her. “Why am I not
surprised?” Sobriina beamed and turned to him, her purple eyes glowing with the
excitement of old times. Theron chuckled and looked out the window again. His
gaze moved up over the walls of Black-Wing, across the Hilled Country, and to
the world beyond. The sky was blue, though gray rain clouds threatened storms
to the west. He watched a starling soar though the breeze in search of its
breakfast and—
What was that?
Theron’s eyes narrowed as he looked away from the bird. A pillar of thick black
smoke lifted into the air in large billows.
“Something’s wrong,” Theron
whispered. Sobriina looked up at him, her mouth open in midsentence.
“Something’s . . .” Theron bent down, took the bandage’s loose ends from
Sobriina’s hands, and tied them tight. Without a word, he heaved himself
upright and limped to the door.
“My prince?”
He did not respond.
“Theron!”
Theron stumbled out of his
room. His knights were alert and awaiting his orders as they stood guard.
“Where’s Eldie?” he demanded.
“On his way to the dining
hall, I suppose, my lord,” one said with eyes lowered.
With a growl, Theron
stormed down the passageway with Sobriina following behind.
“We can summon him for you.
You mustn’t reopen that gash!” she cried.
Her words landed on deaf
ears as determination dulled the pain in Theron’s leg. He rushed up a flight of
stairs and through a dark room, finally bursting into an open hallway. It had
many windows and was lined with benches. People were making their way into the
dining hall.
Everyone stopped and bowed
as the prince rushed in, all conversation hushing to silence. The prince
noticed only the large man seated on a distant chair, a woman on his lap. The
man’s dark-brown hair was pulled back and tied behind his head. His firm
shoulders were hardened by war and lined with scars, and one of his two swords
was still strapped to his back. Theron rushed to the man’s side and stared down
at him.
“My lord,” Eldie said. He
tossed the woman off his lap and stood. “Something wrong?”
Theron growled under his
breath and pointed out the window. “That. There. Fire. The Hilled Country should
not be on fire. That’s Evermeet!” Eldie’s eyes widened as he saw the smoke. His
back straightened and his mouth dropped open. “And why am I to discover the dangers! Where are the lookouts on the
battlements?” Theron, face red and fists clenched, stepped toward Eldie. Pain
shot through his leg and sent him to his knees. The gathering gasped and
several came close to lend their prince a hand. “Stones on bones!” he cursed
and ignored them all.
“Here,” Sobriina said as
she stooped beside him. “Take my arm—”
“I can stand on my own!”
Theron hissed. He glanced to the smoke and swallowed hard. The distant village,
now up in flames, was made of his people. The nation he had sworn to protect!
He knew who had lit the sleepy village; he had seen their violent hand enough
times to recognize it. Wilders, Claw Kin most likely. Maybe some Cedar Folk
too.
What if Lord Demus was among them? A dark smile turned
Theron’s lips at the thought of running the Spellbinder through. Lord Demus had
taken his woman, his Olivia. That deed alone was enough to shed blood over. The
Spellbinder must be slain! Theron stumbled to his feet, teeth gritted as he
grabbed his side, wanting his sword but realizing it was not there.
“No reports have come in,” Eldie
muttered as he stared out the window.
“Where’s my armor?” Theron looked
for his armor bearer. “Boy!”
“We would’ve heard something by now—”
“Boy!” A squire rushed into the room, face reddening with
each gasp of air. “Quick! Quick! Armor and sword!”
Eldie watched as the boy raced to fulfill his master’s word.
“You’re wounded,” the large man muttered.
“You’re very observant,” Theron grumbled.
“You shouldn’t go.”
“Evermeet’s on fire—”
“The men and I can handle it.”
“There are Wilders. I hate Wilders!”
“You can fight them another day—”
Theron faced Eldie and looked him in the eye. His right-hand
man blinked and stepped back, his eyes averted.
“Assemble the men,” Theron ordered. “Tell Dar-o-gal we need
his services again.”
“That White Dwarf’s getting expensive—”
“Eldie!”
“Yes! Yes, my prince.” Eldie stepped away and bowed low. He
glanced at Sobriina, his gaze asking for help. She stared at him and said not a
word. With a growl, he turned and marched away.
Theron glanced out one of the windows and watched the columns
of smoke rise into the clear sky. A muscle in his jaw flexed. They would be too
late, and he knew it. Yet, even if he killed one Wilder, it would be worth it.
“I am accompanying you,” Sobriina
said.
“Not this time.”
“My lord—”
“Sobriina!” Theron shot her a cold look. “Not. This. Time.”
The she-elf fell silent and looked away. She did not pry
further as Theron watched the distant smoke, eyes narrowed and jaw set.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)