Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Arcane Sovereign,” I whimper. “I’m going to be disembowelled.”
My aunt tsks. Then looks over at Prins Lief. “Your highness—”
He looks sharply at her.
My aunt presses her lips together and when she speaks again, it’s a murmur, “Lief. How much time can you buy?”
Prins Lief briefly shuts his eyes and pivots to me. “Father spends part of spring in Ragn. He’ll arrive in less than three weeks.”
A commotion behind me has me glancing over my shoulder. Stormblades swivel at the door and one announces the arrival of Captain Kjartan.
Prins Lief waves his hand to allow him in and the captain marches up to the fire pit, glancing over my veiled face. He takes the prince aside; they speak in low voices, nothing I can discern over the crackle of fire, until Prins Lief raises his voice and urgently dismisses us.
The storyteller’s voice greets me before the scent of grilled fish does, and I sink into my seat with little grace. My head feels heavier than my bag of remedies.
“I’d rather a thousand lines by candlelight. And ghosts,” I say, frowning.
We’re in a private dining room, the balcony overlooking the main parade that winds from the wharfs to the castle. The storyteller’s recounting—of two men who, having inexplicably fallen asleep mid-fight, wake up laughing and leave arm in arm—drifts through the open doors.
At least one thing has gone right tonight.
My aunt raises a brow, watching me with an expression that straddles indulgence and curiosity. Our curacowls rest on the bench beside her, forgotten for the moment.
“This ‘touch’,” I say, raising my glass of wine, “might be the worst act I’ve pulled yet. And I’ve done a few.”
The thought brings an ache. It felt different when Quin was with me—his smirk, his encouragement. Really, it’s his fault for inspiring this in the first place. If he were here . . . If he were truly here, I’d . . .
I’d have to ignore him.
I shut my eyes briefly and rip into my skewered fish.
My aunt, so like my mother in looks and so unlike her in temperament, chuckles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to my sister’s boy.” She points her fork at me. “Tell me, what concoctions did you bring today?”
I push the fish aside and pull my bag onto the table. “As you suggested, I’ve started transposing vitalian spells into their . . . alchemic counterparts.”
She gives me a pointed look, and I correct myself with a sheepish grin before pulling out small bottles. “This one manipulates vocal cords—changes your voice. This one changes it back. This one’s for rapid hair growth, and I have to say, I’m proud of it. I struggled with hair-growth spells, but alchemy unlocked something. One pill, one inch. No more than two a day, though, or the liver suffers.”
She takes the hair-growth bottle, her lips curving as she examines it. “I was right. Will you try others?”
“Some are too complex to begin with safely. I need to get these right first.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I have to be precise or risk harming my patients.”
She studies me, then tosses something across the table—a small runestone.
I catch it, frowning. “What’s this?”
She shrugs, still admiring the bottle. “Another reason I’m confident you won’t be disembowelled anytime soon.”
“Very reassuring.”
I turn the runestone over, its carved lines catching the light. “Good luck?”
She shakes her head.
“Success in my career?”
“Better,” she teases, taking another bite of fish. “You’re fated to meet your other half.”
I immediately toss the stone over the balcony, glaring at her.
“I’ve never known anyone to catch one of these and not meet their soulmate.”
I shake my head. “Pass the potatoes.”
I’m halfway through my plate when a name freezes me. Below, the storyteller introduces himself.
My stomach churns. Rurik.
I grab my curacowl and shove it over my head, slinging my bag across my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” my aunt asks.
“Precaution,” I mutter, heart pounding. Would others from the ship be here? Anyone who might recognise me as the one with Lindrhalda’s touch?
Rurik’s voice grows louder as he begins his tale. “A month ago, our Prins received a mysterious letter about a peacemaking gift. All we had to do was bring a squadron of stormblades dressed in Lumin cloth to the base of Mount Lysippos.”
Mount Lysippos.
My head swims.
“We arrived cautiously, expecting a trap. And it was” —the audience gasps— “but not for us.”
Quin. Nicostratus.
Blood rushes to my head, ears ringing as I stumble toward the door, pressing myself against the frame.
“Their magic lit up the skies, shook the earth, and summoned a storm of lightning.”
Rurik’s words pound in my chest as he reenacts the scene for his audience. I can see it—their backs pressed together, fighting for survival, for freedom.
“They might’ve won, too, if not for betrayal. A man they fought to protect stabbed them in the back, their meridians blocked, and an abyss opened beneath them. The prince fell unconscious into it—”