Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
I want to ask more, but there’s something about his focus that makes me want to retreat two paces. Instead, I nod, set the bracelet back on the velvet, and try to invent a reason to move on. He senses it immediately.
“If you prefer the glasswork, we have a master of that three stalls down.” He leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping. “But it’s mass-produced, not worth your coin.”
I laugh, more out of nerves than humor. “I don’t actually have much coin.”
He cocks his head. “Then what brings you here, Miss Blume?”
The question lands hard. I could lie and say curiosity, or “research for my employer,” or even “just killing time.” Instead, I go with the truth. “I wanted to see what normal looked like, on this side of the wall.”
He lets the silence hang, examining me as though the answer itself is a riddle. “And?” he finally asks.
“It’s not as different as I expected,” I admit. “Except for the knives. And the jewelry. And the moss everywhere.” I gesture up at the lanterns, casting their green light across the crowd.
He follows my gaze. “The moss is from the deep caves. Very old. It reminds us that, even in darkness, there is beauty.” It’s almost poetic, and I sense it’s rehearsed.
“I like it,” I say, taking a step back from him. “The moss.”
He steps closer and gestures, palm up. “Allow me to show you the best vantage. If you’re not in a hurry.”
I hesitate, but he’s already moving toward the central fountain, a spiral of basalt and bioluminescent rock that rises in three tiers. I catch up, partly because I’m curious, partly because the crowd is thick, and he clears a path just by existing. He guides me to the fountain’s edge, and suddenly the whole market comes into view. I stare down at the concentric circles of stalls, the ever-moving tide of buyers and sellers, the way the moss light picks out the seams in the ancient stones. It’s… spectacular. Inhuman, but spectacular.
“Do you miss your human city?” he asks, quietly.
I flinch. The answer is complicated, so I just say, “Sometimes. But it never felt like home.”
He nods as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “You’re braver than most. Aric chose well.”
The compliment is strange, and I sense I’m doing something wrong, but I have no idea what. “Thank you,” I mutter.
Kael leans in, his voice smooth and creepy at the same time. “If you ever need guidance on our customs, you have but to ask. Integration is difficult, especially for someone so… visible.”
I bristle but try to keep it light. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Not happening. Something about this Orc makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Suddenly, there’s a hardness behind his words. “You’re a challenge. Some admire this.” His eyes flick over me. “Some do not.”
He is so close that I can see the fine, silver lines of scar tissue crisscrossing his knuckles, the way his eyes flick from my face to my hands and back, always searching. My internal radar pings out a warning, and I’m searching for an escape route when he straightens and steps back, formal again. “Thank you for entertaining an old Orc’s rambling. I must return to Council business. Please, enjoy your market day, Miss Blume.”
He leaves me with a tiny nod and blends into the crowd with predatory smoothness. The moment he’s gone, I feel my lungs expand for the first time in five minutes. I rub at the back of my neck like I can erase the weird energy Kael left behind. Time to bail.
I cut through the far side of the square, bag thumping against my thigh, tunnel-visioned on the shortcut to Aric’s place. The residential arches stretch ahead, all glowing moss and echoing footsteps. I keep my head down and power-walk, not stopping for the next round of vendors.
The shortcut runs behind the training courtyard, and the second I step into its shadow, I feel the market’s noise vanish. It’s just stone, sunlight, and the faint chemical tang of metal polish.
I take the stairs two at a time and don’t slow down until I see Aric’s home up ahead. I exhale, adjust my shirt, and nearly trip over Oren Arch.
He’s pacing the front porch, back and forth, boots grinding stone like he’s trying to wear a trench into the world. His arms are folded, chest heaving with breaths I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want anyone to notice. When he sees me, he stops suddenly and stares at me.
He’s holding flowers. The bouquet is a gorgeous explosion of color that should look ridiculous in Oren’s mitt, except it doesn't. Wildflowers tangle with lush red and pink roses, the stems carefully arranged in a green crystal vase that shimmers in the porch light. It’s not delicate, it’s powerful. Like Oren himself.