Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Chaos laughs, while Quin shuts his eyes on a hard swallow, while my heart trips over itself.
Here, Chaos is baring everything. Here, Quin is quietly taking in his confession.
“Somewhere along the way I started to feel protected, and then, suddenly, I was eagerly awaiting each glorious sight of him soaring and diving towards me. I realised I never wanted him to fly away without me.”
“But the wolf . . . the only other he had in this world was that very wyvern. Before that beady-eyed wyvern had ever known me, they had shared a cave, had protected one another, had vowed to always have one another’s backs.
“To want to be with the wyvern was a betrayal. I lost the wolf’s trust and seeing his heartache crushed me. Just one thing, he begged. Don’t take my wyvern away from me.”
Quin reaches out to rest his hand atop Chaos’s head, and pulls back.
Here, Quin is drawing his line.
Chaos’s voice cracks. “So I left. Not just for the wolf’s sake but the wyvern’s. He is fiercely protective of his wolf and has loved him through the mountainous ups and downs of their lives. I shouldn’t come between them.”
I watch the end of the scene with a hard lump in my throat. Of all the rune doors, I’d stumbled into this one.
“It was right to leave,” Chaos whispers, and I nod and nod. “But.” Chaos says it.
So do I.
Quin’s voice is a soft, hesitant whisper, “But?”
“But what if the wyvern returns? What if I’m not strong enough to stay away?”
Around the runes on the walls and ceiling of the grand hall, a thousand candles flicker. Under them, the wedding guests sit at long, opulent tables laden with delicacies, or dance to the melody of bone flutes and harps. All wear finely crafted masks: golden suns, carved antlers, feathers of rare birds. It’s a colourful sight, but there’s a heaviness in the air, an unease. Their masks all say they are here, they are happy for the couple, but behind the masks they are there, outside the castle, concerned what the next days will bring.
I too crave understanding. What has been done to Harmoria? Will Florentius and Akilah be safe?
What other things is Quin here to do?
He said he’d be here—he and his brother. But where?
My gaze searches the sea of masks and swirling silks, catching clips of laughter and the clinking of goblets. And then, it snags on a flicker of light over bare skin. Bared skin at this elaborate wedding feast?
In the middle of the thrumming hall, I freeze. My stomach dives. There, on the raised podium where the king presides, flanked by eternal flame, Quin kneels—head bowed, shoulders naked, clad in traditional tribal garb. Braided leather criss-crosses his torso, showing diamonds of smooth skin. His arms are wrapped in leather with fur, from his belt hangs a dagger, and . . . resting against his chest, my flutette.
Why is he so close to the king? With so little on? Surely King Yngvarr will recognise him!
Behind his table, King Yngvarr rises. His intricate beaded mask catches the light as he pulls it away, revealing his cold, calculating face.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
And then King Yngvarr gestures.
No.
You can’t obey this command! You can’t remove your mask!
A chill steals up my spine. If the king sees him, if he recognises him, it’ll all be over. Before I can shout, the king will have his sharp blade at Quin’s throat.
Panic punches me and I shove through the guests, trying to close this giant chasm between us. My shoulders slam into a perfumed heiress and wine spills from her goblet onto my white robe.
I hear her shriek but I don’t listen. Someone yanks me into a traditional lovers’ dance, but I yank free, burning to shout. Don’t. Get away, now. He almost killed you once, he won’t hesitate again.
On the podium, Quin reaches a hand to his mask.
My heart stutters, pounding so hard I can’t hear the flute or the harp.
Don’t do it. Quin, please. Don’t.
His fingers brush the edge of the leather at his face. I cry but my voice is stuck.
And then—
The mask slips off.
The hall tilts into a mass of swirling colour as I retch, waiting for the king’s expression to shift, waiting for his blade to scream out of its sheath, waiting for . . .
It doesn’t happen.
King Yngvarr’s expression doesn’t alter. He steps forward and gestures Quin to his feet.
I buckle as the king points to a seat at the lower end of the table and catch myself on a nearby guest.
Before Quin seats himself, he turns to a burly leather-clad man waiting behind him and nods; the burly man pivots and ploughs into the crowd.
I overhear a lady nearby exclaiming with a shudder, “Who is that with the king?”
Another answers, “I heard the jarls are offering their assistance against the Wyrds.”