Total pages in book: 219
Estimated words: 210867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 703(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 703(@300wpm)
Lashes fluttered and then lifted. His irises were blue. No hint of red appearing in them. Yet. He started to lower his lids again.
“Look at me, Jole,” I whispered, my voice dropping even lower as the elemental power of my ancestors—the gods themselves—spread through me, filling my veins, washing over the room and Jole. “Don’t close your eyes. Keep looking at me and just breathe.”
Jole’s gaze met mine.
“Be calm.” I held his stare. “Just keep breathing. Focus only on that. Inhale. Exhale.”
A long, steady breath left him. Tension eased from his rigid body. He relaxed. He inhaled.
“Tell me, Jole, what is your favorite place?”
“My dreams,” he mumbled.
His dreams were his favorite place? Fucking gods, what kind of life was that? A ball of anger lodged in my chest, but I didn’t let it grow. “What is your favorite dream?”
There was no hesitation. “Riding on horseback, going so fast it feels like I have wings. That I can take to the air.”
“Close your eyes and go there. Go to your favorite dream, where you are on horseback.”
He obeyed without hesitation. His jaw slackened beneath my hands. The rapid flickering behind his closed lids stilled. His breaths evened out more, becoming deeper.
“You’re riding so fast you have wings. You’re in the air.”
Jole Crain smiled.
I gave his head a sharp twist. Bone cracked, severing the brain stem. He died in an instant, as himself and with his dreams instead of screams.
AN OMEN
Wind swept through the field, gusting against the walls of Castle Teerman and through the many alcoves and balconies overlooking the training yard. Crisp white rippled from within the darkness of one of those recesses like the specters rumored to haunt Wisher’s Grove, but what had caught my attention this morning was no spirit haunting the castle.
It was her, like clockwork.
The Chosen.
The Maiden.
She appeared in the various shadowy alcoves, usually two hours past dawn. Since I was a betting man, I was willing to wager she thought no one saw her.
But I always did.
Other than the times I managed to follow her from the inner wall surrounding the castle while she walked in the garden, this was as close as I got to her.
That, however, would change.
One side of my mouth curled as air stirred to my right. I brought the broadsword up, blocking the blow. Dipping under the next attack, my gaze flicked back to the recess. What sunlight managed to penetrate the alcove glinted off the golden chains securing the Maiden’s veil.
My partner’s footsteps gave away his movements before he struck. Pivoting, I cut his sword down, nearly knocking it from his grasp even though I checked my strength. I glanced at the second floor as I leaned back, dodging the swipe of a thick blade.
Another row of golden chains glinted from the shadows. She must’ve turned her head. For what? Who knew? She was alone. Well, relatively speaking. No one was right beside her, but Rylan Keal, one of the two Royal Guards who served as her personal guardians, stood farther back in the alcove. She was never truly alone. When she was with the Lady in Wait that I usually saw her with, a guard followed. When she was in her chambers, her doors were manned.
I couldn’t understand how she dealt with that—how anyone could. Being constantly surrounded as she was would drive me mad.
Then again, the quiet wasn’t all that favorable either, now was it? Not when too much silence made me think of damp, cold stone, and pain. Made me think of my brother. So, I guessed I was sort of fucked—
“Hawke,” the man snapped as I stopped his blade with mine when it was about an inch from my throat.
Slowly, I turned my head toward my sparring partner, giving him what he apparently desired: my full attention.
Unease flashed in the sea-blue eyes of the seasoned Royal Guard who’d likely seen some shit in his time. He took a slight step back, an instinctive reaction he couldn’t help nor even begin to understand. That gut instinct usually sent most mortals scurrying off before they could question the cause, but not him. He caught himself before he conceded further, the skin at the corners of his eyes pulling taut. Irritation quickly settled in the weathered face of the Maiden’s other personal guard.
“You should be paying attention,” Vikter Wardwell bit out, knocking back a strand of blond hair that had blown across his face. “Unless you’re in the mood to lose a limb or your head.”
Dust from the packed dirt whipped around us as another gust of wind funneled through the yard. “I’m paying attention.” I paused, glancing down to where our swords remained locked. I then gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Obviously.”
Tension bracketed his mouth. “Let me rephrase. You should be paying more attention to the field.”
“Versus what?”