Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Quin keeps his gaze evenly on Bastion, lets him continue, “You see this sword as a threat. I see it as our fight for salvation.”
“What will killing him help?” I cry.
Bastion laughs tightly. “The bounty for handing him over will keep the entire town afloat for at least a year.”
“Money? Money’s all you want?” I release him and step back. “If you get the same amount, will you let him go?”
Bastion lowers his sword, looking at me.
“I can give you that money.”
He prowls closer, the tip of his sword dragging along the floor.
My stomach knots, but I force a calm smile. “Enough to make sure you won’t need to touch him.”
His fingers lift my chin, and my pulse races with a mix of fury and unease. “You’re a pretty face. I’ll have more fun taking it from you.”
I grab his wrist, my grip firm despite my shaking fingers. “You won’t. Not because I’m pretty, or a healer, but because you’re better than this.”
For a moment, his grin falters, something genuine flickering in his eyes. He steps back with a bark of laughter, and I exhale sharply, my shoulders dropping. Quin’s gaze lingers on me, unreadable, but my chest tightens under its weight.
“When I give you the bounty money, you will let him go.”
Quin quietly observes this scene, his gaze shifting from me to Bastion, awaiting his response.
Bastion huffs out a laugh. “You really are his man. Fine. I agree. Give me the money, and I won’t waste any more time with him.”
From my cloak, I pull out the purse Megaera returned to me.
Quin leans forward to take it, his gaze pinning Bastion in place. “You raised a sword against me, and I let you. Because I know the weight you carry for your people.”
Bastion opens his mouth, but Quin cuts him off. “Don’t mistake my leniency for weakness. I could leave this town tomorrow, but I choose to stay because I understand the people here need support. Accept my offer, and ensure your people are cared for.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and charged, before Bastion sheathes his sword. “What offer?”
Quin picks up a few sheets of paper from his desk. Magic leaks from his hand, pulling blood from his finger and staining it into a pattern at the bottom of each sheet. When he’s done, he hands them over.
Bastion reads the first sheet, his brow furrowing. As he flips to the next, his movements slow, his expression shifting from suspicion to disbelief.
“Do you mean it?” he asks, voice rough.
Quin’s tone is steady. “I certainly won’t allow the previous magistrates to return to their posts. You’ve proven your sincerity.”
Bastion clutches the papers like they’re a lifeline, his eyes darting between Quin and me. “You’re either a fool or braver than I thought.”
Quin inclines his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“This document is enough?”
“It has the royal seal. Anyone looking upon it will know its validity. Those magistrates are as good as exiled from this town, and you and your men are rightfully instated as the governing members.”
“We have authority?”
“And a quarterly budget to manage. Alongside fair wages.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll defy you?”
“If I ever fail my people, I expect you to defy me.”
Bastion rocks back. He gestures and his men roll their whips to their belts. Then he rests a foot on the upturned stool and leans forward against his knee. To the king, he says, “After all the meritorious deeds I do for you, you’ll want to reward me.” He glances pointedly at me and bestows a wolfish grin upon Quin. “I’ll ask for him.”
On the evening of the ninth day of isolation, thirteen days from the sealing of the gates, the townspeople gather in anticipation of freedom. Bastion and his men are in the midst of it all, and Quin . . . I don’t see him. Haven’t seen him all evening. I hover at the edges, watching people raise their lanterns and dance. Listening to their songs, that carry for miles on the wind.
I return to the magistrate’s office and retreat to a rickety table in the courtyard. I bring out my grandfather’s books, some ink, and with the light from my lantern, write my notes on spare pages.
I startle at the call of my name and spy Olyn—wearing skirts, hair plaited over one shoulder in the fashion of unmarried females. She sets her pretty lantern on the table and falls onto the bench next to me, peering at my scrawls. “The whole town is celebrating, and you’re still at work?”
“It suddenly occurred to me, while standing amongst their songs.”
She looks at me.
“Songs carry messages, warnings,” I continue, tapping the paper with the feathered end of my quill. “They carry lessons from the past.”
She reads the ink I’ve spindled and laughs. “This the start of a song?”
“I’ll leave that to more talented people. It’s an evaluation of what happened here, what we would’ve done differently, how we can do better next time. It’ll also be a thought experiment, on what could have gone wrong.”