Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
A shriek echoes in the distance, but no one pays it any mind.
A third arrow is nocked, this one brighter, angrier.
It’s aimed at me.
We could jump into the sea, but the icy water would kill us soon enough. It feels wrong to go that way. At least we’ve stood firm until the end. We’ve tried our best to save the lives on this ship.
The arrow is released, whizzing toward me. I clutch onto the warmth of Quin’s memory, a feeling I’m supposed to bury forever. And in a way, I’m about to—
A deafening screech.
Water shoots up from the sea—not sea water, but the water of a transforming wyvern, wings spreading as it rises majestically up and—
In a fierce, blooming spray, it catches the arrow mid-flight.
The flame extinguishes into a lone, insignificant plume of smoke.
Stormblades lower their bows, stunned, nervous, reluctant to incite the wrath of the poisonous beast.
The wyvern spits the arrow into the sea, screeches again, and circles grandly overhead.
All eyes follow the sight.
My heart leaps. On the wyvern’s flank is a pale, freshly healed scar.
My knees buckle; Kjartan steadies me with a firm grip on my arm. “What—”
Quin once said wyverns, for all their fierceness, are even more fiercely loyal. Royal blood might ultimately control them, but when not under royal influence, wyverns have a choice who they protect.
This wyvern has chosen me?
“Do we shoot it down?”
I shake my head. “She’s on our side.”
Relief floods through me, and as if she senses it, the wyvern falls like water, disappearing into the sea as swiftly as she’d come.
A frightened yelp has stormblades yanking their gazes away from the wyvern.
The stormblade commander drops his bow, his hands flying to his face in horror. The men around him flush with bumps too.
Their panic is messy, palpable, fear a living shadow on their boat. I raise my arm with ‘Lindrhalda’s touch’. “I’ve been sent to make this illness disappear. Give me six hours, and I will cure you.”
Stormblades on the other boats stir uneasily. Some set down their bows, others aim with more determination at our ship, awaiting the order. A few point their flames at their neighbours.
The commanding stormblade curses, halting his men. He tells them to lower their weapons. “Six hours. We can give them six hours. If we’re not healed . . . we’ll go down alongside your ship. Fellow men,” he calls out to his soldiers, “the wait will be worth it. If there is no cure, at least flames are prettier in the dark.”
I’m the only one allowed to board their vessel. I treat them with the oil I prepared. While there, I find the dromveske pouch lying abandoned in a corner, surreptitiously toss it overboard, pull out another one—seemingly identical but filled with harmless dried flowers—and declare it will solve the problem.
Oiled and chewing on herbs, they hold me hostage, staring me down, taking turns enlightening me on exactly how I’ll die if I fail.
As their voices drone on, I glance over at Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon, who watch, along with the captain. Their sombre faces are too much. I force a reassuring smile and turn away, focusing on the ornate ship lingering nearby.
The figure on the high deck is still there, watching, unperturbed by the falling snow.
There’s something about him . . .
“What are you staring at our Prins for?” a stormblade huffs in my ear.
“Prins?”
“Prins Lief of Ragn. Second only to our king.” They all slam loyal fists over their chests.
The one Kjartan wants to gift me to if we make it through the night? “If he’s so important, why is he so close to this chaos?”
“He’s been hunting for a cure. In case it slips through our net. In case it gets to shore.”
Ah. He’s in charge of the second line of defence.
I raise a hand and wave.
He watches me for a long moment, then inclines his head.
It feels like forever before the hours pass. I’m reduced to huddling into my cloak, blowing on my hands to keep them from going numb. Blankets have been passed around the stormblades, but I’m left in what I arrived in. Luckily, their tall, larger bodies block the worst of the breeze, and the brazier radiates just enough warmth to keep me from freezing—but barely.
I almost fantasise about those dozen arrows being set alight and stationed along the side of the boat.
I shake my head, gritting my chattering teeth.
The boat rocks over gentle waves, wood creaking. One of the stormblades mutters, “Almost sundown.”
I lift my head from my cocoon. The sky is low, the fading light making the drifting snowflakes glimmer. It’s beautiful. And terrifying. Only a few minutes until darkness.
What if my oil isn’t strong enough? What if it takes longer than six hours for their symptoms to fade? What if I’ve made a mistake? What if—