Book 2

Alkara jerks awake, heart pounding. Urdima’s mercy shines on her as the memory of what she was dreaming fades into nothingness. A haze sits in her mind and her muscles groan at being disturbed. She looks through the dim of the home to Chiron’s occupied cot. A surge of warmth flutters through her chest. The […]

Sore muscles can’t disrupt the satisfaction Alkara feels after clearing out another infestation of longclaws. She lay on her cot, nestled in with Guen and staring at the ceiling. The panther preens herself. Even those small jostling movements do nothing to disturb Alkara. Uncle Iro had found the teleportation circle destroyed, but that did not

Alkara had visited taverns, public houses, inns. These all fit neatly within what Tharan had described. So of course she was prepared for the dining “establishment.” But the Banquet House defied those expectations. It flirted with something between dining and a perpetual party. Colored glass and delightful lanterns confront any visitors. Once they’ve contended with

A mischievous twinkle shines in Alkara’s eye, “Do you think they could handle the news that their Bell Keeper made a weapon after all these years?” Tharan smirks as a kind of riposte. He could soak in her expressions for many chimes. Still, the interplay between them only stalls the answer in his mind. Eventually

“Chiron had to carry me back!” Alkara, standing behind the parlor sofa, drapes herself across the back of it. “Carrying me in a sling! Like a kid.” She shakes her head while picking herself up from the awkward position. Alkara subsides into a calmer storm, one on the verge of breaking. “Dre had to cobble

Reverie broken, Alkara strains to see the entrance. The edges of her cell block the view of the man’s face. But the voice and posture could only be one person. “Dorië!” Relief cascades through her even as fear hems in from the sides. Dorië had come… but not Tharan. And Dorië had never liked Alkara.

Afanen’s entry line stretches past Alkara’s much shorter one back through the silent sentries of the forest. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other. Her rib reminds her of the now passing annoyance of its healing. Three weeks of waiting had pestered Alkara into speeding up the process. Uncle Iro may disapprove,

The chill outside licks at Alkara’s skin. She kneels to meditate. A shiver crawls across her flesh. What if she can’t hear Urdima? When she really needs to? She bites her lip and tries to push the thought away. Urdan life and features surround her. Alkara pushes her hands through the dirt. Rough scents, disturbed

Warehouse after warehouse of daubed mud occupy most of Alkara’s day. The inhabitants dead, Alkara and the Waste Walkers ripped through the former nests to ensure any eggs were properly destroyed. Squalor, chewed bone, and Nolcerock young met them in those disordered nests. Mottled grey grew rougher on their backs, where the leathery hide turned

“She loves you.” Tharan says after a few moments’ contemplation. They’d finished dinner, and were now lounging in the parlor. Alkara had just finished telling him about the Ironshod incident. She blanches at his assertion, but Tharan continues before she can reply. “It is the only explanation.” Alkara snorts, “She has a funny way of