She got as close as she dared to the bounty hunter’s face as she spoke through gritted teeth, “You may hold my body captive, bounty hunter, but you do not decide who I speak to.”
His amber eyes found hers, and her breath caught. The room around them blurred, sounds hushed, as suddenly she was bathing in the pools of molten light.
Why does this man make me react this way?
He was infuriating and pretentious and moody—yet she could not decide if she wanted to stab him or just melt into his stare. Stabbing him would be much more useful.
“Maybe not, but you don’t have the best history with judgment of character,” he replied, his face mere inches from hers, that irritating smirk forming on his lips.
“I have excellent judgment of character. I knew you were going to be a thorn in my side from the first moment you tried to capture me in the alleyway in Tenebris, and you have only continued to solidify my verdict.” Her voice was on edge as she fought to control her urge to cut out his tongue.
“At least my intentions are plain. I cannot say the same for others’. Besides”—his voice lowered to a deep whisper—“a threat to you is a threat to me.”
“Right, because I’m an asset.”
“Because you’remine,” he breathed.
She stopped breathing. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She opened her mouth, then closed it. No clever retort, no venomous quip came to her tongue.
“Stars,” she muttered, tearing her eyes away. “You’re insufferable.”
Draven pulled away from her, nonchalantly drinking his tea.
Astraia sat stunned but refused to acknowledge his declaration.
What is he playing at?
Chapter 11
In the tenth year of the reign of King Illias, Ruler of the Celestial Court, King of Astradeon, the Celestial Wars began. First, in the heavens, as Dominion sparred with his enemies, bringing them low with trickery and deception. Then, in the realm, by the hands of his stewards, spreading shadow and unholy fire across Luxterra.
Broken: The Celestial War
“SO WHAT NOW, BOUNTY HUNTER?” Astraia all but shouted as they wove through the crowded streets. “If you think I’m going to readily let you parade me to the Celestial Court to meet my death, you clearly have not been paying attention to who I am and what I’m willing to do for my freedom.”
Merchants were hurriedly opening their shops, while boats moored on the banks, coming and going as bees to a hive.
After breakfast, Draven had been unbearably quiet as he gripped her arm and all but dragged her outside. Now, she had the mind to stab him in the back. Another curiosity she could not shake was the fact that he left her armed. He never once tried to make her relinquish her dagger or bow. As though he did not deem her a threat. Eyeing him now, exposing his back to her as he wove between townspeople, only solidified this theory.
Draven finally turned off the main street and approached a courier emporium. The outside of the shop had a glass window with gold etching that read,Falconry Correspondence—officially sanctioned by the Celestial Court. Draven did not pause at the window, pulling open the door and shoving Astraia through the threshold.
The shop was musty; the smell of saltwater and the clear odor of bird droppings made Astraia’s toes curl. A young woman stood in front of the teller’s counter, holding out a small box wrapped in cloth and tied with string.
The teller smiled as he spoke. “Of course, we can deliver this to Tenebris by nightfall. Our falcons are the best in Astradeon.”
He was an elderly man with white, disheveled hair that almost mimicked a bird’s nest. Gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on the end of his long nose, giving him the appearance of a wise owl. Even his brown vest and white long-sleeved tunic were covered in brown and white feathers. Astraia wondered if he merely worked here or if he actually slept with the falcons.
The Astradeon falconry correspondence system had been established long before Astraia was born. The falcons were born in the wilds of the Skyforge Peaks, high enough that only the native folk could traverse the terrain to find them. The falcons were trained by elite falconry masters, but the real magic was the ability of the falcons to understand where they were meant to travel and how to return to their original staring point.
As a little girl, her father owned his own falcon for private correspondence. The bird had been mostly brown with some white feathers atop his head, giving him the appearance of wearing a crown. Astraia had given him the name Prince Aquilias after the constellation, petting him frequently and slipping him biscuits. Her father scolded her for treating the falcon as a pet, saying she would grow too attached and when the falcon did not return one day, she would cry.
Her father had been right.
The young woman paid the teller and turned to leave. Her eyes locked onto Draven, pink flushing to her cheeks as she passed him.
Astraia's eyes rolled. “No wonder the size of your ego could match a Drakari,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear her.
“You would be surprised,” he quipped.
