“Why did a raven have your necklace?” Cyran asks, confused.
“I threw it,” I answer and the confused crease between his brows deepens. “In a fit of rage before the eclipse. Launched it from my balcony hoping it would land in the river.”
Cyran remains silent.
But the question of whyremains etched in his features.
Rather than answer, I swing my arm out over the water, ready to give it the burial I thought I’d given it months ago. I’ve no need for it.
Yet I pause.
Staring at the swinging chain, I sigh.
Without the damned thing, I wouldn’t have been able to escape the hells. I wouldn’t have emerged in the safety of the Moon Temple.
An idea strikes hot, and itfeelsright.
Drawing back my arm, I swing my legs over the parapet and leap down.
“Cyran.” I tuck the necklace into my cloak pocket. “Know any silversmiths capable of working with spelled silver?”
“There’s at least one in Ollora, but I believe he stopped forging earlier this year,” Cyran replies.
“Any chance he would be willing to take on one more commission?”
Cyran purses his lips. “For the future Sovereign Queen of Erus?” he asks, falling into step beside me.
Besideme and not behind me.
Yes, I very much like this version of Cyran.
“He may consider it,” he says.
A smile curls my lips. “Tomorrow then,” I say, glancing up at him. “Once Ryc has shut himself in his office, I’d like to visit this silversmith.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’ve no oneto blame but myself.
As a demon, I should have known to beexplicitin my request.
Especially when dealing with Cyran’s literal nature.
My request to visit the silversmith did not meanthe momentRyc began his work for the day.
Lesson learned.
Bleary and barely awake, I shield my eyes against the bright, early morning sun as I walk. Two days in a row I’ve been dragged from my bed sooner than I should have been.
The worst part—I can’t be mad at Cyran.
He’s doing as asked.
He walks a few paces ahead, leading the winding way through the Twilight Mire. This, along with the Brightmoss district, has become one of my favorite districts in the city. Here the shops are filled with crystals, herbs, texts, and scrolls—things dedicated to the study of old magic or innate use.
Oddities and potions, plants and stained glass windows—the Twilight Mire speaks to me on a level I cannot adequately explain. Quieter than the South Ward, or even the North Docks, though not as reserved as the Wells.
As we walk, we pass a few merchants working to set up their stalls with their wares for the day.
