Adara brought her hand to her forehead, saluting the captain before letting her arm drop back down as she muttered, “Nin mon lat amor onn alt itryla.”
The ancient warriors of Blemythia were never keen on saying goodbye. Instead, they said, “We shall meet again in another life.”
Of course, Damon was too far away to hear, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand the obsolete language she spoke. It was a complex, archaic tongue that only the royalty of Blemythia tried to comprehend. Most Blemythians spoke Malrynese now, but the royals would not let their ancient past be forgotten.
Pushing aside the thought of home, Adara pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, casting shadows across her face. Remembering what Damon said about Nite sensing her on the island, she ran into the jungle, hurrying toward the mountain where Andreilia’s enchanted water—and eternal youth—awaited.
Chapter 2
Whispersechoedthroughthedark, cobbled streets of Lykrios. Though half the rumors weren’t true, Dominic Nite was content to let them believe whatever horrors they’d heard of him.
Only his name had been spread like wildfire all over the world, rather than his face, or else Dominic would have wanted posters plastered across the cities alongside the demand for allPherrato be hunted and turned into the queen. Gifted or cursed by the gods—whatever one wished to believe—Pherrawere either worshipped or outlawed for their magic. The rulers of Lykrioshad always been intent on killing every last one of them. Cowards who feared someone else would rise to defy them. The queen was now especially ruthless toward his kind. She was more focused on keeping the throne than keeping her kingdom from its impoverished demise.
As he walked through the dank alleys, Dominic habitually twirled a dagger between his nimble fingers. Beggars draped in tattered scraps of clothing huddled in corners throughout the alley, desperate for anyone to offer them a morsel. Their scraggly hands trembled as they reached out to others, pleas desperate on their lips. Dominic kept his eyes forward.
An old man stretched out a hand to him, wrinkled fingers grasping at his hazel trousers to get his attention. Before the man could utter a word, Dominic flicked his hand, promptly slicing off three grimy fingers, and deftly moved away before any blood could spatter on his clothing.
The man screamed, jerking his hand away. Dominic was already halfway down the alley when eyes turned toward the old bloke sobbing over the bloody stumps cradled in his good hand. Dominic purposely bumped into a stranger passing by, wiped the bloodied dagger on the person’s coat, and continued to twirl the clean knife between his fingers as he walked.
Eyes snagged on him, carefully watching the cloaked demon that strode among the living. If only they knew the King of Keys was in their presence, they’d turn tail screaming. Beneath the shadows of his hood, he smiled at the thought.
But stealing keys was not what he came to do today. Dominic was here to find something that had managed to evade everyone for centuries. An elusive prize that no one had ever come to use. He was determined to be the first . . . and only, for that matter.
He needed to find the man who knew the whereabouts of the Whisperer, its eye being the first relic he set his sights on finding to forge the Realm Fracturer.
Dominic scanned the streets for the pawnshop of ancient artifacts sold to desperate souls searching for magical items that could change their fate in this dull, broken kingdom. Catching sight of the battered shop, he took a sharp left down another alley, poorly lit by an oil lamp, its flame flickering as it swayed in the wind. The lettering on the shop’s sign—hanging crookedly on broken hooks—had long since faded, leaving the words incomprehensible. The door let out a low creak as Dominic entered. A bell jingled softly above him.
He blinked, trying to adjust to the faint lighting as he gazed around the shop. One wall had an assortment of weapons hung or propped against the wood. Dominic cringed at the rusted, dull blades. Hanging beside the weapons was an old shield, dented and scratched from battle.Shield from the Wasted War,a small tag read along with a price far too cheap for a war relic, its price clearly lowered in hopes that someone would purchase it.
Despite himself, he read over the tag again.The Wasted War.It scratched at his brain, attempting to take him back to a worse time. He could almost smell the bloodshed. Unable to stand it, he turned his attention elsewhere.
A shelf to his right held a variety of books, languages that had been long forgotten inscribed down the spines like archaic tattoos. Curious, he picked one up, recognizing the wordPherrascrawled on the spine. Dust coated his fingers as he flipped through the weathered pages, rustily deciphering a few sentences about how his kind came to be.Born ordinary . . . tragic life event . . . unnatural abilities . . . manipulate surroundings.His brows furrowed at that last part, still unsure why he was one of the rare anomalies ofPherrawho could summon from nothing.
Bored, he flipped the book shut. A cloud of dust swirled in the air, eliciting a few ragged coughs from Dominic. He replaced the book on its shelf.
Other random trinkets lined the shelves and tables, marked with unreasonably high prices for items of little value. Dominic rolled his eyes at the pathetic excuse of a dragon scale. It was preposterous that the merchant had actually duped people into thinking it was authentic. Clearly, it was a scale of some other creature, altered enough to look like a dragon’s—perhaps a sand serpent from the Ruins. Although he needed a dragon’s scale, Dominic was still skeptical about whether the beasts were even real. There were legends written in old story books, but he couldn’t remember a time when someone hadactuallyseen one—and he had lived quite a few lifetimes.
Turning to face another table, he flipped open the lid of a small wooden chest. Gold keys glinted in the sliver of sunlight that shone through the dusty window. Something inside urged him to reach out, to run his fingers over the metal. He retracted his hand, disappointed at the dull, empty feeling. They were either regular keys to homes or chests, or the hearts they were connected to were long dead. “Who would buy these useless things?” he muttered, flicking the lid shut with a snap.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” a voice called.
Dominic’s head whipped toward the merchant standing in front of a desk, forearms braced on the wooden countertop, with a pleasant smile.
Dominic turned, prowling toward the counter. “Unfortunately for you, there is,” he drawled, voice like a whetting stone running along a knife—sharpened, poised to strike.
The man’s bushy gray brows furrowed in confusion, and the corners of his lips turned down. Dominic tilted his head, scrutinizing the merchant with a fiendish smirk.
“I—I’m sorry, I don’t quite under—”
His stuttered words were cut off as Dominic’s hand shot out, slamming the merchant’s head against the edge of the counter. A thick stream of blood ran down his temple. He tried topry himself from Dominic’s hold, but Dominic’s fingers already made their way around his throat. He squeezed harder, making sure the only sound the merchant could make was a choked sob. Tears pooled in the man’s wide, fearful brown eyes.
“You have valuable information I need,” Dominic said indifferently.
The man tried to shake his head beneath Dominic’s grasp. His mouth opened and closed in an attempt to respond.
“Don’t panic,” Dominic said. “Just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll let you live. Understand?”
The man nodded his head vigorously, hands clawing at Dominic’s.
