“No need to worry. I was the one who helped you undress,” Seniia says, doing her best to conceal her amusement. She fails spectacularly. “I gave her moonroot powder,” she says, shifting her focus to Vilder. “If you need it, I can prepare some for you as well.”
He gives her a look as if she just offered him poison. “I’ll be fine,” he says in a clipped voice. “Barely any better than that brace,” he adds under his breath.
“Most Reans don’t like to take moonroot,” Seniia clarifies. “It disconnects us from elen, cuts off our magic.”
I shoot her a sidewaysglance. “I thought it was only the C’elen who could use magic?”
“Oh, no. Most Reans sense the elen,” she says. “But how much elen you can draw, meaning how much magic you have, depends on when and where you’re born.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s almost always a lesser moon that’s full when someone is born, so most Reans get some elemental power.” She pauses to wave at a passing vendor. “Unless you’re born during the dark face of the moons.”
“What makes a C’elen different?”
“Niia. She points to the sky. “To become a C’elen, you need to be born under the full Celestial Moon.”
I nod slowly, processing. “So, the moonborn the minister hunts...”
“Exactly.” Her expression darkens. “See the lady over there?” She points to the flower vendor,a Rean female with tawny skin and a white topknot that reveals her delicately pointed ears. She’s standing behind a flower stall, and as she moves from pot to pot, her touch magically brings forth a variety of colorful flowers and herbs. “Earth moon.”
I study the Rean lady in fascination. “And if you’re born during the dark moons?”
“Then you are shadowborn. A Rean without connection to source,” she says with a grimace.
To my surpise, I shudder. The shadowborn being similar to humans should feel familiar, safe even. Instead, the thought unsettles me in a way I can't explain.
I dig out my coin purse after spotting the tall Rean boatman, who’s selling tickets to board the ship while making his way toward us. He’s an explosion of color. His wide vibrant blue pants are tucked into high boots stopping right below the knee. His shirt, a contrasting cherry red with gold hems and wide sleeves, is cinched at the forearms by broad,worn leather braces. A cropped leather vest rests atop the shirt, which gapes open to reveal a toned chest, nearly to his navel.
Not wanting to get caught staring, I pull my gaze away, noticing the glint of a short curled sword at his hip as I do so.
I glance back at Seniia and Vilder. “What’s the price for a ticket?”
“Three pieces,” Vilder says.
I take three iron pennies from my purse, pushing aside the prickly sensation they give me, as the boatman approaches, his long sea-green curls tumbling around a face as dark as the night sky.“One ticket for Caelen.”
He passes me the ticket with a grunt, piercing yellow eyes narrowing as he takes in my human features.
Taking the ticket with one hand, I offer him my iron pennies with the other. A look of confusion washes over his face before he abruptly jumps back, tossing the pennies away as if they were scorching hot.
In the blink of an eye, chaos ensues.
A sudden force lifts me off the ground, and I’m instantly suspended, dangling an inch above the rough-hewn wooden planks. Invisible threads of air wrap around my upper body, pinning my arms to my sides.
With a snarl that reveals his vicious fangs, the boatman stalks toward me, hurling a barrage of expletives that introduce an entire array of colorful new words into my repertoire.
I open my mouth to scream but only manage a whimper before my mouth is similarly gagged. I yank at my arms, but the threads, whatever they’re made of, are impossibly strong, and a cold dread washes over me as I realize my terrifying and complete lack of control.
Trapped. Voiceless. Powerless.
Pictures of Bronich flash through my mind in vivid imagery. My chest tightens. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. The edges of my vision blur, my lungs refuse to expand properly. The air won't come.
Can’t breathe.
Cold sweat breaks across my skin, as I yank against the invisible bonds over and over.
Calm down, Laïna. Calm. Down.
