But I can’t stop there, so I press further. “One more thing,” I say, and I wait for him to give me his full attention.
“Spit it out,” he snaps.
Then, I flash him the inverted triangle symbol.
“Put your Starsdamned hands down, girl,” he bites, looking around to see if anyone noticed. He puts his head down, increasing his pace as he pushes through customers who are high as the Stars themselves. But I don’t judge them. Instead, I wonder what they’re escaping.
“Can you take us to them or not?” I bite.
He grunts, but swivels his head in my direction. “What business do you have with The Shield?” he asks skeptically.
And I know I’ve found my mark.
“He has business withme,” I say, my voice cold as steel.
He scoffs a disbelieving laugh. “Apart from being a mouthy street thief who cuts deals with shady merchants, who the fuck areyou?”
An arrogant smirk lifts the corner of my mouth. “I’m Elyssara the fucking Lightborne, and this is King Kael Thorne of Zerynthia. Who the fuck areyou?”
I feel Kael’s amusement trickle down the tether.
Harsh Face stills, his back stiffening in realization. He spins around, blood draining from his face. “Princess,” he breathes, darting his eyes around to check if we’ve been noticed.
He remembers.
Then, he looks past Kael, Therion and Ronyn to the rest of the group, inspecting us more closely. “Correk?” he asks, stunned.
“Jarin,” Correk returns easily, a sly smile crossing his face.
Jarin? They know each other?
I shove down the confusion, needing to keep my confident mask in place.
Jarin drops his voice low. “I can’t bow, Princess. Not here. Hurry,” he spins, increasing his pace, taking us through labyrinths I’ve never seen in all my trips to The Underbelly. “I’ll take you to The Shield and bring the Shards to you. It’s too dangerous to linger,” he explains, voice clipped.
The tunnels we walk have thinned to empty. Too far from the merchants to be lined with customers, and the air too dense to be comfortable for anyone.
But we keep walking.
And walking.
And walking.
A thick, steel door, vaulted closed, save for a small opening, appears before us.
“Welcome to The Bowels,” Jarin announces with a small bend at the waist and a flourish of his hand.
Narrowed eyes appear through an opening at the top of the door.
Pretty eyes.
Female eyes.
Familiar eyes.
“Why do you come to The Bowels?” the female says, though her voice lacks the depth of womanhood. No, it’s too timid, imbued with a fierceness that isn’t embodied.
Hazel eyes stare back at me.
