Or the fact that some of what Ronan said made sense to me, even though I’m not sure how any of it changes anything, at least not right now.
But I can’t ignore his words, not completely. He’s having an effect on me, as much as I hate to admit it. Whether it’s his magic or something about who he is, I’m not sure.
I thought I had him where I wanted him.
But maybe it’s the other way around.
The Faros docks are even more chaotic than the docks under the palace. Hundreds of people rush about, shouting over the din of carts rumbling over wooden boardwalks and anchors splashing into the waves. Ships rise up from waters cloudy with sand and debris, their white sails as tall as the temple towers.
This is where all the gold has gone. It’s being loaded into the ships, drifting from our shores in huge, heavy crates that strain the arms of the dockworkers. I wonder how much this festival is costing us. How much of our land and labor will be devoured for the sake of the Feast.
We’re passing a row of cliffside shops and a rowdy tavern when everything goes eerily quiet.
Then, there’s shouting.
“Duel! Duel on the south dock!”
Adria’s eyes fill with uncharacteristic panic. The south dock is where Larus is meeting Felix.
Larus is beyond his dueling days, from what he’s told me, although I don’t doubt he could hold his own if it came down to it. He’d managed the bandits on the road just fine, but they weren’t armed and trained as well as the typical seafarer.
But it’s not Larus who’s fighting.
“Great,” groans Adria. “There goes our navy.”
Two men stand on the dock in tense opposition. The first is wearing the salt-bleached linens of a dockworker, his fiery red-hair pulled into a knot. His knuckles are white around the hilt of his blade.
Opposite him stands a strikingly handsome man with a dark complexion and short-cropped black hair. He smiles confidently, as if this was nothing but a minor inconvenience. He wears a far finer version of Larus’s typical Enezian attire: an open coat with gleaming gold buttons, black breeches, and an undershirt in a rich green.
Felix, I presume.
“Are we here to fight or fuck? Pick one. I haven’t got all day,” he jeers.
Larus is standing off to the side with a small crowd behind him, shaking his head. We join him as the red-headed man curses and spits at the ground, drawing his sword.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The usual,” says Larus. “There was a higher bidder.”
“He sold that man out to someone?”
Larus nods. “I wouldn’t pity him. If he was dealing with Felix in the first place, he likely deserves what he gets.”
I wonder what that says about us.
The red-headed man drives his blade forward to attack Felix. He’s raging and uncoordinated, and Felix parries almost out of boredom.
The man then attempts to grapple, but Felix holds out a hand like he’s blowing the man a kiss.
It knocks him flat on his ass.
“Wind-born?” I ask. Larus nods. “Isn’t it dishonorable to use magic in a duel?”
It’s also against Ronan’s rules to be fighting a duel during the festival at all.
“Felix isn’t exactly what you would call an honorable man,” says Larus with distaste. Then he turns to yell at him. “Quit toying with him and finish this. Some of us have business to attend to.”
“I told him I haven’t got all day,” says Felix, lazily knocking the man down again when he gets back up. He makes eye contact with me and smiles. “But if you insist.”
