Luka grunted. They were missing a lot, but now he knew exactly who to ask. “Thank you, Felix. You’ve done very well.” He patted the young man’s shoulder. “Do you have any idea where Healer Sarwin is right now?”
“I saw him at the clinic, as usual.”
Gods. With Izzy! No… wait, I don’t think she’s there.It was the first time he’d ever heard uncertainty from his beast, and it was terrifying.
“And Mistress Izabel? Where is she?” Luka asked.
“I saw her leaving earlier,” Felix answered.
Luka had to fight to hold in the thrashing of his beast. Gods, she had really left. He’d pushed her away again and again, and now she was gone. “Did she leave a message before she went?” Please, let her have left something—anything—that showed she had thought of him before she left.
Why should she? What didyouleave her?His beast rumbled as it coiled in his belly.
“No messages were left for you, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing at all? Not even a note? Maybe something was mislaid?” Luka could hear the desperation in his voice, but there was nothing he could do to change it.
Felix shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. There wasn’t anything. The only mislaid message today was a note to the kitchens that turned out to be a soldier’s kit list. We still haven’t untangled that one.”
Luka rubbed the back of his neck. Felix was right, that had nothing to do with Izzy.
We need to check on her.
Gods, he wanted to. He wanted to leave everything behind and fly straight to her. But was that the right course of action? Luka took a slow breath, considering. Izzy was on her way home, where Ryland would keep her safe. The best thing he could do for her was arrest Sarwin and remove the threat completely.
He focused on Felix. “Run to the barracks and find Knight Captain Cori. Please tell her what you’ve told me and ask her to release First Lieutenants Aiden and Kai to me. I need them.”
Felix bowed and sped off just as Luka broke into a run. He needed to catch Sarwin before the healer realized there was any trouble. Then they would have a little chat.
After that, there would be plenty of time to go to Izzy and apologize for everything he’d done.
Chapter
Thirty
Izzy madeher way down the busy street, beads of sweat trickling down her neck and temples. It was one of those early autumn days when the city felt particularly parched. Although the nights were cool, the days were not, and the sun beat down until it was sweltering beneath the woolen canopies. The air was too still, too oppressive, as if a storm was brewing.
Gods, she needed it to rain. To cool her skin and to clear the itch she felt. She desperately wanted to stop and take her cloak off.
Something is wrong.
She felt it, but she couldn’t see where the danger was coming from. And she didn’t want to stop to mess with her clothes, not when she was so close to the safety of her shop. As soon as she was home with the door safely bolted, she would take off her cloak, drop her heavy satchel, and find something cool and crisp to drink. Then she could think about what to do next.
At first, Dashiell stayed back, but he closed the gap when they reached the market until he followed just a few paces behind. His gaze was on her every time she glanced around, and yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. It was the same feelingshe’d had in the Flame Hall earlier—that someone was watching her, someone with malice in their heart.
Izzy took a deep breath of hot, spice-filled air. Grilled meat and charcoal smoke mingled with the acrid scents of dyed fabrics, tanned leather, and burning incense. She passed a stall selling fever-tea and citronella, and for a moment, the clean lemon scent washed the others away, and then she was back in the heady mix. Traders, stallholders, and hawkers vied for attention around her, shouting their wares and loudly proclaiming their products to be the best in all the world. Shoppers haggled, parents shouted at children, and a cat jumped off a low wall and dashed down a narrow lane.
She was nearly home. She could already see her gleaming mhoba wood sign. Just a few yards past the next stall, and she’d be there.
“Mistress Izabel?” Dashiell’s voice came from right behind her shoulder.
She startled and spun to face him. Somehow, in the moments she’d been distracted by the hubbub of the market, a young boy had joined him.
The child was around six or seven years old—it was hard to tell under the layer of dirt and with how skinny he was—and had an unruly crown of silver-and-black curls and worried amber eyes.
“This young man has lost his mum,” Dashiell said. He bent to talk gently to the boy. “Where did you see her last?”
The boy held up a shaky finger and pointed to the south side of the market. He looked terrified, and Izzy ran her eye over his slight form, looking for wounds or hurts, but didn’t see any. “What’s your name?” she asked gently, holding out her hand.
