"Absolutely not—"
The Kinslayer was cut off by Prince Kairen responding, "Who?"
"My cousin, Branson Sommers. He's been a recruit in the Solerian Army since he was sixteen. He has begun his trials and he'll need a quest soon as well. He's strong, an excellent fighter, and most importantly I trust him with my life. If I'm to go on this quest with you I want someone thatItrust as well."
The prophecy never mentionedwhothe soldier had to be loyal to.
Prince Kairen pondered this thoughtfully, glancing towards Delmar.
The Kinslayer sighed, tilting his head back in thought. "Branson Sommers is a good recruit and he fights better than some of those who are already seasoned warriors. He follows instruction well and is more intelligent than most of the recruits we get. As much as I dislike agreeing with her, he would be valuable to have along."
Kairen glanced at me then. "Roan oversees the training of our recruits. If he says Sommers is good, then I trust his word. If you decide to comethen your cousin will be the fifth we bring," he hesitated a moment before adding, "anything else you'd like to ask?"
I had so many questions milling through my mind I could have kept them there all night, but one in particular stood out amongst the mayhem of my thoughts. "It says in those last three lines that you need to choose wisely or the person you seek to save will die. Who is it we're attempting to save?"
Prince Kairen stiffened at that question, but it was Roan Delmar who answered, "That's a need to know basis, you agree to come and then maybe we'll tell you. Until then—it isn't any of your business."
Goddess, this man was a prick.
"Okay then," I agreed, my knuckles rapping upon the wooden table, eyes trailing between the two men, "I'll see you after the first trial to let you know my decision."
It was the Kinslayer who smiled at me then, not a kind one, but a smile that sent a shiver up my spine as I held his gaze.
“Until then, little menace.”
Chapter Six
The market streets were alive with an energy that thrummed and twined through the chilled morning air. It was an overwhelming discord of sights, sounds, and smells. Even now, with a sweet roll stuffed halfway into my mouth, my senses were stretched thin as I roamed through the maze of chaos with practiced precision. I dodged and weaved between the crowds, eyes always searching for thieving fingers reaching for my belongings.
The market located just before the finely polished portion of Amori City, where the wealthy—though not notability—dined and slept was always a raucous adventure to tame and claim.
It was chaos, but I greeted it with familiarity.
The scent of delicious food and incense wafted up and over the crowd, drowning the scent of bodies too sweaty for the frost in the air. Even now, sweat pooled beneath my own woolen coat, the heat of bodies pressing all around. Vendors and merchants called out as I passed, some knew me by name, others did not, but all tried to entice me to glimpse their wares. Tents full of jeweled trinkets, weavers who called out offering to braid myhair, fruit and vegetables carts laden, their farmers sitting behind them weary to the bone.
Yet I did not stop. It was not the market itself I sought out today, merely passing through. A means to an end.
It wasn’t until a familiar voice called out, its tone bright over the din of the crowd, that my feet stalled.
Rosie Donnchadh approached, red hair loose and wild today, falling to her waist. She carried a basket filled to the brim with various vegetables, my eyes catching sight of potatoes and carrots beneath the green of peppers. My mouth watered, her tavern was certainly having a stew tonight.
“Rosie,” my greeting was chilly as the air, my feet slowing, but not stopping as she fell into step beside me.
Her full lips curved, not truly a smile, but something akin to it as she bumped her shoulder to mine. “Don’t tell me you’re still sore from the lashing I gave you. I told you, no more fights within my tavern walls, Syra.”
I had never had many friends, the only true one being Bran, and while I wouldn’t entirely consider Rosie Donnchadh one, neither could I call her a stranger. Only a few years my senior, she too had always been around. Her tavern, which had once been her father’s before he had taken ill with The Fever, was a place of respite for Bran and I.
“I wasn’t going to fight them,” my grumble came out sullen, almost childlike, my scowl deepening as her breath huffed with a laugh.
“Be careful of the lies and half-truths that spill so easily from your lips. Tell too many and the Demon Prince Dedrio will drag you to the Ninth Hell for your treachery.” Her warning was a singsong, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Are you bestowing misfortune on me, Rosie Donnchadh? Today of all days?”
Finally a full smile broke across her face, reaching inside her basket she pulled a golden ribbon and dangled it before me, the apples of her cheeks red with cold, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“The opposite actually,” she said as she grabbed my hand, winding the golden ribbon four times—a number of luck—around my wrist before tying it off with a knot. “I was hoping to catch you to wish you well on your trials.”
Fingers tracing the silken ribbon, I gave her a tight smile. It was an old Solerian tradition, a ribbon wound four times and tied with good intention would bring Soli’s blessing upon the wearer.
