CitizenIndigo

9 It was agony to walk away. Arveld knew he had to, but the urge to rush back was so strong. The primal force of it had him shaking; he had to hope Gerun didn’t notice. Just a few seconds, in the dim light of the storeroom, but it was enough to recognize that face. Sekeru. His father. The man had been right there, and Arveld wanted to press himself against his shirt, sobbing, and tell him how he missed him all these years. Thinking he was surely long dead, only preserved in a few precious memories. And yet . . . he’s alive. A servant, probably imprisoned and possibly abused, but alive. Somewhere between relief and sadness, the boy’s tears subsided. He didn’t say a word, walking ahead of Gerun the whole way back, the faint glow of her lamp still enough for him to find his way. It almost seemed to pass in no time before Enzerra Hall’s squat silhouette loomed in front of him. He numbly placed the silk pouch on a shelf in the supply room and brushed past the girl who came in behind

8 Gerun set aside her quill and stared at the letter on the desk. Her sister’s decoded message was now written on a scrap of paper and memorized—it went into the flame of a nearby candle and quickly crumbled to ashes. Ebrik had been right, after all. Selling draconium in every corner of the city. It seemed that the Red Cloaks had an agenda on the darker side of Kharsheen trading. The girl was hardly surprised but was at a loss for what to do. Sako had just told her to be careful and said she would send more information that they uncovered. It made a lot of sense, actually. Red Cloaks were respected, even revered, for their role as protectors of the city. Ever since Lleriel had been established almost five centuries earlier, the city had resisted all attempts at invasion, all the while thriving as a wealthy, independent trade hub. The mages were basically government and military rolled into one and did a damned good job. Who could blame them for feeling entitled to a little

7 “What’ya want?” “Just pour me a denner of your cheapest ale.” Ebrik left a few troven on the bar and carefully flicked his tail out of the way before sitting on one of the rough benches. He struggled to ignore the smell of the tavern, full of denizens of Crescenthook who exuded aromas of sweat and other worse fluids. The source was going to meet him here, and it was usually easiest for whoever he was meeting to just look for the large Ari’karan rather than arrange anything more elaborate. Ebrik took a swig of his ale—not the worst he’d had—and tugged off his hood to let his large coppery ears take in the room. At least focusing on the sounds made it easier to pass over the smells. He caught bits of gossip but nothing that interesting. Most of the patrons paid no attention to the feline. It was the best he could hope for, although a few eyed him warily. He bunched his whiskers and let a snarl creep onto his upper lip; it was an effective way to keep anyone from trying to sit

6 Sweat trickled uncomfortably down Arveld’s neck and sides. Even though he spent the vast majority of his time in human form, he always hated the sweating. Dragons’ bodies were much more dignified. But there was nothing he could do now but try to play it cool. You made it all the way here. Don’t let anyone get suspicious now. That damned mage had somehow reappeared only two days after he hoped he would never see her again. And she definitely recognized him; he knew it as soon as her eyes locked onto his. There was a slight catch in her posture, a rush of breath. Fleeting but noticeable. Only to him, he hoped. He should have been listening as two younger Red Cloaks walked the group of initiates through the castle grounds. They were saying something about a library. Arveld traced the outline of his talisman pendant under his shirt and prayed to Vakharu. His mind kept going back to that girl—Gerun was her name. She had not given him a glance since they left the waiting room. One of