Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
The trading vessels are all anchored off the coastline, and we passed more than a few dinghies on the flight in. Small boats line the beachfront, pulled up onto the sand as if marooned here. For being the isle of wisdom, it’s a far from logical approach.
“So, this one is all you, right?” Ridoc asks as he approaches from the left with Cat and Maren. “You have to take a test or something to enter?”
“One of us has to prove wisdom in order to meet with the triumvirate,” I answer.
“I can’t believe they elect people for high leadership,” Cat mutters, glaring at the city like it might bite. “Town councils? Sure, but how can you confirm someone has the skills to lead if they’re not trained from birth?”
“Being trained from birth doesn’t make you any more qualified,” Aaric retorts from the right, Trager at his side. “Any of you truly excited at the prospect of being led by Halden?”
Cat crinkles her nose.
“Valid argument,” Trager points out.
Wait, is it just me, or did Cat actually grin at him?
“Not just you,” Andarna notes.
“Let me see the arms.” Trager moves to stand in front of Xaden and me, and yep, Cat totally tracks the movement.
I slip my left arm free of my flight jacket as Xaden does the same with his. My face puckers in a grimace when the blood-stained bandage catches on the cut beneath. I tug gently to remove it, and a bead of blood rises from the center of the cut, directly between the six stitches Trager sewed into my skin yesterday.
“Looks good,” Trager notes, lowering his head to my arm, and I bite back a smile when I spot a mouth-shaped bruise on the side of his neck. “No infection, no swelling.” He frowns at the last stitch, which is doing its best to tug straight through my skin. “That one doesn’t seem to want to stay put, though.”
“Happens.” I rotate my arm. “You did a good job with the stitches.”
“Thanks.” He flashes a soft smile, then looks to Xaden. “Your turn— Damn.”
“It’s fine.” Xaden’s arm is red and angry along the deep gash that required fourteen stitches.
“It’s not fine.” I step into his space and examine the cut. “I brought some Lorin salve in Brennan’s med kit. It will help with the inflammation and fight off any minor infection, but we need to get it on you in the next few hours.” Wind gusts, peppering our legs with sand, and I turn my back to the breeze, sheltering Xaden’s arm as much as possible. “Let’s wait until we’re out of the sand.”
He nods and quickly wraps the wound.
“Because that wouldn’t work,” Mira snaps at Drake as they walk over with Garrick and Dain, who sidesteps a dead bird.
Yuck.
“It really would,” Drake says to her with a grin that would probably charm anyone else but just seems to enrage my sister. “You pull a two-pronged Pelson flight formation—”
“And wyvern would pick you off twice as fast for dividing your forces in that environment.” Mira shakes her head.
Xaden and I slip our jackets back on.
“You clearly don’t understand Pelson.” Drake lifts his hand toward his cousin. “Tell her, Cat. In a contained environment, a Pelson maneuver—”
“I’m not telling Mira shit.” Cat shakes her head. “It’s like arguing with Syrena.”
“Oh, come on. Maren? Someone be on my side here,” Drake pleads.
Maren winces. “Have you seen her right hook?”
“I have,” Drake admits.
“I know Pelson,” Mira argues, crossing to my left. “I’ve studied Pelson at length because it was my job to beat your maneuvers for years. And you have no real-world examples to prove your theory. Just stop talking.” She looks me over like she expects new wounds.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“Drake, you’re starting to annoy me,” Xaden warns with a sideways glance. “You should stop that.” His tone ices over.
Garrick glances my way, and his mouth tenses.
Surely something that innocuous wouldn’t trigger—
“We have company,” Tairn alerts.
I yank my focus forward to find half a dozen people strolling onto the thick wooden walkway that connects the beach to the market. “Xaden.”
He lifts his head and moves closer to me.
The group is dressed in tunics and gowns of various pastel colors, the one-shoulder fashion something I’ve only seen in history books or onstage. Fabrics billow in the breeze as they come closer, all staring up at the dragons in awe.
“They’re incredible,” the middle-aged man in front says in the common language with a toothy smile. His hair bears two strips of silver amid red curls. “And well worth the walk to the beach to welcome you.” The intricate metallic embroidery of his tunic speaks to money, as does the sparkling red gem at the top of his cane.
It’s the brightest pop of color I’ve seen on the isle so far.
“And you might be?” Xaden asks.