Page 33 of The Last Dragon
Nida gives a soft smile. “It will take a long time until they’ll be able to come. Right now, their focus is to survive until the King decides we’re worthy to rebuild.”
Anger spreads through me. “Pirlemisworth rebuilding.”
“Not in the eyes of the King. Our voices mean nothing to him.” She lets out a soft gasp, approaching a colorful stall which I assume is from Velerum—the richest village on the outskirts, and the closest to the Third. A town my father traveled to the most, trading his gear as a blacksmith. They have processing mills for armor and cloth, suited for soldiers.
Jewels and shawls spill across the stall, with trinkets of all kinds and a beautiful white shawl made from linen on display.Nida eyes the trinkets in awe, but her steps soon falter. She gently elbows my side, grabbing my attention.
“Zel,” she whispers, her widened amber eyes meeting mine. “The crate under the merchant’s tilted table.”
She clears her throat, ripping her gaze from me, and smiles at those who pass by. As if trying to act natural. I draw my brows together, confused. Slowly, I flick my eyes toward the crate she’s talking about and notice a bright white-blue shimmering fabric clamped between the lid. Nida senses my unease, since her eyes shift back to me, drawing a quick breath.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks.
I nod carefully, still staring at the soft fabric. I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing, but the gentle shimmer it’s casting around the crate seems real. As subtle as it is, to me, it’s like a thousand torches lit up in one place.
“What is aFrost Shawldoing here?” Nida leans in closer, pressing against my arm and shoulder to get us both out of sight, behind the carts.
My heart thunders in my chest. Whatisa Frost Shawl doing here? They’re processed from Silverscales, a dragon that’s known to be long extinct. I glance over Nida’s head, making sure that nobody’s watching us.This has to be a mistake.
“It could be an old one,” I reason. “It’s probably from the Middle.”
Nida presses her lips. “The market is to sellnewthings, never old.” Her eyes stray to the ground. “I’m curious. I have to check the quality.”
“How are you gonna do that?” I say, grabbing her arm in case she strides away and does something stupid.
“I’ll just go on and check.” She shrugs, smiling.
“What?”
“You distract the merchant. That’ll give me enough time to feel the fabric between my fingers.” She makes me let go and ducksbetween the wooden boxes behind the stall. I stand there, raising a brow as I observe her.
“Well?” she says, pressing herself against the wooden crates. “What are you waiting for?”
I roll my eyes and approach the stall, scanning the different commodities scattered over the wooden counter. I look up at the linen shawl hanging, the wind playing with it.
“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat, “Can I take a look at that?” I point at the shawl.
An old merchant faces me, her hair covered in a dusty green shawl that has seen better days. She smiles and carefully detaches the fabric from the wooden pillar. “Thinking of giving it to someone special?” she says in a hoarse voice.
“My mother,” I lie, reaching for the pouch filled with coins attached to my belt.
The merchant gives it to me, the fabric rough against my hands. “It’s a perfect gift for hot spring days such as this,” she adds, spreading a few more shawls with different hues of gray and brown across the table. “Dozens of sizes and colors, and the fabric is quite durable.”
My eyes flick to the corner at the back of the stall. Red hair peeks out, and I’m met with amber eyes. I quickly clear my throat, returning my attention to the merchant. Instinctively, I point at the next item that catches my eye.
“Can you tell me more about this?” I blurt.
The merchant furrows her brows, squinting against the sun. “The apron?” she asks.
I nod.Yeah, sure, the apron.She approaches the wooden pillar where the leather apron hangs lazily. She unhooks it from a crooked screw and pats the dust off. I toss another glance over my shoulder, craning my neck to get a better look inside the stall. Nida rummages inside the box, dragging out a shimmering blue shawl. Our eyes meet, and a sudden jolt of panic shoots throughmy chest. I watch her pupils dilate as her long fingers wrap the fabric in her hand. Her eyes tell me everything.
Freshly crafted.
I return to the merchant, only then realizing she’s been telling a story about the manufacturing process of the gray leather apron.
“...he puts a lot of time into working on the details and the quality,” the merchant finishes and hands me the apron. I quickly scan the stall. Wooden trinkets, handcrafted with precision. Wooden bowls, metal spoons, miniatures in the shape of the Divines from old stories we rarely talk about these days. They’re crafted by someone’s experiences.He, she said. Andshesells them. My eyes return to the merchant.
“Your husband’s talented,” I say, feeling the sturdy, thick surface. “His hard work is definitely reflected in this apron.”
