Page 34 of The Last Dragon
She offers a gentle smile, waving her hands in front of her aging face. “If only his cooking were as good as his craft!”
I laugh, glancing behind the crates. Nida is nowhere in sight, the shawl tucked in as if it hasn’t been touched. I pull out a few more coins from my pouch—enough to cover the costs of the linen shawl and the apron. The woman bows in thanks, waving goodbye and bringing in other customers. Nida emerges from a stall further down the street, casually walking toward me. She shows absolutely no emotion, drawing absolutely zero attention to herself. I admire that.
“And?” I say. Slight irritation builds up when I fail to fold the textiles nicely.
“Freshly made.” She draws out her words as if fighting between telling me or keeping it to herself. “Frost Shawls are made from Silverscales.Rare. Not to mention expensive.”
“Was there anything else?” I ask, scanning each walkway of the market, ensuring no one is noticing us. She nods, grabbing my arm, merging us with the flow of visitors walking by.
“A mark—engraved on the crate, small and subtle. Wouldn’t notice it unless you’re up close.”
“Marked for what?” I ask, my heart beating louder.
“It’s to be shipped to the Center,” she adds, slowing down her pace. “Why would there be a Frost Shawl here?”
I think for a minute. “Black market?”
She clicks her tongue. “Here? But how would they make one?”
“Maybe the scales were preserved.”
She scrunches her nose. “You cannot preserve dragon scales for that long. They disappear if not processed immediately, and nothing can save the scales and make a shawl ofthisquality. The fabric is smooth and silky. Itshimmersin the light, creating sun reflections everywhere.”
I take in her words, watching her brows furrow in concentration as she tries to piece together a puzzle, and for a heartbeat, it feels like she’s forgotten I’m near.
“When was the last Silverscale slain?” she quickly asks.
“Must be around thirty years?”
“Then how—”
“Stop,” I say, annoyance at the edge of my voice. Tugging on another memory that I don’t want to remember. Not even the name. “If it’s a black market, then I have an idea of who might be fooling with this.”
She looks me up and down, startled by my sudden snap. “Who?” she asks carefully.
“Not someone you want to meddle with,” I say, gently pulling her closer. I wouldn’t be surprised ifhelet his crew around the market, but I would be surprised if he werehere.
She scoffs, pulling herself out of my grip. “I think I can handle myself, thank you very much.”
I shake my head. “Not against this type of threat. So drop it.”
She looks at me, confused, then glances back, watching the merchants bustling around the grounds.
She wants to be in the Corps—fine. Tracker—fine. Fight dragons—be my damn guest. But no one should meddle withhim.
CHAPTER 13
The night grows heavy, and thoughts plague my mind louder than any night before. Like a moth circling a flame, eager to come close yet terrified to get burned.
There’s no point in trying to sleep. Fresh air doesn’t help. Pacing my room makes it worse. Breathing techniques can go out the window. It’s trying to pull me out of my room.
Curiosity.
A frost shawl—here, in the Third. Only one person comes to mind who’d bother to involve himself in the black market, but the rarity of the shawl makes it unlikely.Don’t think of him. Don’t think of his name. You’re not allowed.
The door beckons me. The hall begs me to find the answers. I don’t want to, but at the same time, I know the whispers in my head won’t settle. So I give in.
I reach for the serum on my nightstand and press the syringe to my arm.Just in case.The needle bites, and a cold sting crawlsthrough my veins before fading away. I pull a long sleeve shirt over me, tightening my belt and slipping into sandals I’ve barely worn. I’m sure nobody is going to see me out of my leathers at night. Even if they do, I’d doubt they’d recognize me.
