Page 150 of A Dagger of Ice and Intrigue
“You don’t seem to like me,” I said, twirling my fingers in the hem of my coat sleeves. “But I appreciate it nonetheless. I won’t do anything stupid anymore, you don’t need to waste your time following me.”
I swore on Lunara’s magic arrows that the raven huffed a laugh as it opened its shiny beak.
“Well, then, tire your wings if you want.” I shrugged. “But come down to say hello once in a while. I like the company.”
Even from a judgy, dramatic raven.
But as someone who’d grown up in a big, loud family, in a big, loud city, the silence wasn’t comfort. It was the absence of all the things I’d lost.
I still hadn’t found my place in this strange, remote crater, which might have been named Solkar’s Reach or not.
In some weird way, both the crater and I had been ripped from this world, in bizarrely different ways. The crater had thrived, it seemed.
I was still unsure of my footing. My place. My purpose.
The only glimmer of hope was that Dax would be successful in his mission, so this brain of mine that obviously couldn’t stop searching for answers could have something to do other than lament what I wasn’t anymore.
For a long time, Sylvester didn’t seem too convinced of my offer. He kept staring at me with those ancient, bottomless eyes.
We remained in that silent staring contest for the longest time, the sky starting to turn a deceptively warm purple above us.
Finally, Sylvester righted his head, gave a flutter of his wings, and flew away.
The soft breeze swept my sigh away. Being rejected by a bird hadn’t been in my cards for the day, but here I was.
But just as I turned back toward the market, Sylvester reappeared. He did a majestic swoop around me, his wings grazing the air beside my cheek. It felt like a hug, one I didn’t know how badly I needed until now.
For a moment, I felt like my old self again.
Alive.
He soared back up ahead of me, like he was waiting for me to catch up.
A huge smile spread on my face as I began to race after him, legs pumping, coat flapping behind me.
I ran like I did when I was a kid chasing butterflies in Grandpa Constantine’s gardens, charmed by the thrill of exploring, still free from the constraints life had instilled in me.
With Sylvester hovering, massive wings spread above me, we raced straight into the market. He might’ve been the one flying, but I felt like a bird freed from its cage–one I’d built and closed myself.
So caught up in the moment, I burst into the market gracelessly.
Heads turned as soon as I froze to a stop, the momentum almost careening me into the well standing in the center. Sylvester perched on top of its shingled roof, unbothered. If anything, he looked smug at winning the race.
The tang of smoking dried juniper stung my nose. A baby cried, then hushed–or was shushed. A meat cleaver thudded once, twice against a wooden board.
Then silence.
My cheeks instantly heated up and I ran a hand through my hair, trying to seem normal.
To these people, I was an outsider.
Worse, I was an outsider who’d preyed on the freedom I’d been given here.
My smile morphed into a soft one as I sort-of met their gazes–looking in their direction, but not really meeting their eyes.
So many gazes snapped to me, the attention turned even more overwhelming.
These weren’t the warm, reverent stares from Aquila, either. They were blue, icy, and detached, born out of curiosity, not familiarity.
