“You’ve been gone so long, milady. We thought you might never come back.” Agnes smooths out my blankets, rumpled from my restless sleep. “How was your stay in the country?” She sounds nonchalant, but shoots me a covert glance.
Does she know?
Beeswax sweetens the air, and I lurch from my chair
Morning light filtered through the jungle mist, bedewing the dirt below and the life teeming within it. Kithoor adjusted her weight in the saddle and pressed her bare, malachite-hued legs against the sides of her mount. Snorting, the scaly, barbed monstrosity turned its crested head. He clawed the mud and bellowed.
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When the stranger reached fifteen paces, Xildar called, “Friend or foe?”
“Neither.” The voice peaked like an unripened boy. A fabric hat framed most of his face—a face about eighteen years in the making. His teeth were exceptionally white. His leather and linen clothing might’ve been made by the seamstress who’d fashioned Xildar’s attire.
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