“Do we give him another hour?” someone asks, and I seek out the long face of a rusty-haired Eastern male. He’s slight like a thistle weed and just as prickly looking, with a sharp, beady stare the color of pine needles. But there’s power in the way he holds himself.
“No,” Rhordyn answers. “He’s not coming.”
“Who’s not?” I ask Baze, trying to ignore those crystal-blue eyes assessing me from the opposite side of the table.
“The High Master of Fryst,” Baze whispers in my ear, and Zali rises from a seat four spaces away.
The vision of her makes my breath catch, her willowy beauty a stark contrast to a room filled with mostly men.
She’s dressed in tan leather pants and a chestnut top, armor hugging her curves—a breastplate that’s made from what appears to be bronzed scales. It looks impenetrable, yet the way it dips and bulbs enhances her lithe, feminine form.
Her rosy hair is pulled back and secured in a tight bun, cheeks flushed from the chill she’s probably not used to—not with being from the Eastern Territory of Rouste where the sun burns the dunes into rolling hills of desolation.
I barely recognize her; awed by her confident stance in front of this room full of people.
“You all know why we’re here,” she announces, voice clear and lilting. “So I’m just going to cut straight to the point.”
I glance at Rhordyn, who appears comfortable in his chair ...
Perhaps Zali is running this meeting.
“There’s been an alarming number of Vruk attacks across Fryst and Ocruth over the past four years. Not only are their pack numbers swelling, but these beasts are growing in both size and cunning at a discerning rate. Equally disturbing is that entire families have gone missing without a trace, children snatched in other circumstances.”
An icy chill slithers up my spine.
“These possible abductions often leave a scene too clean to be pinned on a pack of rogue, blood-lustingmutts,” Zali continues, spitting the last word with distaste. “Which means the disappearances and frenzied Vruk raids are either entirely unrelated or someone is governingboth;weakening our smaller regions, instilling fear, and bleeding our populations.” She plants balled fists to stone while she surveys every person sitting around the table.
Bodies lean forward as if lured by her pause ...
“I know it seems like a stretch after years of relative peace, but we need to prepare for the possibility of a territory war.”
A second of silence beats by before a riot of yelling erupts—Low Masters and Mistresses tossing verbal blows back and forth across the table. The sharp scent of fear makes me want to breathe through my mouth.
As far as I’m aware, the boundary fences have been in place foryears. There have been small, regional battles between neighboring Low Masters and Mistresses, but nothing that has threatened the walls that bind us to our overriding territories.
Nothing that has threatened thecolorswe wear.
Blunt voices bounce off the curved stone walls, assaulting me from all angles. The Bahari male sitting opposite me is picking dirt from under his nails, wearing an expression akin to bone-deep boredom.
He obviously has very little skin in the game.
“What are you suggesting we do?” a man with chocolate hair and piercing green eyes bellows. I recognize him as one of the Low Masters from Rhordyn’s territory who often shows face at the monthly Tribunal.
“Unite,” Zali remarks without hesitation.
“And what about High Master Vadon?” someone yells from my left, and my brow buckles.
“He stopped trading with us four years ago,” Rhordyn states, his low voice rolling through the room like thunder, cauterizing every other spill of sound.
He’s reclined in his seat, arms knotted over his chest, not even looking down the table at the man who just asked that question ...
He’s looking at the Bahari male.
“Neither he nor any of his Regional Masters are here today, and every sprite I’ve sent his way since trading ships stopped traveling down the River Norse has not returned. You do the math.”
“Perhaps he’s simply been affected by the storms!” someone yells, and more chaotic muttering ensues.
Zali stalks to the edge of the room where she heaves a large sack off the ground, cheeks reddening as she hauls it over her shoulder. Once standing in front of her seat again, she lugs it onto the table with a heavy thud.
