My arm falls, chest heaving from the thrash of my unfiltered rage. Or perhaps madness is a better word. More accurate.
I look at the pathetic, tiny weapon hanging from my limp hand, then back to the silent crowd.
Definitely a better word.
Slowly, cautiously, they begin to shift into murmuring motion.
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my chin to my chest, pulling deep, controlled breaths …
Not real.
The world around me regains its natural beat—scuffing steps, bursts of laughter, whistling. I open my eyes, seeing a small, silver disk notched in a nook between two cobblestones.
My pulse pitches.
Coin.
I pick it up, flip it, feel the heavy weight of it in the palm of my hand. It must be worth a bit. Perhaps enough to buy Zane’s cloak? Though the thought of facing that shopkeeper again fills me with face-blazing dread.
Perhaps I can find one somewhere else?
My gaze drifts to the line of permanent storefronts bordering the courtyard. All well-kept, squished against each other, draped in the golden glow of a vibrant streetlamp. The largest shop takes up the same amount of space as three smaller ones, over three stories of massive, glazed windows staring down on the square. Its large sign squeaks in the wind.
I move through the swirl of people, drawn to the window on the ground floor where a mishmash of things are haphazardly displayed—including a cabinet that seems to boast things of a much higher caliber than everything else.
A silver blade with an opaline hilt steals my breath and, bagging my snips, I press my nose against the glass to study its finer details.
It’s a similar size to the wooden daggers Baze sometimes had us practice with—longer than my hand but small enough to tuck down the back of my pants or strap against my thigh without getting in the way. It even has a delicate vine and tiny buds engraved in the hilt, akin to the hidden illustration I found on my sword.
It’s arealweapon. One I could wear at all times, train with in my suite without drawing attention.
Protect myself with.
I’ve never chosen a weapon for myself. They’ve always been given to me. And I think … I think Baze would approve. I think if he were here with me right now, he’d give me one of those lopsided grins that break across his face whenever he’s proud of me, then he’d tell me to go in there and get it.
The thought makes my throat feel tight and achy.
Unraveling my fingers, I look at the coin, back again, then step toward the door and shove it open, tolling an overhead bell. Hot, musty air and the smell of old things smacks me in the face.
I cast my gaze around the cluttered room, past roof-high shelves stacked with an array of wares—old teapots, candelabras in need of a good polish, pretty glass tumblers in haphazard towers.
“Hello?”
No answer.
I move deeper into the room, weaving between the shelves, the floor creaking beneath my feet.
The bell jingles again, a chill crawling up my spine that I adamantly ignore, refusing to give my imagination the stage it’s screaming for as I step into an open area that displays large bits of furniture. A big, stone counter dominates the far wall, doused in light from a collection of mismatched lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
I tap my fingers on the smooth stone top, looking around. “Excuse me?”
A man hobbles through a doorway in the back corner, belly so round he could probably set a plate on it and use it as a table. His gray hair is slicked with something shiny, his gold-buttoned garb so finely tailored he looks out of place standing amongst the drift of dust particles.
He squints at me through half-moon specs while wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth with a dark blue napkin. “Yes?”
“I was hoping to take a closer look at the dagger in the cabinet in the front window display. The one with the opaline hilt.”
“Of course.” He wanders past, disappearing between the shelves while I drum my fingers against my thigh. He returns a moment later, moves behind the counter, and sets the blade in my open palm.
