Page 15 of The Shadow Wand

Especially considering that the Gardnerians have only one elderly Light Mage.

Sparrow squints at the imposing rune barrier, sizing it up like a cruel, worthy foe as she pushes her hair behind her ears’ arcing points.

The magical border the Gardnerians are building now limns continental Gardneria’s western shore as far north as her eyes can see and extends all the way down to where she’s now peering across the short stretch of kraken-infested ocean that lies between the easternmost edge of the Fae Islands and Gardneria.

The full might of Gardneria, set on keeping Urisk, like her and Effrey, on the labor islands and out of continental Gardneria.

And once the entire of Gardneria is surrounded by a runic border, no one will be able to flee through the continent to get to the Eastern Realm.

The runic border creeps farther south each week, and soon continental Gardneria’s entire western coast will be impenetrable. And it’s only a matter of time before the Fae Islands are surrounded by an impenetrable rune border, as well.

The time for escape is running out.

An odd shadow slips through the ocean in Sparrow’s peripheral vision, and she turns her gaze north to follow it, a different chill snaking down her spine.

A kraken monster. Sliding its oily, black body through the waves, headed due north.

They used to be a rare sight here, the creatures usually encountered in deep ocean, far from shore, but for some reason the kraken are being drawn ever closer to continental Gardneria.

As if they’re being summoned.

Sparrow assesses the situation as she ignores the fear that’s prickling along her skin. She’s used to weighing terrible, heartbreaking options. All the Urisk are.

No. Tonight can’t be the night.

It’s too dangerous for a journey across turbulent waters in a flimsy boat with kraken close. She’s going to call this off. She and Effrey will have to wait.

“Plotting your escape?”

Sparrow gives a small jolt and spins around, her sandaled heels digging into the cold, wet sand, her heartbeat drumming against her chest.

Tilor is watching her with his beady eyes from the shadows of the knotty Sea Pines, just a few paces away. Revulsion floods Sparrow.

The cruel, arrogant bastard.

He’s so pathetic, standing there leering at her in his well-pressed Gardnerian military tunic with its single stripe on the edging, a weak, magic-free Mage barely older than Sparrow’s nineteen years. Yet you’d think he had the power of one of their Great Mages, the way he struts about, ordering the Urisk around.

Sparrow takes a deep, steadying breath. Normally, she wouldn’t allow herself to even think these mutinous thoughts. Even a trace of defiance in the inflection of one’s tone is enough to bring down the wrath of these vicious Crows.

Square-jawed Tilor strides forward, smirking, and Sparrow keeps her face carefully neutral, even though she’s suddenly keenly aware of the stolen knife that’s sheathed and hidden in the side of her boot, just under the hem of her long skirt.

She dips her head with deferential grace. “I like to walk by the ocean’s side, Mage Bannock.”

Tilor puffs up, as if visibly mollified by her submissive stance.

If I could get away with it, I’d pull this blade and slice you clean through, Sparrow internally rages. But there’s no getting away with it, trapped as she is on this cursed island.

It’s a dangerous game, to feign pleasantries with Tilor, but what choice does she have? He’s the assigned Mage warden of her labor group and knows full well that she has no good options. He is increasingly taking advantage of it.

The vile bastard.

His gaze skims over her. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re just out for a stroll,” he purrs as he comes too close. Always, lately, he’s coming too close. He reaches up and slides a tendril of Sparrow’s long hair behind one ear, then fondles her ear’s point as Sparrow grits her teeth and fights the urge to flinch back from his repellent touch.

“You’re really quite lovely,” he murmurs, but then his brow knots as if he’s both surprised and abashed by his own sentiment. His hand falls away. Sparrow keeps her gaze carefully averted from his as nausea wells inside her along with the fierce urge to claw at his hated face.

The foghorn sounds, and they both glance toward the lighthouse just northeast of them, perched at the end of a long, rocky causeway. The impossibly high structure appears small and thin from this distance, like a pale finger pointing accusingly at the sky.

“I was stationed up there last night.” Tilor turns back and smiles coldly at Sparrow. “Bunch of rockbats thought they’d make a try for the continent.” He shakes his head, as if discussing naughty children.

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