Page 63 of Still the Sun

I blink, and the mist cascades around me. He was here, before. I loved him, before. I—

I gasp so hard I nearly choke on it.

Serpent save me, Iremember.

Chapter 21

I’m a little buzzed when I head home. We’d had a good game of dice going until Frantess opened her big mouth and ruined everything. Now everyone feels awkward, Gethnen especially. But it’s probably for the best—I might have gotten carried away and had one or two glasses too many, and then I’d get lost in the mist and have a massive headache by late sun. I’m too old to drink more than a glass or two at a time, unless Maglon waters it down. Which he does, sometimes, especially when the harvest wasn’t great. We all act like we don’t notice.

I’m five paces from my door when I see a shadow in the mist. It nears, revealing too-white skin and too-white hair; a wraith clothed in black. When it moves toward me, I scream. Only a chirp of the sound makes it past my lips before the wraith’s large hand covers my mouth and presses me against the house, barring both my arms with one of his. Not my legs, though, and I get in a swift kick on his upper thigh before he grapples me again and maneuvers out of harm’s way.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he hisses, an unfamiliar accent clipping his words.

Ruin’s hell he isn’t there to hurt me! I kick again. Writhe, but the guy is strong. Incredibly strong.

“Are you the artifact collector?” he rushes.

That pacifies me for a moment. I blink away the fog, trying to get a better look at the stranger’s face. He has abnormally long hair, whiter than Entisa’s, pulled back in a braid. Several pieces have come loose and hang over his neck and face, making him look wild. His eyes ... no one in Emgarden has eyes like that. Skin like that, strength like that. My mind can’t wrap itself around his existence, let alone the predicament I’ve found myself in.

Where did he come from? There’s no one else—

He repeats the question.

I nod as well as I can with his hand—it smells likeflowers, of all things—pressed under my nose. How does he know about the artifacts?

He visibly relaxes. “Good.” Then, “What’s your name?”

“I can’t say it with your hand on my mouth, half-wit,” I mutter against his skin, completely unintelligible. He carefully removes his hand and lets up on my shoulders, but he stays in proximity, ready to strike if I try to run. I’m fast, but I don’t think I can outrun those legs. So instead, I answer, “Pell.”

He searches my face. “That doesn’t linguistically match the people here—”

“Pelnophe. Who in Ruin’s hell are you?”

He sets his jaw. “I am someone in need of your help. My comrade and I live in the tower, and—”

“Wait, what?” I push off the house. The stranger glances down the road, ensuring we’re alone. “That tower?” I point in its direction. “No one lives in that tower.”

“It’s recent,” he explains, sounding now more like a man dying than one about to abduct me. “We need it operating again, but we ... we don’t understand the mechanics of this world. You seem to.”

I gape for a moment. “What mechanics could a tower possibly have?” My insides squirm at the possibility.

“The machines,” he answers, and my stomach drops. “Machines built by creatures of old. They’re in incredible disrepair.”

“The ... Ancients?”

He nods.

My mind can’t picture it. All the artifacts I’ve been able to scavenge are small, and none are whole. What could an entire,impenetrablefortress hold? Far more than I’ve ever seen, surely. The very thought of beholding true Ancient tech, let alone touching it, sends shivers down my spine. My fingers twitch at my sides.

“I ...” I try to find words, wishing I was just a smidgen more sober. “I ... You want me to fix them?”

“Please. You can see them now, if possible. We ... we don’t want to be seen by the others.”

“There’s more of you?”

“One more,” he states, and I recall him saying as much earlier.

I shake my head. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

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