Page 37 of Reaper's Ruin
I frowned. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Like, shifters who turn into wolves during a full moon and have fated mates and territorial issues?” She gestured wildly. “Big wolf. Teeth. Growly. Always shirtless, honestly.”
I paused, then with a slight smile at her interesting explanation said, “Ah. Sounds like the Fenraen. They’re a northern tribe—part beast, part man. Not tied to moons, though. They can shift whenever they want, but they aren’t usually running around shirtless. It gets cold where they live.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Okay, so do you have dragons?”
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Realdragons?”
“Of course. Though they’re rare. Never actually seen one myself. Been hunted to extinction centuries ago. Did meet someone once though who could shift into one, though I didn’t see him do it.”
Her eyes widened. “Dragon shifters? What? No way!”
“Scaleborn they call them. Nearly extinct I believe. Or maybe they already are. Haven’t stumbled into a Scaleborn soul that needed reaping in a few hundred years. Or maybe they exist but they’re all finding peace. I don’t know.”
She was now just blinking at me, like I’d dropped some significant information on her that these people, or some of them better identified as creatures, were real. To me, they were just part of everyday life in Faelora.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Siphons are vampires. Faenren are werewolves. Scaleborn are dragon shifters. What else do you have here?”
“There are all sorts of species here. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
She blew up her cheeks then puffed out the breath. “Wow. Mind. Blown.”
With her now walking in silence still shaking her head, we finished our walk to Centralia. She moved closer to me as we approached the Sylvan entrance. The guards barely glanced at us as we passed through the massive western gate. Inside, Centralia was even more impressive than it appeared from a distance. Wide streets paved with smooth stones radiated out from a central plaza. Buildings of white marble and pale stone rose on either side, their architecture a harmonious blend of styles from all five courts. Flowering vines climbed trellises along balconies, and fountains burbled in small courtyards.
Soraya’s wonder returned full force as we moved deeper into the city. “This is incredible.” She turned in a slow circle to take it all in. “It’s like... like Venice meets Rivendell meets ancient Greece.”
Again, references I didn’t understand, but her delight was clear.
The main thoroughfare was lined with vendors selling everything from exotic fruits to intricate jewelry to magical trinkets. Fae of all courts mingled freely here, distinguishable only by their chosen markers—a blue sash here, a flame-colored pendant there, silver frost patterns painted on arms and faces.
“How do you tell which court people are from?” Soraya asked quietly as we joined the line of travelers waiting to enter.
“Court markers,” I replied, nodding toward a fae woman whose elaborate silver circlet was set with aqua stones, marking her as Tide Court. “Jewelry, clothing colors, sometimes tattoos or body paint. Most fae display their court affiliation proudly.”
“But we’re not wearing anything like that. Are we gonna get busted?”
“Many choose not to declare court affiliation in Centralia. It’s one of the few places they can escape court politics, if only temporarily.”
“This place is amazing. I could wander around in here for literal weeks and still be amazed.”
“Don’t forget, we’re not here for fun,” I reminded her, my voice gruffer than I intended. “Remember why we came.”
She gave me a little mock salute. “Yes, sir, Mr. Reaper, sir.”
“I’m not a Reaper anymore,” I said quietly, flexing my hand. The absence of power beneath my skin felt wrong, like missing a limb. “Not for now, anyway.”
Soraya’s smile softened into sympathy. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? Being... normal.”
“Normal is not a word I’d use to describe anything about this situation.”
She laughed again, the sound light and musical in the afternoon air. “Fair enough. But you know what I mean. Being in a physical body. Being human again.”
“It’s... strange,” I admitted. I couldn’t tell her how vulnerable it made me feel. How exposed. How every sensation was simultaneously overwhelming and intoxicating. “I haven’t needed to breathe or eat or sleep in eight centuries.”
“You know, we’re basically fancy zombies, right?” she said, grinning.
