Page 9 of The Princesses of Ruin
I resist the feeling of shame from his snide stab.
“Jenson is a nomaj. He can’t do many of the things you can, but he is quite good at running important errands like this one,” he says, then nods the soldier off.
Jenson bows shallowly. “I’ll return by sundown.”
Zane thanks him and turns back to the table. It’s cluttered with stacks of requests, overlapping maps, and various tokens that represent different team leader positions within the city.
“What would you have me do until sundown, Spider Lord?” I say.
He side-eyes me with a tiny smirk. “I believe weapon crafting would be the best use of your time, but you are a lord, too, Reaper. I’m simply advising you on how best to wage warwithus.”
I bite my tongue. Once again, he’s not wrong. He’s commanded the Spiders for nearly a decade. He knows how to operate within a group…
And I don’t.
“I’ll take stock on what’s running low in the armory and be in the dungeon replacing them until Jenson’s return,” I say turning my back on him.
“Kazimir,” he calls, his voice barely raised above the rabble in the hall.
I glance over my shoulder at him, impatience eating away at my mood.
His eyes glow brighter for a moment, their teal power filling the air between us. “Thank you.”
I feel the foreign truth in his words. He’s grateful I’m here, and that I’m helping. But I know it’s not enough. More. I need to domore.
I manage a grunt and turn back for the dungeons.
The armory is in sorrier shape than I imagined. Boxes that used to be overflowing with stun grenades and sleep potions sit empty, a few broken pieces left. The scant tactical vests are run down, straps broken, punctures and rips going through pockets and holsters. It’s a wonder we’re holding out in this war at all.
Footsteps on the stairs pull my attention, and I turn to face Cecillia. She rounds the corner with her attention on the clothes in her hands. When she finally looks up just a few feet from me, she starts with a yelp.
“Looming just for laughs, are you?” she asks, holding her chest.
“I didn’t laugh.”
She scowls. “What’re you doin’ down here?”
“Taking stock.”
“Do ya ever say more than five words at a time?” She moves toward the row of disabled vests.
“Sometimes.”
She scoffs, shaking her head as she hangs up the repaired vests and grabs the next section of damaged ones. “You get that girl to sleep yet?”
I frown at the termgirlbeing applied to my dragon but nod. “Yes.”
Cecillia turns with her arms full of damaged gear. “And have you rested?”
“Some.” I find myself falling in step with her, offering my hands to take some of the load. She rolls the top of the pile into my grasp, and I walk with her to the stairs.
She clucks her tongue in time with the click-clacking of her shoes on the stone steps. “You kids, so willing to sacrifice yourselves not even realizing that’s exactly how we get less of you.”
A Cecilliaism, as the Bloodletter would say, but one that does make sense. “I think we’re all just doing our best.”
She hums, an eyebrow raised to a critical point. We arrive at the second-floor room that used to be—if Zane is to be believed—a teleporter of some kind that now serves as a storage and crafting room. Several shelves of goods line the walls to the left, and boxes of materials sit in organized piles between them.
“Get whatever you’re working on and sit with me,” Cecillia says, finding a table to the right and sparking the magus light to life. An orange glow hums across the table, and she pulls up two chairs.
