Page 61 of The War of Wings
“What’d you find?” she asked, her voice still weary with sleep as she straightened, a cautious hope entering her heavy eyes. Even Miles stopped, his face still down but his gaze on me.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“No promises,” Petra answered. “Read it.”
My stomach felt like it was in my throat as I began to read. “There are no relics definitively proven to belong to, or have belonged to, any Saint in the Human Realm. There are, however, a handful of relics that some scholars claim to be those of Saints, each with varying levels of evidence.”
“Saints’ relics?” Petra asked, eyes narrowed, the last of sleep fading from her eyes.
I nodded. “Yeah. Katia and Rhedros have their crowns. Idros has a staff that he uses to command storms. Onera has a scepter. A few of them have swords, like Liara, Faldyr, and–”
“Noros,” Miles cut in. “The Saint of Pain carries a sword.”
I nodded, my eyes flicking back down to the page in front of me as I continued reading. “It should also be noted, that due to the widely accepted prophecy of the Daughter of Katia and the subsequent curse of Noros as prophesied, many scholars believe Noros’ fabled blade, Aegrabane, may be somewhere in the Human Realm. It would, however, contain none of its true power. That can only be wielded in the Saints’ Realm.” I looked back between Petra and Miles. “That feels important, right?”
Petra's lips were parted, her eyes distant as her brain whirred behind them. “That’s it. Holy shit, that’s it! Maybe we can’t find Noros, but we could try to find his blade. Maybe it has inscriptions or carvings orsomethingthat can help us. Maybe it can summon Noros.” She ran her hand over her mouth, and I watched the bright hope dim in her eyes before her head began to shake. “No,” she quickly said as she worked the problem through. “How the hell could we possibly find his blade when we can’t even find him? Where would we even begin?”
I straightened, my palms flattening on the table as it hit me. “Noros’ temple,” I blurted. “It’s here in Araqina.”
Petra’s entire face brightened with hope again. The look was like a dagger in my chest knowing that optimism was probably for nothing. “Really?”
Miles let his book fall shut and pushed back from the table. “Let’s go.”
Petra reared back. “Now? It’s past midnight.”
Less than a second later and Miles was prowling toward the door, each step heavy. “Malosym isn’t going to wait. Neither should we.”
Panic bottomed out in my gut. Petra’s wide eyes shot to me for only a split second before she stood and followed Miles to the door.
Through the library, down the winding halls and staircases of Araqina’s castle, and out the arched doors. We didn’t even stop to call a carriage. We were on our way.
To find Aegrabane.
Chapter 24
Petra
We’d been so determined, we’d forgone a carriage and made the idiotic, sleep-deprived decision to make our way to Noros’ temple on foot. After the first mile, I considered simply curling up in the middle of the street and falling asleep. It was around the second mile when I started thinking about curling up in the middle of the street and dying, instead.
Despite the late hour, the city was alive around us. Music seemed to be playing on every other street as pubs swallowed patrons and spit them back out stumbling drunk. Merchants pushed carts through the city, shouting about the fabrics or jewelry or pastries they peddled. I heard passing murmurs of the prophecy and the Daughter of Katia, of the Saints and drivas.
“One of them picked me up in their talons and dropped me three streets over,” a man slurred from an alleyway. “I swear it!”
“Horseshit,” another man answered, and I fought a smile. I could tell Cal was fighting one off, too.
I peered through the dusty windows of a crowded pub as we passed, and I couldn’t help but smile as I watched couples spinning around, arm-in-arm, heads thrown back with laughter.
And then the sorrow crept in, souring the warm feeling in my gut with cold, bitter reality. These people had no fucking clue what was coming.
“Fancy a moboqini?”
I turned to see a vendor walking behind us, his cart laden with flowers, their delicate petals the color of butter. The wordsMoboqini Blooms, Three Pencewere painted on a piece of wood nailed to the front of the cart.
“Fuck off,” Miles snapped, continuing his walking.
“No, thank you,” I said politely, as if my words could be a bandage over the sharpness of Miles’.
“Oh, come on,” the merchant said, unbothered by Miles’ refusal. “It’s bad luck not to lay a flower at the feet of the Lost Heir on his birthday.”
