Page 18 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Just the damn smell,” he grumbled, ducking beneath an awning as the clouds opened above and a light rain pattered across the stones.

Myrella grinned up at him. “Really? Are you sure it’s not⁠—”

“Ah, ah!” Desmond cut her off, holding up a finger. Water drops clung to her dark hair and rapidly fluttering lashes. “It’s nothing. If anything gave you any idea otherwise, you’re dreaming it up in the pretty little sunshine-filled head of yours.” He tapped her temple as if to seal her lies in there.

Myrella feigned a very serious expression, her brows pulling together as she nodded, lips twitching. “Of course. I must have imagined it.”

Desmond squinted at her, but he had to admit, it was a relief she found moments to smile. Many of the nights on the journey here had ended with her tears. His, too, sometimes. It had developed an alliance between them. A friendship.

Although, when her taunting smirk returned, Desmond thought she was more of an aggravating little sister than a friend. And he certainly shouldn’t have told her anything he wanted hidden, given her proclivity to talk. Regret poked at his mind, but a few too many drinks and way too many days looking at the inside of that cabin had loosened his lips.

He’d have to pretend otherwise. Pretend the problem away until he found either a solution or an iron will.

“Keep walking, little dreamer.” Desmond turned back toward the stables, but he’d barely taken a step before Myrella gripped his wrist. “I know you can’t ride well, but one horse is cheaper than two anyway, and⁠—”

“That’s not it⁠—”

“—we need to get out of this damn fish-infested port⁠—”

“Desmond!” she whisper-shouted.

He flicked a look down at her. Her sunken cheeks were pale, shadow-framed eyes wide and stricken. He spun to the street, scanning the carts and ships. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you see who I’m seeing?” she muttered, leaning around his broad frame.

Myrella wasn’t looking at the docks or the horribly overpriced shops, nor was she looking at the stables ahead. Her gaze was on the sanctuary neighboring the grassy square.

“Who are⁠—”

But he didn’t even get out the full question before he found the familiar, perfectly trimmed head of silver hair and a trademark pristine navy cloak hemmed in expensive silk, a Lyra sigil broach clasping it.

Desmond narrowed his eyes at the figure striding out of a hut attached to the sanctuary.

His best friend’s sword was heavy against his back as he growled, “What in the Fatesdamned realms is the Temple Master doing on the continent?”

Chapter Seven

Emmeline

There was a colossal arena on the border of the Fifth and Sixth Districts in Valyn, the curved facade jutting into the wide street between the inner and outer rings of capital districts. One end was partially in ruins, the top few tiers of stone seats collapsed. A cypher-lined walkway dotted with monuments stretched out from the dilapidated entrance, the interior baring large chunks of stone as if it had been preserved since the day it fell.

But despite the collapsed end, from her position in the Chancellor’s private box along the third tier of seats, the feat of architecture took Emmeline’s breath away.

Arches rimmed what was left of the top, each with a statue of Valyrie denoting a key point in the Angel’s history. Elaborate carvings sculpted the exterior, telling stories of ancient battles and myths. The grandeur of the entire arena was worthy of legend, and Emmeline’s skin tingled as if expansive history and magic lay beneath the very earth.

Emmeline thought back to last night. Prior to being attacked, she’d theorized each district was modeled to honor a different Fate. Given the position of this arena between the Fifth and Sixth, she’d confidently wager those were dedicated to Arenothos and Anhala, the two Fates who notoriously meddled in warfare.

The sun was high in the sky, warm rays splaying over the dirt floor in the center of the arena. Roaring fans piled into rows of seats, blue and purple streamers waving in the hands of children and making the entire crowd look like a rippling sea.

“This place is incredible,” Emmeline admitted as the advisors Rocarri hoped to appoint to his council filed into their box.

The hopeful-Chancellor hadn’t made an appearance yet, but his guests were dressed in a variety of ceremonial leathers, robes, and gowns, all as resplendent and expensive as the dresses she and Alana wore.

Many of them nodded in her direction, and Emmeline mentally recited the names and titles she’d learned so far, taking note of who could potentially have information on the temple trades or Roremar’s whereabouts.

She tuned out the eyes that lingered on her a bit too long. The whispers that crawled across her skin as she passed.

“It isn’t used often,” Alana explained. “It’s become more of a figurehead than a true fighting arena.”