The Dagger's Wrath (BOOK 1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a really interesting one and adds history to Questeria! :)

Sir Robb Marnyll, the Lightlands

The second week of Rkinto ended as Malom's sun passed, transforming the Bay of Eran into a tantalizing display of lamplights, performances and the inner loudness of inns.

Sir Robb Marnyll's Stormen, silky white hair was put up in a small ponytail at the near top of his head, the rest cascading down the front of his shoulders. His emerald green eyes scanned the streets of the shore, watching as visitors, civilians and merchants alike all chittered like birds upon the dazzling Blue Stream that continued to be beautifully intricate each year that passed.

He would wait every autumn to see those waters travel down their path. Every single autumn.

The air was hot and unventilated; he couldn't even imagine how these people walked through the streets with their thick material wrapped around their sweating bodies like an uncomfortable family embrace. He clutched onto his shirt before ripping it off, feeling the raw material struggle against his slightly damp skin. His muscles tensed as he threw the shirt off the edge of the wall that supported the Bay from the city. He had to get used to the warm air on his skin. Hopefully.

He ran a large hand through his hair before sheathing his Galesword, making sure it was locked tight into its scabbard. Gulping, he prayed to the Thainic god of life, "Ghan ii trenm minos." Those words carried throughout the Thainish language with him and all of its worshipers. It never lost a battle.

Shirtless, he took a step into the crowd, surveying the thick surroundings of the throng, his vision entering the eyes of a hundred—or possibly a thousand—other people. Everybody was so interested in him, like he was completely sucked into this abyss where there was nothing to see except a light upon him. He didn't know what to feel other than embarrassment and betrayal. Vrak'lanis would be staring over him now, watching as he portrayed the god's emotions and life source.

Silver, silver, silver, silver, thief, thief, money, gold, the thoughts swarmed into his head like a nest of hailvipers attacking him any moment they got, their large orange stingers clutching onto his skin, ripping off the flesh and feeding on it. That was the thing about them: they were so small, but once there were too many, there wasn't anything you could concentrate on but the little flying pests.

The First Hour would arrive soon, the beginning of the next day. Jejuch would begin, and as of such so would the third week of the month. Sir Marnyll held his breath, returning the loyalty within the air to his chest, before releasing it to the world. He was a betrayer, a betrayer of the people that he had loved. Some had called him the Disgusted, some the Daunted, but he called himself Marnyll the Forgotten. He was nothing but a lost memory, lost in time, lost in the waters of the world.

Beneath his boots were cold stone, cold as he could feel. It was rough, before it smoothed out at the cracks that war and battle had made it. He paced through the crowd once more, continuing his walk, searching for the marketplace. That was all he had wanted and all he had ever destined to be that night—a thief. A cold-blooded rotten thief with the respect of silver and the flash of a dangerous smile. Soon, he would become a moneygrubber, a legionnaire.

Sir Marnyll had hidden The History of Magic beneath the blanket of a dozing drunk, forever hoping that the drunk wouldn't wake up. Even if he did, Robb was sure enough that a drunken homeless man wouldn't want to pick up a book about the history of Infusion and Decay. It was absurd and intimidating, for gods' sake.