Chapter 1 The Syndicate: Malcolm


Malcolm Thorpe's specialty was taking risks, but stepping into a trap was a gamble even he hadn’t seen coming. The shop that he, Zedock Cannon, and Rowena Blackridge had chosen for their heist should have been empty. Instead, the safe they intended to crack sat tauntingly in the dim light of the dirty window, exactly where their intel had indicated.What the informant had conveniently left out was that ten members of the Haelscape Gang stood guard in front of the safe, and at their center was the notorious crime lord Bennet Octavius Sterling.
“Sterling, what a pleasant surprise,” Malcolm said, the epitome of cool and calm. Even though he didn’t feel calm, he refused to let his voice waver. He wouldn’t let them see him sweat. He adjusted his top hat and inclined it towards the crime lord.
Behind Malcolm, Rowena looked at Zedock, and he glanced back at her tightly. Malcolm knew Rowena’s hands would be twitching in anticipation as she watched the scene unfold. He was surprised she hadn’t gone for her dagger right then. Malcolm had gotten them into some shit before, but it had never escalated to something as pressing as their current predicament.
“You’re elusive, Thorpe,” Sterling said, adjusting the lapels of his three piece suit, the white lines echoing the white on the sides of his hair. “Like a rat that scuttles back to the sewers.”
Malcolm shrugged. “I think I smell better than vermin.” He turned back to see Rowena as he said it, a coy smile playing on his lips. Her magenta eyes widened at his retort. He knew she would chastise him for it later. Something about adding fuel to the fire, but she and Zedock had known him since they were children and he knew they expected it of him. Nothing should have surprised them at that point. Zedock stifled a laugh, covering it with a cough as Sterling’s jaw ticked in annoyance.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed on them, rolling his tongue over his teeth. With a nod of his head, one of the Helions, as they were called, rolled up the sleeves of his white button down and strode towards Malcolm.
“Wait, wait,” Malcolm said, hands splayed in front of him, as a punch to his gut sent the air from his lungs. It was as if the fist had hit his spine. Coughing, Malcolm put one hand out to pause the Helion who’d hit him, while the other clutched at his stomach. Rowena and Zedock moved towards their companion ever so slightly, afraid the movement would antagonize the coterie further.
“You stole from me, Thorpe, and I want it back.” If Sterling’s words were ice, they’d be able to see their breath.
“I have it,” Malcolm coughed.
Sterling sat in the chair of the modest desk, his coterie parting like the Red Sea as he moved. Picking his feet up, he crossed them delicately on top.
“You see,” he began, lacing his fingers in front of him. “The medallion is from the Northern Blood Witches, very rare indeed, and I want it back.” The desire to wipe Sterling’s cocky grin off his face was nearly overwhelming. 
“Blood witches?” Rowena whispered, nearly gasping at the words. Malcolm turned his ear slightly in her direction, hearing the anxiety in her voice. She had worked hard to stay away from them after she defected. Rowena cleared her throat and slowly moved her hands behind her back. The movement behind Malcolm caught his attention. He needed to keep the coterie distracted to give Rowena enough time.
“That could be a problem,” Malcolm said slowly, trailing his attention back to Sterling.
“T,” Zedock warned, using the letter of his last name as a nickname that he’d called Malcolm since they were children. Malcolm put his hand out to steady his companion before Zedock could move in front of him. He knew what he was doing, he hoped. They were absolutely outnumbered– he just needed to give Rowena time to craft the sigil on her hand with the concealed dagger she had. All they would need was a few moments. Malcolm walked towards Sterling who was still lounging casually. The crime lord looked up at him lazily, his cronies shifting uncomfortably at his proximity, ever the good dogs, they wouldn’t attack unless told.
“And why is that?” Sterling asked.
“Because I gave it to a seductress at The Claw,” Malcolm said, and he placed one hand on the table showing pale skin marred with tattoos and scars, grey eyes glinting, hat tipping to the side to reveal one side of his head closely shaved while the other sported hair down to his chin. He leaned towards Sterling as if letting him in on a secret. “I let her have it after she told me my cock was bigger than yours.” Malcolm smiled, pearly whites behind full lips.
Sterling’s face grew a bright shade of red, and he lunged out of the chair.
“You filthy piece of sewer shit,” Sterling sputtered, spit flying with every word. The coterie made to grab Malcolm, and he dove out of their oncoming arms.
“Now!” Malcolm yelled.
Without a warning, Rowena placed her hand on the side of a bookcase by the door they’d entered. Her hand was now inked in her own blood with the sigil to pause time. The entire coterie paused mid grab, angry faces splayed, spit particles hovering in mid air from Sterling. Malcolm was thankful that she’d learned how to pause only those she wished. In the beginning when she was learning to use her magic, Malcolm and Zedock had their fair share of lost time, but she’d become adept. 
“Let’s go,” Rowena said. “We don’t have long. It’ll hold them for mere minutes.”
“One second,” Malcolm said as he walked towards Sterling.
“T, let’s go,” Zedock’s deep voice said nervously, his chocolate brown eyes shifting back and forth matched the richness of his skin. “We’re outnumbered here.” 
“Yes, yes, one minute,” Malcolm said and undid Sterling’s belt buckle as he stood frozen. Quickly Malcolm pulled the crime lord’s pants to the ground, pooling around his ankles. “Help me with this,” Malcolm said to Zedock.
“Ugh,” Zedock groaned as he moved towards the Helion with an outstretched fist. “Why do you have to make things worse?”
“Little levity,” Malcolm laughed. Together they turned the frozen Helion towards the one behind him, setting up a swift punch to the face. Malcolm stepped back to assess their work. “Yes, that should do it.”
Rowena rolled her eyes, and the three left the office, shutting the door. Seconds later sounds resumed. Shouting and cursing along with a loud fall followed them as they ran out of the storefront and onto the street beyond.
The three wove between the people-flooded streets as their feet rapidly pounded down the cobblestones evading horse drawn carriages and newly crafted automobiles.
“You’re a stupid piece of shit, T,” Zedock yelled over the crowd as they ran.
Malcolm laughed in response and Rowena couldn’t help but crack a smile. Gilded shops raced by them, cloistered in stone and iron, shooting high into the sky. Women called as they passed The Claw, Vicerona’s finest establishment. Plumes of smoke parted in waves as they made their way around a corner, placing their backs against the wall.
“Think they will follow?” Rowena asked, peering around the corner.
“I think they will be tied up for a while,” Malcolm laughed.
“Do you ever take anything seriously? How old are you?” Rowena chastised, her brown eyes narrowing as she moved her short raven black hair behind her ears.
“Twenty-six, my dear Rowena,” Malcolm bowed mockingly.
“That was rhetorical. We're the same age, you dolt. You don't see me acting like a child.”
“More importantly, who was your informant?” Zedock asked.
Malcolm looked at him sheepishly. “Badger,” he finally said.
“Badger!” Zedock put his hands to his face, rubbing it. “You took information from Badger? The guy’s a snake.”
Rowena looked around the corner again and brought her attention back to the men.
“We can’t stay here. Let’s get off the street. Then we can talk about your idiocy,” she said and gave a pointed look to Malcolm, who shrugged. With one last look around the corner, she started across the street, Malcolm and Zedock close behind.
The tavern they settled on wasn’t nearly as nice as The Claw; no temptresses walked the floor, and no bawdy brawlers fought over cards. They chose a table towards the wall, the better to blend in, and Malcolm sat, head bowed low, top hat covering his eyes.
“What’ll it be lovies?” a full figured woman in a corset with frill skirts asked.
“Ale,” Zedock said, giving her a weak grin.
“Same, sweetheart,” Malcolm said, raising his gaze ever so slightly, peering at her with his piercing grey eyes. His lopsided grin displayed a dimple on his right cheek. The woman blushed at his gaze.
“Water,” Rowena answered, rolling her eyes. The woman left, turning once more to look back at Malcolm, and he smiled winningly.
Rowena scoffed, “So, what are we going to do? We were supposed to pay some debts with that job.” She spun her dagger in her fingers absentmindedly.
“I was going to get my mother the silks she’s been eyeing,” Zedock said. He sat back in his chair, hands running over his bald, tattooed head.
Malcolm eyed him. “Say, when you wash your face, how far up do you go? Do you stop where you think your hair would be?” He motioned with his hand atop his own head.
Zedock looked at him blankly. “You're a foul asshole, you know that?”
Malcolm shrugged and stared at his companions, who looked at him expectantly.
“Ok,” he started, hands slapping the table. “We’re going to find Badger and see exactly why he gave us bad intel. See if he will make it up to us.”
Malcolm sat back in his chair as the maid brought their drinks. He winked at her as she left and slugged down the acrid, brown liquid. It was hearty, infused with smoked spices. Badger had another thing coming to him for setting them up. The bookie rat knew most of the inner workings of Undercity and had never failed him before, but this would be the last and only time.
“What if he doesn’t tell us?” Zedock asked. Rowena looked at Malcolm as well.
Malcolm thought for a moment, took a sip, and set his drink down. “Then we take some toes. Badgers need their hands to burrow, after all.”

Chapter 2 Avalon

Chapter 2:
Avalon 
Avalon Tremaine stared out of the ornate window of Gilded Heights in the solar of the castle; the curtain billowed in the breeze that flew in, which moved her long, golden, blonde hair. She had a clear view of Vicerona, the rogue city her father, the King, allowed to run amok despite all manners of depravity occurring there, especially in Undercity. From thieving and illegal gambling to Bennett Sterling’s group of Helions and stories of The Hand—an assassin’s guild for hire—her father ignored it all. She watched as the pluming smoke joined with the clouds and massaged her sore shoulder. Yendrel hadn’t gone easy on her, and she wouldn’t expect him to. A knock sounded on her door.
“Enter,” she called, not bothering to look towards the door. Angling herself slightly, she wanted to cover the bruises on her arm. No need for unnecessary questions she wouldn’t answer anyway.
“Excuse me, Princess; the King has requested your presence in the throne room.” The meek voice of the servant echoed in her vast bedroom.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be right there,” she said, turning to him offering a weak smile. The servant shut the door behind him with a resounding click. Sighing, Ava grabbed her cloak from the armoire and shrugged it around herself. Training with Yenrel had always been her favorite pastime, but as she’d gotten older, the old man rarely let her win. This last time had been particularly brutal, although she eventually bested him and for that she was proud.
Ava checked her reflection in her floor length mirror, assuring herself that her bruises were covered. Her father would not have wanted her to fight, and had Yendrel been a Dragon, his form would have been bound- a fate worse than death. Ava had seen bound Dragons go mad in their dungeons, unable to shift from the blood magic her kind had stolen from the Blood Witches. She loved Yendrel too much to risk her father’s wrath, so she needed to be careful.
“Good day, Princess,” a courtier wearing a fine hooped gown said as she passed, light streaming in from the high arched windows in the corridor. Ava refused to wear the fashion of the courtiers and instead wore a modest day dress without the hoop. Three other courtiers looked on at the exchange eagerly, and Ava gave a strained smile as she walked by. The woman, wanting to gain favor with the Princess, smiled as she passed. Such frauds, these courtiers. No one liked Ava because of who she was. They all wanted something from her, and she couldn’t stand it. The only true friend she had was Yendrel, who was more of a father than Teris Termaine had ever been. 
She walked down the hallway, remembering the halls as a child, running among the lords and ladies. She’d once come in from a riding lesson, covered in mud having been thrown from the horse, and her father had made her clean up that very hall with a horse grooming brush and then refused her dinner. Yendrel had brought food to her that evening. Warmth washed through her at the thought of her mentor. Yendrel had also been the one to read to her as a child, teach her how to tie her shoes, and oversee her instructors when they’d treated her unfairly. Teris Tremaine didn’t even know about the scars on her knees from the trees she climbed. He couldn’t be bothered.
Ava waited as the guards opened the door for her at the entrance to the throne room. It was sickening at how lavish it was when they had so many poor to contend with. Not to mention the Dragons in Dragonflight who lived in basic squalor while Ava and her father sat in their gilded castle atop Gilded Heights. The castle was accurately named, of course.
Shaking the thoughts away, she put on her best courtly face before entering. Teris Termaine sat lazily on his throne atop a dais at the front of the room. His advisors stood around him, Yendrel to the left, patiently and simply listening.
“The Blood Witches of the North have been most troublesome,” Aidis, Teris’s General lamented, “and don’t get me started on the Dragon Shifter scum that sit to the East. They need to be eradicated, to say the least.”
Ava stood quietly to the side waiting for the King’s acknowledgment. When he was ready, he would call her over, and she could find out why she’d been summoned. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long. She had plans later.
“Yes, yes,” Teris said, waving a hand absently at Aidis. “Their labor is invaluable though. We can’t eradicate them. We may not have to.” He gave Aidis a knowing smile, and Ava’s stomach rolled. “The Blood Witches, though,” he continued, “they are an issue that must be dealt with, and only if the Dragons continue to overstep, will we intervene.”
Aidis’s lips thinned into a tight line, clearly displeased. How long was this going to take? Ava cleared her throat, feigning innocence. All attention turned to her.
“Ah, yes, daughter,” Teris said, sitting up straighter. “I have wonderful news for you.”
“I am waiting with bated breath, my King.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but he wouldn’t notice. Yendrel did though and watched her tightly. He would probably scold her later for the way she spoke. He knew her sarcasm.
“As you know, we are under constant threat of attack from the Northern Blood Witches,” Teris began. Yes, because humans stole their blood magic, of course they would be angry, Ava thought. She kept her face a mask of neutrality. “As well as the Dragon vermin that plague our lands.”
“I wouldn’t call them vermin,” she said more to herself than to the King.
“What was that?” Aidis interjected.
“What?” Ava asked, inclining her head. Teris looked to Aidis and back to Ava.
“We need to strengthen our forces,” Teris said finally, averting his gaze from his daughter.
“Are you opening conscription?” she asked.
“No, not now. If the Dragon Shifters lose their worth, that may be on the horizon. No. I am proposing a marriage.”
“Marriage? For you? Is that wise?” Was she to have a stepmother again? Her father had married three times prior after her mother had been killed by Dragons. All of his wives had perished in one way or another, with whispers among the servants that he had been cursed by the Blood Witches for having stolen their magic. Her father gave her a dry look. He knew of the whispers, but never acknowledged them publicly.
“No, Avalon, for you.” His dry gaze turned languid, like a cat that caught the canary. Ava’s mouth went dry. She would rather rot in the dungeons than marry someone, as marriage itself was a prison of its own. It took all of her strength not to say what she was thinking, the words biting.
“My King,” she said as she took a calming breath. “I don’t think that is the way to strengthen our rule.”
He waved her away and continued, “Prince Edmund of Ditrius. He comes from a noble lineage, and his kingdom boasts formidable strength.”
Her own strength waned, and she closed her fists tight, nails forming crescent moons where they dug into her pale palms. “Don’t you think the way to manage the Dragons is to help them? Maybe they would be more inclined to enlist if we gave a shit about them.”
Teris stood abruptly, strode towards Ava, and raised his hand to strike her. She stared with hazel eyes, green flecks highlighted by her green cloak, into his muddy brown ones, chin raised, never flinching. She’d learned over the years that he only fed on her fear, and she wouldn’t give that to him. Teris slowly lowered his hand, nostrils flaring, and placed it at his side, fist clenched.
“I should strike you for your insolence, Daughter.” He spat the word.
“I do not want to marry the Prince,” she said, voice strong. Let him strike her. It wouldn’t change her feelings or her resolve.
“Your feelings on the matter are inconsequential. This is a matter of duty and survival. You will marry Prince Edmund, and that is final.” He turned away from her.
Anger surged within her. She would not be a pawn in his game for power. Her entire life had been about propriety and what was best for him. If she ever changed her mind about marriage, she refused to allow him to dictate who she married, who she spent the rest of her life with, and she certainly wouldn’t stay to watch him kill innocent people, Dragonshifters or not.
“No,” she said. All eyes were on her, and Teris faced her slowly.
“You have a duty to this kingdom. We can’t all get what we want, and how awful it must be to be you, Princess, wanting for nothing. You are ungrateful and disobedient.”
“What will you do if I refuse? Lock me away? I’ve been locked away for twenty-five years. What’s one more?”
“You should have been married years ago, but I allowed… this,” he waved his hand absently at her, “notion you have of freedom. You think not marrying makes you free, but we are the rulers of this Kingdom and have obligations. We are never free, Avalon. We are always bound by our duty,” he yelled. Anger ricocheting off the cavernous throne room walls.
“I don’t want those duties!” she shouted back, as his daughter, not his Princess.
“I don’t care what you want! You will marry Edmund, and that is all there is to discuss.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes, anger forcing its way out of her. She would not cry. Crying was a weakness, and she was not weak, especially not in front of the men that wished to sell her like a broodmare.
“You are dismissed,” Teris said as he sat back on his throne. “Tell me about our northern battlement, Aidis,” he said, looking away from her. She stood there a moment longer. Heat scalded her cheeks. Turning on her heel, she exited the throne room, not bothering to give them a second glance.
***
Ava found herself in the hidden training yard she and Yendrel practiced in. It had been her mother’s garden, so she was told, which was now in disarray since the King forbade anyone from entering. It was to her advantage though, since it meant she could practice with Yendrel undisturbed. She navigated the sword, which had become another extension of herself, and hacked away unceremoniously at the only tree in the courtyard. Bark flew with every hit.
How could he expect her to marry Edmund? He was a sniveling swine. Hack. Entitled. Hack. Pompous. Hack. Horrendously ugly. Hack.
“You’re going to break the sword,” a voice sounded behind her. Jumping, she saw Yendrel dressed in his deep purple robes signifying his Chancellor status within the kingdom.
“I don’t know,” she said, proceeding her attack on the tree. “I just sharpened it.”
“Ava,” he replied softly.
She paused and dropped the sword down to her side.
“How can he do this to me?” she asked.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she winced slightly.
“Your shoulder is still bothering you?” he asked, concern lining his withered features.
“No,” she lied, and he gave her a pointed look. “Ok, maybe a little,” she conceded.
“I’ll have a tonic made.” He smiled gently.
“We wouldn’t even need reinforcements if he hadn’t stolen the blood magic to begin with. All of this is his fault, and I have to suffer.”
“We wouldn’t be where we are today if he hadn’t stolen the blood magic,” Yendrel said softly. “Our war with the Witches only took a turn when we were able to use their power against them.”
What could she say? Blood Witches were terrifying, and from what her tutors taught her, they had wanted to enslave humans and dragon kind. That was until Teris Tremaine, hero of all the lands, found a way to take their magic and use it, turning the tides in the war and forcing them into the North. The Blood Witches were the stories parents told their children when they wanted them to stay in bed at night.
“I’m not marrying him.” She moved out of his grasp and resumed her assault on the tree. She needed to figure out how to get out of it. There had to be something she could do to stop the marriage. Maybe she would find someone to take her maidenhead. Then, she would be sullied goods, and no one would want her. Surely if Edmund found out, he wouldn’t take her. The thought of their wedding night made her want to vomit.
“He will be here in two days,” Yendrel said.
“What?” She whirled on him.
“Aidis said as much after you left.”
She shook her head in disbelief. Not only would she have to figure a way out, but it would need to be soon.

Chapter 3:

Keagan

“Keagan, bring that here, son,” Narinth Ragnor said weakly, pointing to the bale of hay Keagan unloaded from the wagon. It smells like—” he paused, coughing brutally into his closed fist, “—a storm might come in, and we need to patch the roof.”
Keagan nodded and did as he was told, throwing the bale of hay effortlessly over his shoulder. Straw prodded his muscled arm through his white linen shirt, sweat beading on his forehead under his auburn hair. He tossed the locks out of his amber eyes as he walked, ignoring the stinging sensation of the bale as he went. His father stood on the front porch of their modest two story home. Modest because six of them filled the tiny rooms, but most Dragons in Dragonflight didn’t sport such lavish dens. Keagan, his younger brother Cyndare, and their father had built the house from the ground up seven years prior when he had been only twenty.
Keagan placed the hay on the porch, his father bending gently to take apart the twine that held it together.
“Stop. Let me do it,” Keagan instructed. “Sit down, old man. You’ll hurt yourself.” He smiled at his father with warmth. Narinth eased his way into the rocking chair, using his handmade walking stick to alleviate the pressure.
“I can still out fly you, fledgling, even as worn as I am.” Narinth made to hit Keagan with the stick, but he jumped out of the way just in time. His father laughed, which turned into a coughing fit again. Leathery hands, worn with work and age, covered his mouth as he coughed. Although he was pushing two hundred, his auburn hair, same as all the Ragnor children, held its fiery sheen.
“Ugh,” Narinth growled in frustration.
“Calm down,” a voice like chimes said as a figure emerged from the doorway carrying a glass of water. Sagir Ragnor handed her husband the water and stayed until he finished the glass. She eyed him warmly; their affection for one another palpable. “Leave your father alone,” she chastised Keagan.
“He started it,” Keagan replied, winking at his father.
“Take the hay up to the roof. I’ll patch it later.” Narinth leaned back in the rocking chair and closed his eyes. Keagan watched him, heart wrenching with worry.
“Come,” his mother said, holding out a hand and ushering Keagan inside.
A fire blazed in the hearth, even though it was a warm day. It could never be warm enough for their Dragon bodies. Keagan stepped over the curled, sleeping body of his youngest sister, Iza, side stepping the rocks she liked to collect and hoard, as he went into the kitchen area of their open bottom floor where Yevane, his second kirnn, sat in a chair reading.
Keagan snatched the book out of her hand, and she flailed wildly, trying to reach it.
“Give it back!” she cried, jumping to reach the book while he laughed at her effort.
“Come get it, little fledgling,” he chuckled.
“I’m no fledgling,” she huffed. “I’ll be thirteen tomorrow!” She jumped and snatched the book from his grasp. He laughed as she gave him a withering look as she went back to reading.
“I don’t care that you’ll grow your wings tomorrow. You’re still a fledgling.” He kissed the top of her head, and she shoved him off. Ever since Narinth came down with Scaleblight, the name the Dragons had given the sickness, Keagan felt obligated to care for his family. It was his responsibility as the eldest son when his Drakor, his father, became ill.
“He’s getting worse, Dra’fara,” Keagan said, the moniker sticking from the time he was a child. It didn’t matter if it was a term fledglings called their mothers; he wouldn’t change it.
“I know,” Sagir said quietly, worry etched on her tired face. “It’s getting worse. Gresyn’s wife passed away last week, and it hit Endra’s fledgling too.”
“Is Endra’s child going to live?” he asked. It hurt him that his people were hurting so badly. The blight that was plaguing his people grew daily, targeting newly fledged dragons and older ones, like his father. It seemed to take its time with the elders, as if their bodies were hardy enough to withstand the rot that infiltrated. The fledglings weren’t so lucky though, and it ripped through them faster.
“I don’t think so,” she said sadly.
“Do you think Drakor will live?” He looked wistfully towards the door.
Sigir shook her head. “I don’t know.” Tears welled in her eyes. She was the strongest woman he knew, and watching her fall apart was more than he could bear. He wrapped his mother in his arms, and she let him hug her, slumping into them. “We’ve already lost Gareth.” She shook her head into the crook of his arm. “I couldn’t bear to lose your Drakor too.”
“I know, Dra’fara, I know.” He held her tightly, wishing to hug away the pain of his lost brother and sick father.
“You’re a good son, Keagan.” She stepped back and placed her hand on his cheek. He smiled at her warmly.
“Better than Cyndare?” he asked wryly. “I’m your favorite; you can say it.”
She laughed. “I don’t have favorites. You know this.”
“But if you did, it would be me.”
A whooshing sound of air came from outside, and Keagan watched as Yevane ran to the window.
“Cyndare is back!” she called and bounded outside. Keagan followed, checking on his father momentarily, who was sound asleep in the chair, breath even. Cyndare landed in front of their house, wings beating steadily to land without breaking the crops on either side of him. His red scales glistened in the sunlight, showing an iridescent blue as he moved. He landed with a shake of his head, and his large form shrank in on itself until he was a man standing before them.
“Put some clothes on,” Keagan called to Cyndare as Yevane giggled beside him. “Go back inside,” he said, leaning down to his youngest sister. With a groan, she turned around and stomped back inside. 
“Why, Brother? Do I make you insecure?” Cyndare laughed as he strode towards the house bare as the day he was born.
“I would be insecure if you weren’t still waiting for your balls to drop,” Keagan replied.
“At least I know how to use what I have,” his brother quipped.
“Your hand doesn’t count.”
The exchange ended as Cyndare embraced Keagan in a solid hug. Keagan slapped him on the back, smiling, and said, “You smell.”
“Better than you, I gather.” His boyish grin was infectious. Cyndare was a spitting image of their mother with her emerald green eyes, except for the auburn hair they received from their father. Keagan was six years Cyndare’s senior, and as he got older, their relationship grew closer, a fact Keagan was thankful for. Sometimes, when he wasn’t being a shithead, he took the load off of Keagan, which he appreciated.
“Did you get it?” Keagan asked.
Cyndare’s smiling face turned sour.
“No,” he shook his head. “The healer said there has been an increase in illness, and they’re waiting for Alestraza to send in supplies.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Keagan blanched. “Alestraza isn’t going to send in supplies. They couldn’t care less about us.” He looked to their father whose mouth hung open in sleep. He would have to move him to his bed soon.
Cyndare watched alongside him. “What do we do?” he asked.
Keagan thought for a moment, biting his full bottom lip in thought.
“I have to go get some.”
Cyndare’s eyes went wide. “You can't,” he said.
“Watch me.”
“No one gets over the wall. You’ll be bound for sure.” Caution laced his words.
Keagan inclined his head and gave his brother a wry grin. “You up for a little mischief?”
Cyndare stared at him. “When am I not, Brother?” He held his hand out, and Keagan clasped it. They smiled at one another.
“Ok,” Keagan started, “you’re making this weird. Put some clothes on.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Cyndare said and walked inside.