Book 2 The Skybreaker
A Sneak Peek
Wren and Griffon’s journey continues…
The following is an advance preview and may differ from the final published edition.
Spoilers ahead for The Stargazer.
I always imagined Griffon would look terrible with a double chin, but I hadn’t expected to see proof nailed to a tavern wall.
The vandalized wanted poster bore only a passing resemblance to the fugitive assassin at my elbow. I cocked my head, studying the damage like a sculptor confronted with a tragic lump of clay. It seemed that treason and a creative bit of charcoal were the most efficient ways to ruin a handsome face.
A furious unibrow stretched thick enough to shelter birds, burying the scar that split his brow.
Crow's feet radiated from eyes decades too young for them.
His hair, normally sun-streaked and unruly, had been smudged into a sinister black, as if villainy required a deeper hue.
Even the tilt of his mouth drooped into something sour.
Which, to be fair, was not entirely inaccurate. The man scowled the way other men breathed.
Still, the resemblance was distant at best. But unfortunately, the name beneath the charge of desertion was spelled correctly, and the ransom was bold enough to make decent men reconsider their decency.
Beside me, Griffon went still, quickly pulling his litham up over the lower half of his face, obscuring the jawline the poster had so generously softened. It was a mercy, really. No one looking for that unfortunate soul would think to search for the sharp-cheeked, green-eyed man at my side.
“You know,” I murmured, “if you’re going to be hunted, you could at least try to look intimidating.” I kept my eyes on the parchment as a pair of porters shuffled past. “The fugitive in that drawing hasn’t done a push-up in years.”
We’d just slipped through the towering gate of the border wall, cradled in the ravine like thieves sneaking past bedtime.
Soli soldiers, in their gleaming helmets and sun-crested shields, kept guard on their side, but the Volantian side was blissfully unmanned.
No checkpoints, just an open passage into the wilds of the bustling trading post.
“Seems they have a Sideri prankster around here,” Griffon rumbled. His voice was low, muffled by the dark fabric covering his face.
I leaned closer to the notice. There, in the corner, was a symbol written in lumin dust ink.
Invisible to the ungifted Volanti, it glowed like trapped moonlight to eyes like mine.
I may not have an ember, but at least I had this perk of my inheritance.
The symbol was two overlapping stars—the double quasar. The symbol of the Sideri.
How ironic that this age believed us long extinct while one of our own had just autographed a public insult on a royal-sanctioned poster. We were ghosts, apparently. And delightfully mischievous ones at that.
“I’m going to stay covered,” Griffon said, scanning the crowded thoroughfare. “In case anyone remembers the original before the vandal got creative.”
“Probably wise,” I replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Though I think the new look softens you. Very approachable for a fugitive worth that much coin.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. Was that a smile? Hard to tell under all that fabric.
The brief amusement dissolved as we headed toward a cluster of low stone buildings capped with thatched roofs sagging under the weight of too many seasons.
At the far end, the Sandstone Inn offered shelter for both us and our horses. I slid coin across the counter to the innkeeper with a polite smile that suggested my greatest vice was embroidery, not property damage. “Keep an eye on them.”
The man nodded quickly, glancing at Griffon with the kind of caution reserved for storms and sharp objects.
Griffon remained a looming, silent presence at my back.
It was impossible for him not to draw attention.
Concealed or not, a man built like a fortress draws attention the way a storm draws lightning.
We stepped out into the open, where Volantian traders and Soli travelers bartered in a haze of dust and organized chaos.
Pointedly ignoring our stash of nuts and dry provisions, we slipped into the current of the market, letting it carry us toward the food stalls. The scent of roasting meat drifted over the dust-choked air, rich and savory enough to make restraint feel deeply unreasonable.
We had nearly reached a venison stand when someone barreled into me.
I stumbled backward, colliding with Griffon’s chest. The offender—a young man in baggy overalls, hair hanging in his eyes—muttered something that might generously be interpreted as an apology and tried to slip past us.
Griffon’s hand shot out with terrifying precision.
He caught the man by the wrist mid-stride as easily as one might restrain a misbehaving child.
“You will give the lady back her coin purse now,” he said calmly through the fabric of his litham.
I reached beneath my cloak to the pouch fastened to my wide leather belt.
It was gone.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” the young man argued, attempting to wrench his arm free.
“You’ll regret it if I have to get it from you myself.”
Covered face or not, the menace in his eyes dragged me straight back to the dark man in the catacombs. Scary Griffon had returned. I almost felt bad for the pickpocket. Almost.
“This guy giving you a hard time, Bray?” a nasal voice cut in.
Another man approached with narrow, squinty eyes, patchy facial hair, and a chest puffed with borrowed courage. Two more lingered behind him, along with a large, mangy black dog whose ribs showed through its fur.
“Yeah. Yeah, he’s givin’ me a hard time,” Bray answered, still struggling uselessly.
Despite the thrashing, Griffon looked as though he were holding a wriggling sack of fish.
“This will be the last time I ask nicely,” Griffon said. “Hand it over. Now.”
“I think we need to teach you some manners, mister,” the squinty-eyed man taunted, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for greatness.
Oh, this should be entertaining.
A small crowd gathered, drawn by the promise of violence, the way moths are drawn to flame.
“Yeah,” Bray whimpered, still trapped in Griffon’s grip. “Show ’im some manners, Ash.”
“Naw,” Ash said, feigning to turn away before whipping back around with a wild swing.
Without releasing Bray, Griffon slipped beneath the punch. Ash’s momentum carried him too far forward.
Griffon drove his foot into Ash’s midsection, sending him skidding backward into the dust as the dog erupted into frantic barking.
Before Ash had even hit the ground, Griffon twisted Bray’s arm behind his back. Bray squealed as his shoulder protested the angle.
With infuriating calm, Griffon reached into Bray’s pocket and retrieved my coin purse.
He shoved Bray away and handed it to me.
“My hero,” I said sweetly, tucking the pouch securely away this time and meeting his eyes with deliberate innocence.
Ash, red-faced and apparently allergic to self-preservation, lurched upright and charged again.
Turning, Griffon widened his stance, stepped cleanly aside, and let Ash’s shoulder slice through empty air. Then he extended one boot and clipped the outside of Ash’s leg.
Down he went. Again.
The dog lunged forward, teeth bared.
Without missing a beat, Griffon snatched a skewer of venison from the rack behind us and tossed it several feet away.
“Hey!” the stall owner barked.
The dog skidded, priorities abruptly rearranged, and bolted for the meat.
Keeping me behind him, Griffon backed us up a few steps, positioning himself so he could see both men.
Bray had apparently rediscovered humility, raised his hands, and began backing away.
Ash followed, scrambling, and fled with his companions in a chaotic retreat.
The dog, mouth full of venison, followed loyally.
A few cheers rippled through the crowd. Markets love a spectacle—especially one that leaves the audience intact.
The version of Griffon built for violence left him in the time it took to turn back in my direction, leaving the man who’d shared dried figs with me at dawn.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“My pleasure.” The hard edge in his eyes softened, something almost sheepish flickering there. “I should have told you to tuck the purse inside your waistband.”
I arched a brow. “And deprive you of the opportunity to demonstrate your heroic talents? Never.”
The corner of his eye crinkled again. Definitely a smile this time.
A sharp whistle pierced the air—and not the appreciative sort.
Laughter dissolved into mutters as heads turned toward the far end of the stalls.
A pair of Volantian soldiers pushed through the thinning crowd, royal blue tunics and leather armor stamped with the kingdom’s crest. They were not running, precisely, but they were moving with purpose.
The kind of purpose that followed raised voices and flying bodies.
Continue the journey in The Skybreaker.