Of Blood And Fire by Ryan Cahill (best classic books of all time .txt) 📕

finding its feet. At first, it was unsteady, swaying from side to side. It shifted its weight, dropping its forelimbs to the ground for balance. It didn’t take long before it moved with confidence. Satisfaction warmed at the back of Calen’s consciousness.

The dragon stepped clear of the remnants of its shell. His fear told him to run, but there was something else that told him not to. A feeling of familiarity with this creature – of kinship. It was not something he could explain. It was like… like he could feel what the dragon felt.

It extended one of its spindly forelimbs towards Calen’s knee, then used it as leverage to pull itself into Calen’s lap. It was larger than Faenir was as a pup; maybe about a foot from head to tail. Turning in circles, the small dragon padded its feet, as if testing out how sturdy Calen’s legs were. Then it finally curled and twisted itself into a ball, rested its head down, and closed its eyes.

CHAPTER 20

Twist of Fate

Farda shifted his weight in the leather chair, pushing his shoulders backwards to soften the firm cushion that lay underneath. He cracked his neck from side to side. The resulting sound provided satisfaction, even if it didn’t provide any relief from the aches that made themselves at home in his bones. That had been born from many lifetimes of blood and violence. Even when everything else was taken from him, those aches remained. A memory of a time long past.

Giving up on softening the cushion, he sat forward, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair. The steel breastplate was heavy, and his vambraces irritated the skin on his arms. He was sick of them and just wanted to pull them off and toss them in the corner, but he needed to make an impression, and for that, he had to weather a little discomfort.

His right hand instinctively fell to his trouser pocket. His finger traced the outline of the coin that lay within.

It had been a few days since the commotion in the village streets. If it had been up to him, it would have been handled differently, but it was Rendall’s charge, and he was impulsive. He supposed impetuosity was a common trait among inquisitors. It taught people to give the right information the first time because they might not get a chance otherwise. Every method had its place.

Still, the boy’s father didn’t need to die, nor his mother. Farda didn’t consider it honourable to use threads of Air to hold an unarmed man in place and drive a sword into his chest. But Rendall was not Farda, and ‘Honour is not efficient,’ as Rendall had so eloquently put it.

Farda was far from innocent himself. He had done things that would have made his younger self spit on his own grave, but they were things that needed to be done. He had learned that over time. There were things required by fate, and he was simply a conduit.

He pressed down firmly on the edge of the pocketed coin. He twisted his wrists around in circles, trying to relieve the stiff aches that had bedded into them. He would have to see a healer soon, or it might start to become a problem.

Farda let a soft sigh escape his throat as he leaned back into the stiff leather chair. The crackling of the fireplace filled his ears. The room was quite nice for what it was, not what he had expected from a small village on the wrong side of the Burnt Lands.

Although, the innkeeper was more than hesitant to let him a room at all. Not that Farda blamed him. There were a few villagers killed that day. It couldn’t have been avoided after Rendall’s outburst, but the empire’s servants weren’t exactly welcome in The Glade.

On top of that, it appeared that the innkeeper’s child had left on the same day, along with the boy, if the rumours were true. He must have been one of the two that was with him in Milltown. It could be worth looking into those two, but the boy was the priority. Both Aeson Virandr and Therin Eiltris came to his aid. That told Farda enough. He was curious to find out what made the boy so special as to bring those two out of hiding. If it had anything to do with the egg they had discovered on Aeson’s ship, then things were about to get a lot more interesting. A firm knock on the door interrupted Farda’s pondering. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, and the soldier tentatively pushed his head into the room. Farda heard a croak in his voice as he spoke. “Sir. The, erm… The boy, he’s here as requested, sir.”

“Well, send him in, then,” Farda said, not even turning his head, the impatience obvious in his tone. It was difficult to remember the last time that he had slept. The Spark could only sustain him for so long. And blood magic left an awful taste in his bones.

Even on the old carpet, Farda’s attuned ears heard the boy’s footsteps clearly, as if he were striding along the wooden floor of an empty temple. His pace did not slow, and it did not falter. There was no caution. Curious.

Farda had seen battle-hardened soldiers stutter and trip over their words, never mind their feet, after seeing what he could do. Use of the Spark wasn’t common in the southern lands. The emperor made sure of that, especially in these isolated villages. Here, it was nothing more than legend. But with the Circle of Magii in Berona, mages were far more common in Loria, and even then, if you were smart, you knew to watch your step around a mage.

Either the boy was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

Without a word, he strode past Farda’s chair, dropping himself lackadaisically into the twin chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. He had a wiry frame,