When the World Caught Fire (Book I in the War of Storms Trilogy)

Chapter 3

~ Qaranhi ~

I roll my eyes and grab Zelarin's hand, leading him close behind our new acquaintance.

Something about the mysterious winged stranger has set me on edge. My nerves thrum warily as I stare at Petrah's advancing form, his wings folded neatly as he strides forward, one hand resting loosely in his pocket. What does he have to gain by offering us a meal?

My growling stomach whines in protest, arguing with my logic that food is food, no matter who or where it's from. Still, I'm left feeling quite uneasy; the abruptness of his offer should have made me much more wary than I initially was.

Zelarin nudges me with his elbow, jerking his head. I'd been so lost in thought I hadn't noticed when Petrah had slipped down a side street. We slide in after him. 

The walls grow narrower until only a thin shaft of sunlight illuminates the center of the pathway. Wealthy aristocrats parading down the street turn their noses up at Rin and I, but move aside when they notice Petrah's silky tunic and green-blue tipped wings. His royal pin, an intricate silver bird with its beak open and claws extended, glistens like a beacon in the dim light, causing criminals and citizens alike to step aside with respectful nods.

Yet another unsettling thing about Petrah: if he's a foreigner, how does he know how to navigate the aristocratic sector of labyrinthine Ferregon? Then again, I was able to escape him easily earlier today and lose him in the winding streets. 

Yet, in the end, he managed to catch me . . . .

 Petrah leads us through a nearby entryway covered with a gaudy beaded curtain, holding it aside for Zelarin and I to enter first. I thank him grudgingly. 

He may be Veldaaran, but his manners are exceptional. Solaria isn't really known for . . . . decency. 

The atmosphere within the tavern is quiet and serious. The silence is nearly suffocating. Wealthy-looking customers dressed nearly as finely as royalty glance up from quiet conversations, staring at Rin and me with barely concealed contempt. I shrink back, knowing we stand out like a dirty rock amongst a basket of Moonscales.

Petrah whispers to a finely-dressed servant boy, who leads us to a quiet corner. The benches surrounding the ornate oak table are cushioned with lavish pillows and various expensive furs. A shining crystal candle-holder is placed at the center of the table. It almost seems to be mocking me with its cheery glow; the bright little flame dances tauntingly. I feel very out of place here; my brother and I aren't used to any form of luxury.  

Rin and I slide into the left-hand side of the bench, and Petrah takes a seat opposite us. His face is almost perpetually serious; I've only ever seen him smile secretly to himself. I can't help but think that his stone-like expression is insufferably arrogant.

I mentally reprimand myself. He's only arrogant because he was most likely brought up that way. He's buying you lunch in a tavern meant for aristocracy, isn't he? 

Still, I can't help but feel like something's off. 

Petrah leans over and quietly says something to the servant boy. He bows with a flourish and glides away, toward the back of the tavern. Zelarin and I glance at each other. I see my own discomfort reflected in his stormy blue eyes.

Petrah regards us curiously. "Relax, I'm not here to hurt you," he admonishes, tilting his head at our distrust. Rin slumps in his seat, looking a bit more at ease. I sit up straighter and smooth my messy hazel hair, trying to wipe the dust off my face.