Buon lunedì, prodi seguaci!🔥
Questo fine settimana mi sono dedicata alla lettura di City of Betrayal di Claudie Arseneault, secondo capitolo della serie City of Spires, e adesso che l’ho finito non so come farò ad aspettare City of Torment per sapere come continuerà la storia…😭
“Milady, you’re … awake.”
Branwen’s clear laugh startled him. She leaned against the frame, one hand still holding the door. “Good morning to you too, Jaeger. To what do I owe the visit?”
“Did you sleep at all?” Jaeger regretted his question right away. How unprofessional. After the initial shock, he’d picked up on a few more details— how the makeup didn’t quite hide the bags under her eyes, and the small yawn she’d stifled before answering him—and it seemed the most logical conclusion. It still wasn’t his place to ask. “I apologize. It’s none of my business, and I didn’t mean to pry. Lord Dathirii sent me.”
Her smile vanished, and her eyes darkened. She resented Diel’s lack of immediate action to save Varden, and Jaeger’s stomach squeezed at the change in her expression. He missed Branwen’s incessant and demonstrative love for her uncle. He missed so much of the Dathirii before they had provoked the Myrians. Branwen’s lifeless shrug just added to the pile.
“You shouldn’t apologize for asking, Jaeger. You’re not a steward to us, you’re family. You know that. And no, I haven’t slept. I can’t, even after so many days.” She opened the door a little wider and motioned for him to enter. “I’ve been working on something.”
Jaeger followed her inside, and the sewing area drew his gaze. Branwen’s quarters were outfitted with three mannequins, including one carved to her measurements. Sketches and paintings of clothes covered the wall behind them—most were of elaborate dresses, but not all. Disguises and men’s outfits also featured prominently. A round wooden stand flanked them, poles jutting out in all direction. Hundreds of fabrics of all colour and texture buried it under their weight. At the moment, Branwen’s usual image wall was hidden behind drawings of Myrian outfits. Most looked like robes for Keroth’s acolytes, but others were more akin to what Master Avenazar or his apprentice wore. Jaeger studied them a little before shifting his attention to the red—or so he expected, anyway—orange, cream, and black fabrics she’d laid out near her sewing table. Branwen specialized in disguises, and it wasn’t hard to guess what she had in mind.
“I’m not sure—”
“Someone has to do something.” She strode to the piles of fabrics and ran her fingers over one. “My back’s feeling great now, and I’m tired of waiting for Uncle’s miracle. Don’t even try to stop me.”
“I wouldn’t.” Some fights were lost ahead of time, and one look at Bran- wen’s grim determination told Jaeger this counted as one of them. “You could, however, say that Diel’s miracle is underway, although the use of ‘miracle’ in this instance may prove hyperbolic. There is a solution, risky as it may be, and your uncle would love to discuss it over breakfast.”
The whole city is searching for Hasryan—some for revenge and justice, others to save their friends. Yet no one knows where to find him except Lord Arathiel Brasten, who vanished 130 years ago only to magically return.
Lord Diel Dathirii’s struggle to free his city from the neighbouring imperialistic enclave is far from over. Enemies gather around him, and without allies in Isandor’s upper spheres, he must place his fate in Lower City residents. Little does he know, the city he’s trying to save might well save him in return.