Blackflame (Cradle, #3)

by Will Wight

“Your life is over,” the elder said, almost sadly. “My life ended three days ago.”

Lindon leaned closer to her, more concerned about her presence than her tone. “Fisher Gesha, did you...choose to come along?”

there was supposed to be a hidden valley that occasionally emerged to trade with the outside. The inhabitants were weak, but protected by a curse.

Yerin put her sword away. “Scream and bleed when you need help.”

Why was it a mark against him that he was finally a little stronger than her Goldsign?

“There’s an old saying about asking forgiveness rather than permission,” Eithan said, “but the essence of it is, ‘I’m going to do what I want.’”

Yerin rolled her shoulder in its socket. “It’s too late to save face. You were hauling like a plow-horse.”

Eithan beamed and clapped him on the back. “By now, my servants should have the seals undone and a medical team standing by. After you!”

“Not much writing to be done with a sword,” she said, in a deliberately casual tone.

Let her feel fear for her friend.

He could recognize a prodigy when he saw one.

Yerin was a Sage’s disciple, so she should be expected to produce miracles, but Lindon?

The Underlord would be insufferable after this.

There was only one Highgold in the Blackflame Empire who could fight with him face-to-face, and she was carrying their child into a shelter.

Forget the shelters; a bunch of victims packed inside like weeds waiting to be plucked.

It was just a cycling technique; every Path had one. Lindon had complained about how difficult his Heavenly Whatever Wheel was, but he was new to the sacred arts. Everything was difficult to him.

Eithan’s face was unreadable through the haze of the aura. He held his broom out to one side; it was hard to make out details, but it didn’t seem to be a weapon or a construct. Just a broom.

Orthos hit Gokren like a landslide.

If he bled to death, he’d do it while cycling.

“I need an opponent,” he said softly. “Not a victim.”

The dark fire washed over Gokren’s defense, taking his hand off at the wrist.

Eithan considered a moment. “I’ll tell your Remnant,” he said.

“He initiated an open attack against me in Serpent’s Grave, and I was forced to take out the broom.” “I’ve never heard that expression. I assume you mean an actual broom.” “Of course I do. What better weapon is there for an Arelius Patriarch?”