14
Firian
“Wait up!” Someone plucked Firian backward by the neck of his shirt. He bristled, and his lungs felt like rocks in his chest. He turned and found himself face to face with three leering men.
Was he too late? Had the pirate from the beach already come?
“What’s this?” asked one with onion on his breath. His head had been unevenly shaved. A few rogue hairs sprouted up at crazy angles, only visible in certain light.
Firian held up the box with both hands. “Someone asked for flint,” he said softly.
A different man, skinny, with a scar along the length of his head, threw back a laugh.
Firian’s face heated. He could kill this man in the span of a heartbeat.
A guard who’d stood out of sight leaned forward. “Probably Yotar,” he said to the rest.
Nods of suggestive acknowledgement
