The Final Strife

He breathed through the gut punch of the insult before he answered. “Sylah, this isn’t a club, it’s a covert operation of the most serious kind. Every day we commit treason, every day we trade with life.”

Sylah didn’t answer. Her thoughts drifted to Anoor. Sylah had woken up next to her that morning, the soft rays of dawn burnishing her face a dark bronze. The journals were scattered around them still, and Sylah carefully and quietly hid the four she needed in her basket before creeping back into her own bed. She could barely meet Anoor’s gaze that morning for the guilt that churned her stomach.

“Sylah?”

She was jolted back into the room.

“See, half the time you don’t seem to care,” Jond said softly.

“Of course I care,” she said, but she wasn’t sure whether he was referring to himself or the Sandstorm.

Sylah heard the call of second strike and jumped out of bed and began to dress.

“I have to go. My lunch break is over.”

“Fine, I’ll deliver the journals to the Sandstorm. I’ll let you know what they say.”

He looked up, but Sylah was already gone.