Chapter 47: Want Does Not Make Right

Rowan was very aware of Tempest’s weight on her back.

“It isn’t your bow,” Rowan said evenly. “It wouldn’t bend for you if you tried it.”

Romiir was tall, bitter, and very muscular if Rowan could judge from the way he fit his robes. His hood fit close to his face, and his robes were tailored to fit his body to the waist, flaring out to the ground. He spoke with Elven clarity, but not with Elven grace or respect.

“Who are you? Where is King Gregan?”

“He’s dead,” Rowan replied bluntly.

“Well then, this shouldn’t take long,” Romiir tilted his head. “It’s taken me a long time to track my bow down.”

“It’s not yours,’ she repeated.

“I made it!” The mage exclaimed. “I made Tempest! It belongs to me.”

Rowan risked a glance back at the gates. General Tarik was ashen-faced, and Rowan suddenly thought it would have been a good idea to bring him along. He was quietly motioning for her to come back to the city.