Fennrin is a shadowforger, a type of az-ari who have mastery over shadows. But all it's ever brought him is misery. People are afraid of the power that he himself barely understands, seeing his shadows as omens of bad luck and death.
Forced to bare...
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Fennrin didn't know what was wrong for a moment, but it was a moment too long. Before he could get over his confusion at Ainreth freezing in the doorway and then his shock at suddenly doing so, the flash of light Ainreth had shot at whoever was inside flying back at the lightweaver, a strange trill in the air as it did.
As Ainreth cried out, grabbing the side of his face where the beam of scorching light had hit him, Fennrin longed to check on him, to make sure he was okay, but he knew that no matter what his heart wanted, the logical thing to do was stop whoever had managed to throw the light back at him.
Running into the room just enough to stand in the dimness inside, he turned into a shadow, bolting to the woman standing there over two corpses, and sliding into her shadow, immobilizing her.
The woman let out a half-confused, half-angry sound, trying to fight against Fennrin's hold on her, but nothing she did was useful.
"A shadowforger can do this?" she asked in a thick Orinovan accent, her voice far too calm for what was happening. Ainreth, Petre, and Enlin were now standing around her, their swords pointed at her. Fennrin was relieved to see that the new burn on Ainreth's cheek, while big—a red, angry starburst shape covering most of his right cheekbone, didn't look as serious as Fenn had worried it would be. It could have hit his eye.
"Great trick you have there," Ainreth joked, though his voice was pained, no matter how much he tried to hide it under his bravado. Fenn wanted to rush to him and fuss over his burn, but he was stuck here, keeping the woman restrained. "Did you have to hit me in the face?"
"Don't worry, comrade, I'm sure your future husband won't mind. Your face is still the prettiest in all the land."
Fennrin would have frozen in shock if he could. Why would she say that unless she had been at the feast as well? And it suddenly came rushing back to him. He'd seen a flash of her last night, but he hadn't given it any thought. If he had known that this person, the soundsmith that had attacked Ain in the first place, was at the feast he would have gone to tell everyone immediately. But he hadn't known what she looked like.
"You were there, weren't you?" Ainreth said, clearly catching on as well. "These are the assassins that escaped. And you killed them. Why?"
The woman let out a dismissive snort. "Fanatics. They wanted to try to kill you and your boy toy. And that would be an awful waste."
Fennrin wanted to tell her off for calling him that, but he couldn't say a word like this. It was probably just her trying to antagonize him, anyway. Maybe to provoke him to lose control over her shadow so she could run. As if Fennrin would ever let that happen.
"Uh-huh. Because you didn't try to do that exact thing to me a few months ago," Ainreth said, rolling his eyes as he turned to Petre. "You have any hand clamps on you?"
Petre reached into their satchel, producing the very thing Ain had asked for, which Fennrin hadn't expected, as well as some rope. Apparently, the sproutkeeper always came prepared, though Fennrin had to wonder just how many things they had with them on the regular. That satchel didn't look that big.
