Darkness Beneath the Dying Light (The City of Shadow & Dust Book 2) by R.T. Donlon

Author:R.T. Donlon [Donlon, R.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-17T18:30:00+00:00

The stars gave way to a blanket of unsettled gray clouds. The morning lit like a candle at the end of its wick. If it were not for the sun poking through the gray, the jungle’s usual vegetative glow would have seemed morose at best—near-death even—but instead, the hue of reaching sunlight burned away the fog and cleared a path for the pack of Warriors hauling bundles of meat on their weary shoulders.

They reached a precipice at the edge of the Jungle Territories where the northern expanse of the Portizu Lands stretched wildly before them. Their village—their home—spread into a green-brown square of land across a number of hills and valleys. It dove deep into a particularly extensive bowl nestled amongst overlooking hills. It was a perfect place to nestle—away from the masses, away from the rest of the Range. To an onlooker, the cluster of huts and buildings may have seemed small and unappealing, but to Kyrah, this was all she ever needed. She admired the wooden fences, the clay-colored matte of it all, the thin ribbons of smoke still rising from extinguished fires of the evening before. There was a comfort in it, an estranged sense of beauty.

Her entire body burned with the weight of animal meat. She tugged at the sack over her shoulder with fatigued fingers, struggling to travel the final stretch of land to the awaiting crowds of the temple of Turisic.

“Will the prayers work?”

Kyrah turned to meet the eyes of the question. It was a girl neighboring her, who seemed only to be thirteen years of age. Her face seemed too young and childish, but the question matched the innocent glimmer in her eyes. Her dark coffee hair wove through itself, sending a tightly fit braid between her shoulder blades, dropping dead in line with her spine. Her eyes, among her other soft attributes, stood out prominently against the rest of her face. Splinters of gold rushed through irises, backdropped by a canvas of textured turquoise. Such colors in her eyes were more than rare. They were considered sacred.

No wonder why she had made the pack so quickly, Kyrah thought. She is of Turisic blood.

But Reana had the assertion of someone shrouded in disbelief, someone who had been discounted for the majority of her short life.

“The prayers always work,” Kyrah said. A part of her understood Reana’s doubt. Another shrugged it away. “Whether Turisic believes we are worthy is a different story. We will find out soon enough.”

The others scoffed at Kyrah’s vanilla response.

“Turisic understands our needs,” barked Kyrah. “He does not have to acknowledge them.”

Another scoff.

“When was the last time Turisic blessed our hunt? Five years ago? Ten?” Razz asked.

It was true. Turisic had not given the blessing in seven years, leaving the Northern Portizu living on winter berries and mashed Eldervarn barkmeal for months at a time. Kyrah turned to Reana, who lowered her eyes to her feet. Was she embarrassed? Confused?

“You must have faith,” Kyrah said, “both of you. If this is going to work, you must.

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