Book of Dragons - Book Three in the Chronicles of Tiralainn by Sara Reinke

By Sara Reinke

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And then she had come to him on his last morning in the royal city. "She always read your letters to me. I always heard them, every word,” Qynh had said, and Rhyden's humiliation, the realization of his heart's futile and foolish endearments had been complete. He had never admitted his love to Qynh aloud, only in the pages of his letters, and he had consoled himself with the thought that because Qynh had never received the notes, she had never realized his love. He had thought he had preserved at least this solitary scrap of dignity.

It was not your fault. " "My crew is made of men who do not know enough to forgive and forget ill will and ancient histories,” Aedhir replied. He sat down on the cot and glanced over his shoulder toward Rhyden. “Time was once, I felt much the same as they do about Elves,” he admitted with a weary sigh. Rhyden nodded. Tiralainn was the native land of Elves, but now the number of full-blooded Gaeilge and Mianach had dwindled in comparison to the number of menfolk who called the realm home. Even more still were of mixed heritages, with races of men and Elves mingling, marrying and mating.

What will you do, Rhyden? Go to her, declare your love for her and beg her away from Kierken ... your King, whom you profess to serve loyally? Whom you call your friend? His heart was selfish and torn, and therein lay his measure. He looked into the glass, at the image of his face, the refined lines and deliberate angles of his countenance. He gazed into his own dark eyes, studied the stern lines of his brows. He looked at the shadows cast along his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and tapered chin, the length of his slender nose, the curved, austere measure of his mouth.

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