THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY
He stays still, fingers loose on his copy, waiting without words.
“Sun-Dust,” Eamon whispers, like he’s letting slip a secret only the wind should hear. From the Fire Islands, supposedly - some rare thing that wakes up your senses. Put just a speck on your tongue… suddenly colors punch harder, thoughts cut clearer, tiredness slips away like old skin. Ideas start moving again, smooth and steady. To show how it goes, he flicks open his little pouch, balances a glinting fleck of golden grit on his thumb, then brings it to his lips. His eyelids drop shut, face going still, almost dreamy. For him, that moment tastes like hope given form.
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