Crimson Outcast
“We need the moonstone, not trinkets.”
Blake rolled his eyes but kept pace, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “It looks the same to me. Shiny rock, shiny rock.”
Jamie ignored him, already leaning over a counter draped in velvet. The vendor, an older woman with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, laid out polished stones—each one glowing faintly under the sunlight. True moonstone shimmered with a silvery-blue fire, the kind the pack required for the bonding circle.
“This one,” Jamie murmured, holding the stone between her palms. It pulsed faintly, alive. She traded a pouch of coins without hesitation.
Bab Populer