❝Shae Burrower, failed author and city girl, from Lavender Lane, at your service.❞
⎯⎯⎯
The story contained within these pages is not about me.
You all know of whom I write. If not by word of mouth or by the speculation of the Chileez Times, then by...
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The story contained within these pages is not about me.
You all know of whom I write. If not by word of mouth or by the speculation of the Chileez Times, then by the nation-wide declaration of his accomplishments and accolades. Even though there has never been a true recounting of his adventures, there has been proof: the fur of Beurn, three feathers from a Phoenix, a dragon-forged blade, a map of uncharted seas, and the Lost Pearl of Awl.
Adventurer. Map-maker. Sailor.
Myth. Legend. Hero.
His name is Lennon T. James... and he finally has someone to see if he truly is as legendary as his souvenirs indicate.
🙞
I am not a journalist.
The brown robes and bronze insignia may identify me as one, but it is not the desire of my heart or the natural inclination of my writing. I prefer my imagination to real life. Yet, there I stood, in a corner of the throne room, for the third day in a row.
Nothing noteworthy had occurred as of yet.
Nothing worth our weekly newspaper, I should clarify. The escape of the Gillian sheep, which had been a topic on the first day, and then its theft, which had been discussed on the third morning, was nothing to write a news article about.
This assignment, to cover the throne room, was one they assigned the newest, greenest member of the team. This was the safest assignment to receive as a newcomer to the writing team at Chileez Times. And that happened to me.
At twenty-one, with a published book that had garnished little interest and a degree that allowed for little else, I had nowhere to turn for work. It was no surprise that, with little experience beneath my belt, and being young, I was fit only for the throne room.
The current speaker was begging mercy from taxes on her crops, as they had all been washed away by a flood after the midsummer rains, when the doors to the room slammed open with a bang. Heads turned, and instant silence reigned.
The guards, who had been tugged out of boredom rather suddenly, scrambled to stop the intruder, but they were too late. And the recognition that dawned warned them from interfering further.
No, no one wondered who the man striding down the length of the hall was.
His footsteps resounded in the quiet, heavy boots and a confident tread belying his self-assurance. Wide shoulders were covered in a leather jacket. There was a knife strapped to his belt, and something glinted on his finger. Dried mud peeled from parts of his face and hands, but it only added to the intimidation his battle axe and closed expression already inspired.
Lennon T. James only paused when he reached the step of the dais. When he bowed, it was a gesture so mocking, it almost seemed sincere.
"I have been informed that I am to tell you before setting out on my adventures if I am to do so in the name of king and country." His hand reached up to tip his hat back, only slightly, so as to better display his impassive stare. "So, let it be marked, I am notifying you that I will be setting out for the northern jungle in the morning."
