Chasing Kiena

This book is a fantasy story – in the center of you, who made all the calls during the adventure!

Fight or flee? Support or rob? Face destiny or escape? Your finesse shapes your journey in this chase, where you seem to be one step behind Kiena only.

Can you catch her?

...

"Where did you get these valuable items?" one of them asks.

"I found them," you say simply, prompting a laugh from another.

"My friend, in our line of work, we don't find things – we acquire them," he says, patting your shoulder approvingly. "I can't imagine what you went through to get these, but I suspect it wasn't purely your noble heart that led you here."

You nod reluctantly, admitting it's true.

...

"I'll tell you a secret, stranger," she murmurs, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with a hint of vulnerability. "Blue is my favorite color." It rings true, and as your gaze sweeps the tavern – her tavern, alive with azure curtains billowing like gentle waves, delicate ribbons fluttering in sapphire shades, faded dried blooms pinned to the walls like memories preserved – now joined by this fresh bouquet in its humble mug, a quiet ache tugs at you; perhaps it's more than a color, a thread woven into her very spirit.  

"Is that the big secret?" you inquire, your tone laced with a weary amusement, as you absentmindedly rest your weapon on the counter, the clink echoing a touch too loudly in the intimate space. Freela flinches back ever so slightly, a shadow of old pain crossing her features, before she appraises you anew – your road-worn form, the scarred hilt of your blade – her eyes searching yours with a mix of caution and unspoken sorrow, as if gauging whether you're friend or another fleeting storm. "Can't handle sharp weapons?" you tease lightly, hoping to lighten the air.  

"I hate them," Freela replies, her voice cracking just a fraction with raw emotion, urging you to whisk the offending items away from her sight. 

...

Knireek's eyes narrow, his lip curling in a snarl of offense. His hand instinctively drifts to the hilt of his dagger, knuckles whitening. "Do you take me for some stinking fisherman?" he growls, his voice low and simmering with indignation.

You hurriedly try to explain to him that it's fresh, caught this morning, delicious when cooked, but your words are not landing well. The attempt only stokes the fire within him. Knireek leans forward, his face inches from yours, the tension palpable in the charged silence. "So now you'd have me slaving like a kitchen maid? A warrior reduced to gutting fish?" His glare is sharp enough to slice through steel, and the room feels suddenly too small, breathless with the weight of unspoken threats.

He slaps you for insulting him so rudely.

...