“Oryn.” My throat dries. “What are you?”
He winces like I’ve slapped him. But when he looks at me his golden eyes are filled with a ferocious determination. His mouth sets in a thin line and he lets go of my shoulders.
My arms sting.
He doesn’t answer my question—at first I think he isn’t going to. But he moves to his motorcycle and lifts up the seat. He pulls out some sort of medallion and a tightly wrapped piece of parchment paper. I’m talking old paper here, the type you’d find in museums.
He comes back to me and cradles the parchment in one hand and offers me the medallion with the other. I raise a quizzical brow but take the tinted silver into my hands.
I rub it with a finger and follow the etchings with my eyes. It’s clearly some sort of crest, like a coat o
