Bull Moon Rising (Royal Artifactual Guild #1) Read Online Ruby Dixon

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal Tags Authors: Series: Royal Artifactual Guild Series by Ruby Dixon
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Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
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Silence.

Chicken-man continues. “Twenty guild masters are allowed at one time, for twenty nests. Twenty teams of fledglings are allowed to join every year. Magpie might be a guild master due to her past exploits, but she is in danger of losing her position. If she doesn’t get herself in order, do you know what’s going to happen?”

More silence. I so badly want to peek around the corner but I don’t dare.

“Your class will fail,” he continues. “Just as they failed the year before last, and the year before that. And I will not be able to protect her any longer. She will lose her guild master position to another who can make the guild money. She will lose her house and her pension, and she will end up in the gutters. You’re a good artificer and a good teacher, but you’re not in charge. She’ll undermine everything you do and chase your students away. Do you understand?”

His tone is so dismissive, so condescending, that I want to punch him. What a rude, odious little man. I loathe him. I want Hawk to give him a verbal tearing-down. I want Hawk to tell him what’s what. I want him to lay into that peahen of a man and tell him what to do with his—

“This class won’t fail” is all Hawk says.

“How can they not fail?” Rooster continues, and I can hear the astonishment in his voice. “I saw that bunch of misfits myself. You’re doomed. Magpie has doomed you.”

“I’m going to push them harder than ever. And I’ll handle Magpie, just as I always have.” Heavy hooves clomp on the floor, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s heading toward the door, where I’m spying.

Just as I jerk away from the heavy wooden door, Hawk comes around the corner.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then he grabs me by the arm and escorts me away, his grip tight and leaving me no choice but to trot alongside his much longer strides.

“You’ll keep all of that to yourself,” he murmurs as he hauls me back toward the others.

“Of course I will,” I hiss at him. “But do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Later.” We round the corner back toward the others, much quicker than I anticipated. They all sit up as we approach, and then there’s no time to ask anything else. I notice Gwenna has a tight expression on her face, and the look she shoots me indicates she wants to talk.

Well, that makes two of us.

Hawk releases my arm as we rejoin the others, and I resist the urge to rub it indignantly.

“Good, you’re all here,” he says in a curt voice. “Now, if you’ll all follow me outside, we’ll get your backpacks.”

“Backpacks?” Gwenna asks.

“Aye, to fill with rocks.” Hawk marches over to Lark’s bench and hauls her upright by the shoulder. “We’re going to see how far you can march with a full pack to determine your stamina. I need to know how fit you are…so then I can push you even harder.”

I swallow hard.

Somehow, when I’d dreamed of adventuring through the tunnels, I hadn’t thought about physical fitness. Given that I’ve spent most of my life seated at elegant tables or in front of a book, I suspect this is going to be a rather awful afternoon.

Hawk turns on us, his eyes flaring with irritation. “Well? Why are you all just standing there? Do you want to be fledglings or not?”

With a terrified squeak, the priestess races for the door, and we follow after her.

* * *

I’m right. Training isn’t fun. It’s one of the worst afternoons of my life.

With backpacks loaded down full of rocks, Hawk marches behind us and forces us to walk over Vastwarren’s rambling, twisting cobblestone streets. He yells at us if we fall behind. He yells at us if we want to take a break. If we ask for water, we’re allowed two sips before he’s demanding that we get up again. Over and over, he marches us up and down the streets, and the only thing that stops me from screaming is the fact that we pass other classes doing the exact same thing, relentlessly harassed by the teacher jogging at their sides.

Sweat pours down my face, soaking my guild blouse and making it stick to my skin. The priestess cries. Lark bitches. Gwenna doesn’t complain, but she huffs and shoots daggers at me with her eyes as if this was all my idea. The only one seemingly unbothered by all of this is the slitherskin, Kipp, who trots along with the pack on his front and his house on his back.

When we turn up another twisting street—really, does all of Vastwarren have to be sloping? Can’t one street be flat?—I want to burst into tears with relief when we spot Magpie’s symbol hanging on a flag outside her house. We’re home, just as the sun is setting and my feet are screaming in pain.


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