This is my current Work in Progress, so the title is subject to change, but here is a sample of the first chapter. Please keep in mind that this is an earlier draft, and therefore is subject to changes and further edits. So I hope you enjoy the first chapter of Crown of Silence.
-Reagan Larsen-
1 – The Teacher body {font-family: ‘Segoe UI’; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 3200} p.p2 {line-height: 2.0em; margin: 3.00rem; text-align: center; text-indent: 0rem} p.p3 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 0.92rem; font-style: italic; line-height: 2.0em; margin: 3.00rem; min-height: 15px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0rem} p.p4 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 0.92rem; line-height: 2.0em; margin-left: 3.00rem; min-height: 15px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0rem} p.p5 {line-height: 2.0em; margin-left: 0rem; text-indent: 1.50rem} span.s1 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 1.17rem} span.s2 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 1.17rem; font-weight: 5600; text-decoration: underline} span.s3 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 0.92rem; font-style: italic} span.s4 {font-family: ‘Libre Baskerville’; font-size: 0.92rem}
Chapter 1
The Teacher
Of the laws that govern this universe, equivalent exchange retains prominence. For every good action, there must be an evil one of equal value, and vice versa. I’ve only found one force that breaks this law.
-Proverbs of the Grand Teacher, verse 12-
The Voicegard were always listening, even if Skanlan couldn’t see them.
The wind moaned, adding ambiance to his footsteps’ echoes as he walked along the cobblestone street between blackened houses. Keeping his head down, Skanlan counted the steps to each sewage grate, listening to the frigid slush flow beneath the cobblestone street. It was his sister’s role to map out the miles of underground sewers leading from Vrithnam Palace, but there was no harm in double-checking for today.
Skanlan took a deep breath and tightened the rag covering his mouth, its purpose now more for filtering the lingering smoke and keeping him warm than reminding him to stay silent. He balled his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. All he had to do was reach the palace throne room.
Well, that’s just the easy part, he thought. Wrait and Drowsy are in charge at that point.
A bone-thin beggar, with hair and blankets so gray and dirtied with ash they blended into the street, shifted against a house wall, startling Skanlan. This beggar was the only other person he had seen this morning. The old man looked into Skanlan’s eyes, silently asking for anything in that brief moment, before turning away.
The old beggar didn’t move so lifelessly like the Voiceless under the Emperor’s control. The fact that he was out in the open meant his situation had become especially desperate. Ever since the Silencing five years ago, everyone had become beggars at some point. Skanlan and his sister, Remly, were on the streets themselves not too long ago, until the Shino priestess had found them. They weren’t fed much better now, but he knew how this man felt.
Skanlan reached into his satchel for a stale bread roll. It was his breakfast and lunch, but his stomach twisted in so many knots that eating anything would only make him sick. He probably wouldn’t get anything else to eat the rest of the day until late this evening. But if he couldn’t eat the roll now, it was only going to get soaked in a couple hours.
He broke off half the roll and kept a piece next to the travel slips in the satchel, then tossed the other morsel to the beggar. The old man jerked in surprise. “Wh-what?” he whispered—out loud—and instantly froze as he caught his fatal mistake too late. Skanlan’s breath caught as he stifled a gasp. The roll dropped to the ash.
A pebble-sized orb of yellow light, hardly visible beneath the smoky sky, spiraled out of the old man’s open mouth and flew away down the street. He was a tenor, just like Skanlan.
The consequence of speaking meant the loss of one’s soul. All it took was one mistake, and Skanlan learned everyone slipped up. Eventually. Anything beyond a gentle hum or a cough was enough for a Voicegard to latch onto. If he hadn’t tossed the bread to that man, he might have survived longer. An impressive five-year streak of silence ruined by a moment of weakness.
Three houses down, a bright blue light flashed out of an alleyway with a quiet hum, and a gauntleted fist snatched the yellow orb from the air. A woman in leather armor stepped around the corner, examining the beggar’s Voice—which solidified into a small crystal—as she sauntered towards them. Skanlan’s mouth went dry. A Voicegard. The Emperor gave them strange powers never seen before the Silencing.
Even behind the veil of smoke, light gleamed off her steel helmet with the same design they all wore. Like a mask, it was molded to resemble the face of the Night Witch with furious silver-rimmed eye holes, slits for a nose, and three iron horns twisting from the top and sides like a demonic crown. The front of the helmet covered her nose and cheeks but left her mouth and chin exposed. Tradition among female Voicegard meant she had lips painted the color of her own Voice. Hers were an icy blue, marking her as a soprano. The Voicegard’s grin behind her helmet’s upper-row of sharp teeth was colder than the morning frost. A shiver ran down Skanlan’s spine.
Blue Lips raised the crystal over her open mouth and dropped it in. As soon as the beggar’s Voice touched her tongue, it popped into a dozen smaller motes. These rounded back and flew down her throat, making her neck glow for a second. She licked her lips, content. The beggar stood up—completely rigid—his eyes staring at nothing now that his agency was in the hands of the Voicegard. It wouldn’t be long before he was in the Emperor’s control.
Sight and sound, not today, Skanlan cursed to himself. Blue Lips neared Skanlan and the now Voiceless beggar. She looked the beggar up and down, then bent over to pick up the piece of bread.
As casually as he could, Skanlan turned around and started for the palace as though nothing happened. It’s all my fault, he thought. His hands wouldn’t stop shivering, so he stuffed them into his pockets. He suddenly became very aware of the knife hidden in his boot pressing against his heel.
The Voicegard’s footsteps followed after him. Skanlan had to be at his best today. Nobody on the team could afford a mistake, or all this time they spent preparing would burn to ash. Then he and Remly would never taste freedom.
He reached the square that once held the city’s market. Memories from an age long past before the Silencing, and the Voicegard, and the Emperor, filled him. Five years ago, when he was just a boy, laughing and running with the other children. Young women in flowery dresses danced, and young men displayed feats of strength, hoping to catch an eye. Fluorescent festival streamers and sheet music lined the roads. Vendors advertised their fresh cakes and pies to the throngs of visitors, and joyful melodies filled the air as musicians coaxed harmonies out of their instruments.
Only the wind played its song, now. The streamers had rotted away, and broken stands lined the square’s perimeter. The stones in the center were indented from a heavy impact years ago, with large ash-filled cracks reaching outward. A rat drank from a pool of filthy rainwater and scampered away as he approached. This spot offered the best view of Vrithnam Palace, the capital building of the entire Crown Empire.
Skanlan took a deep breath. The Voicegard was still following him, matching his pace. The blue flash the Voicegard made indicated she was a soprano, or at least had the soprano ability to move her arms and legs at incredible speeds. So running away was definitely not an option. He looked around for somewhere to hide. They were alone. There wasn’t even a Voiceless on patrol to act as a witness in case anything happened. That could be just as advantageous as it was detrimental for Skanlan. So long as he made it to the throne room without her, and with his Voice intact, that was all that mattered.
Skanlan stopped, put his hands on his hips, and took a deep breath as he put on a smile. He turned around to face the Voicegard, who stopped five paces away. Skanlan began to move his hands in various patterns, shaping his fingers to make symbols as he did so, communicating via the Unspoken Language.
Combining these signs, context clues, body language, and facial expressions, his motions could be translated as, [Good morning! Care to walk to the palace with me? I’m on my way to Teacher Terrin’s class.] Hopefully inviting her to walk with him would make her want to do the opposite.
Blue Lips frowned. She pointed to Skanlan, made the sign for “travel papers,” followed by the sign for “have” and finished by pointing to Skanlan again. [Do you have your travel papers?] she signed. Even the Voicegard walked in silence.
Skanlan controlled his breathing, but he was sure she could hear his heart. He patted his satchel. Surely she wouldn’t notice the satchel was larger than necessary for mere papers and bread rolls. Don’t be ridiculous, he thought.
Blue Lips held the piece of bread out to him. It was covered in ash. [It appears you dropped this.] From how carefully she signed, it was as though she were simply curious about Skanlan, or testing him somehow. She wasn’t bullying him into making a sound, like most tried to do. Just because a snake kept its mouth closed didn’t mean it wouldn’t bite.
[Keep it. It’s a gift.] Skanlan glanced over his shoulder to the palace. It featured a marbled pattern that came from an amalgamation of gray and white stone blocks. The highest of its seven spires marked the tallest point in the city. [I don’t want to be late, so I’d better hurry,] he signed, then bowed his head. Sweat dripped into his face rag.
She didn’t follow him, thankfully, and Skanlan restrained himself from flashing a rude gesture in her direction. Though his imagination played tricks on him and he glanced over his shoulder to see if Blue Lips was still there. But he was alone.
He stepped into the palace’s shadow, where frost lingered on the ground. The north-western entry wasn’t as grandiose as the four cardinal gates and was hardly wide enough for five people to walk abreast. An iron portcullis beneath a brick archway—the symbol of the crown carved into it—blocked his path.
Two statuesque guards in maroon uniform stood on either side of the archway. Both carried spears. Their faces were dull and emotionless. One of them couldn’t have been much older than he was; probably in her late teens or early twenties. Skanlan felt nothing but sorrow as he saw that her mouth hung slightly open, drool pooling around the corner of her lip. Poor thing, he thought.
They were Voiceless. Just like the beggar.
Both guards simultaneously jerked their heads to face him. The rest of their bodies didn’t move, but their eyes followed him. He had presented his travel slip to the Voiceless guards almost every day for the past year, but still his heart thudded in his chest. The mechanical movements of a Voiceless unnerved him.
Skanlan extracted a document with his credentials and gave it to a guard. The Voiceless stared at the page before sticking his hand out to give the paper back. The guard nodded to his companion. Together they hefted their spears, then struck metal plates nailed to the ground one right after another, signaling his entry. The clangs resonated around him, out of place amidst the silence. Chains scraped against each other as hidden Voiceless raised the gate.
Skanlan stepped through, watching the spike ends of the portcullis above him, imagining what would happen if they suddenly collapsed on top of him. These were the first to drop whenever an alarm rang out, and scaling the surrounding walls was almost impossible. The portcullis lowered behind him as he walked inside Vrithnam Palace for the last time.
Once, Teacher Terrin brought Skanlan and the other students on a tour of the North Wing, where he was now. The teacher taught them who each marble statue of a Shino grand teacher, singer, and past emperor was. The statues were arrayed in the room like massive pieces of an equally large game, and Skanlan wove between them to reach the far end of the North Wing. He knew a shortcut to the throne room. But the further he got, the more the statues watched him, judged him, as if they knew what he was about to do.
Skanlan opened wide wooden doors, which curved at the top and featured a geometric latticework pattern around the symbol of the crown. Crisp air flowed in as he stepped outside. A four-way bridge spanned an icy pond in the center of the acre of plants. Skanlan peered over the bridge and sniffed, smelling basil, lavender, mugwort, rutsubo, and other herbs one might find in a spice pantry.
The venom-green petals of the rutsubo flower occupied almost a third of the garden. The flower’s black stigma produced dozens of tiny seeds, which could be crushed into a fine powder. Sniffing rutsubo powder had quickly become the empire’s favorite pastime after the Silencing. The Crown Prince, in particular, developed a fondness for it.
At least, it had been the prince’s favorite until his own father threw him off the top of the palace.
Skanlan exited the gardens and walked through the new hallway with the high-arched ceiling. The throne room was just up ahead. It’s almost over, he thought. Soldier Wrait was in there, posing as a guard.
Skanlan felt a rumbling deep inside him. It’s not that cold inside here, he thought. It must be nerves. The side door to take him into the throne room was just up ahead. Even though it wasn’t the main entrance, it was rimmed with gold paint and also displayed the crown emblem in the center. Once he stepped through that door, his life would change forever. He would never see Teacher Terrin or have to walk through this haunted palace again. He would escape with his goal, or die in the attempt.
But if he died, or worse, lost his Voice, then what would happen to his twin sister? Skanlan took a deep breath and imagined life outside the Crown Empire, safe from danger. Safe to speak. He raised his hand to open the door. The rumbling grew stronger.
The knob on the door turned before Skanlan touched it. His fingers shook. He couldn’t breathe.
The door creaked open, revealing a hulking figure silhouetted in shadow. Even with his slouched back, he towered over Skanlan. He was broad shouldered and wore an impressive coat with fur lining and black leather belts and buckles over his torso. His hair, once dark, was graying and fell beside his ears. Skanlan expected his face to be scarred and aged, but except for his square beard, his skin was smooth. The man was roughly the same age as Teacher Terrin, but the weight of enslaving an entire empire aged him. A disfigured lower jaw jutted past his upper lip, completing the look of something more monster than man.
The Crown Emperor’s eyes, like lit coals, burned deep into Skanlan, looking through him. “What are you talking about?” he slurred from his broken jaw, his Voice a deep bass, and Skanlan cringed when he heard someone talk again. But when the Emperor spoke, the voices of a thousand men, women, and children whispered in unison, desperate to escape. Hearing someone speak, like the beggar, meant something terrible was going to happen to that person. When the Emperor spoke, something terrible was going to happen to someone else. Even the Voicegard walked in silence.
Terror didn’t allow Skanlan to think about what the Emperor said to him, or if it was to him at all. Stay silent. Stay silent. Stay silent, he repeated in his mind. Sweat dripped down his brow. His lips trembled, and his arm was still outstretched. Why is he here? He’s never in the throne room anymore; it’s supposed to be empty. But that didn’t matter, because it was all over for him.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Skanlan prayed for some kind of help. He bowed to the Emperor as deeply as he could. His eyes stared wildly at the ground, unable to focus.
“What are you doing here, boy?” The Emperor’s words shook him to his core. Skanlan thought he heard someone screaming. Yet there was no anger in his words. In fact, there was no emotion at all. They felt hollow.
Skanlan slowly raised his head, his mind racing. Then, looking the Emperor in the eyes, he signed quickly, [My crown, I was on my way to Teacher Terrin’s class. I got here early and wanted to stop by the gardens.]
The Emperor wasn’t wearing the actual crown, which meant it was still in the throne room. Good, Skanlan thought.
Someone snapped twice behind him. Skanlan turned to look. His hopes of rescue shattered when Blue Lips walked up and knelt to the Emperor. Skanlan trembled. Idiot! He told her exactly where he was going. Almost. She didn’t even need to follow him. She had probably gone back to deal with the beggar, then came straight here.
Blue Lips spoke out loud for a ritual Skanlan assumed happened, but had never seen. When she spoke, several voices, mostly female, said the same words in unison, but without the ethereal echo the Emperor’s voice held. “A gift for the Emperor,” she cooed, frost touching her stolen words. Immediately, her throat glowed white, and out popped six glowing orbs. Was one of those blue Voices Remly’s? A green; Priestess Allerika’s? The yellow one belonged to the beggar, and there weren’t any red basses.
Already, Skanlan heard more talking today than he had in years.
Each of the Voices flowed into the Emperor’s mouth, and he stood a little straighter. Devoid of all Voices but her own, and not wanting to lose that one, Blue Lips signed in the Unspoken Language.
[My crown, this boy was snooping about this morning.] She nodded to Skanlan. [He’s up to something.]
The Emperor waved his hand dismissively and turned his back. “Do what you must.” Blue Lips grinned and drew a long, curved sword.
I’m sorry, everyone, Skanlan thought. He felt the knife in his boot. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t do so without a fight. Not that he stood a chance, but it was better than resignation.
Someone clapped, just once. The sudden noise reverberated down the hallway, and everyone turned to face the newcomer, even the Emperor. Teacher Terrin strode in, his bright yellow robes trailing behind him. Terrin, who was in his late fifties and in the early stages of balding, kept his back straight. He was the only man Skanlan had seen walk with such grace inside the palace, as though the constant threat of the Voicegard and the Emperor didn’t exist. He didn’t even wear a face rag, which also exposed a clean-shaven chin. Terrin adjusted his spectacles.
Moving his hands and facial expressions, Teacher Terrin’s signing was smooth, and he put his entire upper-body to work as he charaded emotion into every word. [There you are, Student Skanlan! Did you get the valerian root from the gardens yet?] Terrin raised his eyebrows as if surprised to see Skanlan’s company. They both watched him keenly. [Oh! My lord Emperor and lady Voicegard, I am so sorry if my student got in your way. Please forgive him for trespassing. He must have gotten lost. Though I must say, I don’t know what I would do without him; he’s been so helpful to me, and I need that valerian root for a sleeping tonic.]
The Emperor said, “Does he have his documentation?” He refused to sign, but he was one of Terrin’s first students, so he understood the Unspoken Language well.
[He had better,] Terrin signed. [I know I’ve given him permission slips to run errands before.]
The permission slips. Skanlan had spent the last year getting slips and keys from Terrin to run “errands” or visit certain rooms, when really he had used them to map out the palace and guard movements, and plant dead drops of information for the others to pick up. Skanlan had been lying to his teacher all this time, and now he had to rely on his teacher’s lies to survive this encounter.
The Emperor sighed, done with the conversation. “Let him go,” he told his Voicegard.
[But, my crown!] Blue Lips signed with one hand, the sword in her other. The Emperor eyed her, and she immediately closed her fist. That stare was strong enough to shatter mountains. She swallowed, and Skanlan saw sweat drip down her cheek.
Blue Lips sheathed her sword and walked away, but not without a final glare at Skanlan. [Your rebellion will get you killed,] she signed. The Emperor left, each step sending a rumble through the ground.
[Come, Student Skanlan,] Terrin signed, [let’s get to class. You’re here early.]
I’m still alive, he thought, bewildered. He survived. Teacher Terrin saved him, but Skanlan watched the door to the throne room slowly disappear as they left. He wasn’t planning on ever returning to class. But here he was, forced back into it. What if he couldn’t get out in time? The plan hadn’t even started, and the day was already such a mess.
Terrin led him back the way he came through the gardens, pulled some of the special roots he wanted right out of the dirt, and escorted Skanlan up a flight of stone stairs to the classroom. None of the other students were there yet. Skanlan chose the seat closest to the door.
Terrin dropped the earthy roots on his desk with a thud and eyed him. [Student Skanlan! Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?] he signed. Skanlan shook his head, and his teacher relaxed. [What were you thinking? Wandering around by the throne?] His movements were wide and dramatic, and his facial expressions exaggerated the emotions he meant to get across.
Skanlan still shook, his eyes fixed forward. He didn’t answer. What am I doing here in class? I need to get to the crown! His legs bounced furiously.
Terrin sighed. [I don’t know how many students will attend today. Despite the chill, we should have pleasant weather this afternoon. So I doubt all twelve . . .] Terrin bit his lip and looked down, forlorn, [all eleven, will come today.]
How do I get out of here? Skanlan thought, distracted, as Terrin wrote something on the large chalkboard.
Terrin set the chalk down, deep in thought. He turned to face Skanlan so he could see his signs. [You know, Skanlan, you’re nearing your first year. Would you be at all interested in a third term? You could be my assistant. I could even talk to the Emperor about paying you for the position. Plus, the best way to learn something is to teach it.]
The offer might have been tempting, but Skanlan already decided long ago. [Thank you, Teacher Terrin. I’ll have to think about that.] He’d already done plenty of teaching the Unspoken Language to some of his team members, and that was difficult enough.
Before long, six more students shuffled to their seats. In age, they ranged from just a few years younger than Skanlan to graying adults. When class started, Terrin and everyone saluted the crown flag above the door before reciting the Emperor’s Pledge. The salute involved raising the right hand with the thumb and pinky touching, forming a representation of the circlet, and extending the index, middle, and ring fingers to represent the crown’s three spikes—much like the sign for the letter W.
Everyone signed, [By my life, strength, and power, I give my everything to the might of the Crown. By my heart, love, and spirit, I give my everything to the protection of the Crown. By my mind, generosity, and devotion, I give my everything to the wisdom of the Crown.]
Each time he was forced to sign this, Skanlan tried hard not to vomit, and he knew he wasn’t the only one. Pledging himself to the Crown Emperor wasn’t the support he wanted to give.
In the second half of this term, Terrin taught science. On the large chalkboard were squiggles of sound waves, mathematical equations, and a diagram made up of two circles intersecting a third in the middle. The circles were labeled “speed,” “shape,” and “energy.” Underneath speed and energy, Terrin had only written “soprano” and “bass,” respectively. But below the two intersections, speed-shape and shape-energy, were written “alto” and “tenor.” Apparently this showed how Voice was classified, or something like that. Skanlan hadn’t been able to focus much this week.
Teacher Terrin opened today’s lesson about how sound waves moved through the air at close to one-thousand one-hundred twenty-five feet per second, teaching new signs to use every time an unfamiliar term came up. He signed the new word or phrase, wrote it on the chalkboard, and everyone practiced it.
Skanlan participated little, still trying to balance recovering from his encounter with the Emperor and how he would get back to the throne room.
A student raised her hand. She, a motherly rice farmer, was relatively new to this class, so her signing was much slower and simpler than Skanlan’s. When Terrin pointed to her with his chin, she asked a question about converting feet per second to miles per hour.
[Great question, Farmer Rinsha!] Terrin’s smile made Skanlan think the teacher really cared about such a stupid question. Skanlan ran the calculations in his head. All he had to do was multiply the feet per second by a fraction of fifteen over twenty-two. Plus, Terrin literally wrote the calculation on the white board last week.
His mind cleared, and Skanlan almost smacked his forehead with how stupid he was and how long he let himself get sidetracked by the lesson. He raised his hand. [Teacher Terrin, may I use the latrine? I’m not feeling too good.]
The teacher frowned, understanding. He nodded with a concerned expression, then put a finger to his lips.
Skanlan got up slowly and walked out with his hands over his stomach. No going back from here. Out of sight, he picked up his pace, his heart rate at a peak now. He was going to miss the teacher, but he’d already mentally made his goodbye yesterday. Still, he felt terrible about leaving him like that. He knew Terrin was fond of him as a student, and leaving without a proper goodbye would be heartbreaking.
It was nothing either of them weren’t used to.
Skanlan tip-toed back to the throne room, listening intently before rounding corners. He probably looked ridiculous and incredibly suspicious, but he was alone. At last, he reached the door again. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He twisted the door handle and opened it a crack, peering in.
This spacious room was the first to be restored after the Silencing. New pillars rose around a red carpet that Voiceless slaves had repaired. A golden throne sat atop the higher floor of the split-level hall, just two steps high, the stairs spanning the width of the room. Four guards closely surrounded a glass case with ornate gold framing positioned a few feet behind the throne.
The glass was decorative, crafted for clarity rather than strength. The case caught the spotlight from a shattered stained-glass window high above the main doors. Inside it, resting on a pitch-black pillow, was the crown. Soft white fur rimmed the base while gold and platinum layered the circlet. Imprints of swords, branches, and shining stars decorated the crown. At its front were three spikes. The central spike was the tallest and featured a beautiful greenish sapphire, with the left spike an inch shorter and holding a blood-red ruby, and the right spike shorter still with a black diamond. The crown appeared haloed by a rainbow. It was the very symbol and soul of the empire.
He walked up to the stair steps before the throne, now ten paces from the guards. All of them stared at him, apprehensive, but unmoving. He made eye-contact with the blue-eyed guard, who winked. Skanlan smiled. The time he lost with Teacher Terrin hadn’t ruined everything.
The other three guards still had their Voices, and they chose to serve the Emperor. Traitors. All of them. The only ones worse than they were the Voicegard, who traded their humanity for power.
Wrait was the fighter, so Skanlan needed to create a distraction for him. Skanlan reached into his satchel and pulled out the dirty roll. He tossed it up, testing its weight. Then hurled it at the nearest guard, striking him square in the face. The guard spluttered, stumbling back, and all of them rushed Skanlan, foolishly turning their backs on the fourth blue-eyed guard.
Soldier Wrait struck the man closest to him on the back of his head. He removed the guard’s helmet and hit him with it, knocking him out. The remaining guards turned on the imposter and drew their swords.
While they were occupied with Wrait, Skanlan snuck around them behind the glass case. Using the knife in his boot, he scraped the glass and scored a rectangle in it. He pressed both hands onto the scored section and hummed softly. As a tenor, his hands vibrated and glowed a faint yellow. He had practiced this dozens of times. Almost . . . there . . . Finally, hitting the right frequency like an opera singer with a wineglass, the scored glass shattered.
He immediately grabbed the crown, feeling its surprising heft, and stuffed it into his satchel. A thrill of adrenaline and fear shot through his body. This was it!
Wrait pulled his sword out of the third guard’s chest. They made eye contact, and Wrait made a sign with his hands, winked again, and pointed to the doors with his chin.
[Run!]
Reagan Larsen 