I give her a tired grin. “How do you always manage to pass through the horrors of the Ashlands and come out the other side looking as though you just stepped out of some perfect, beautiful painting?”
“Because I get ten times more beauty sleep than you do, on average.” She fluffs the raven locks of her hair. “Seriously, Owyn, you should try actuallysleepingat night, for once, instead of constantly patrolling the streets around here. You’d look even better than me if you did.”
“Doubtful.”
She fixes me with a stern look.
I concede with a shrug and force my smile to stay in place, pushing down thoughts of all the things that make me want to patrol our streets. The fears. The regret.
Theguilt.
Guilt over things only I know about Emberfall and the days leading up to it. Things that I’ve never told anyone—not even Briar—and likely never will.
We leave our horses at the community stable and then head into the Burn, passing under the arch blackened by dragon flame. Before that night five years ago, it declared the true name of this district—Haven's Rest—but the plaque with that moniker melted clean off. And the area hardly resembles the moderately affluent place it once was, so it’s just as well that we’ve renamed it.
The guards beyond the arch welcome us in. “How are you?”
“Still here,” Briar and I both reply; it’s the regular, quietly defiant greeting between those of us who call this place home.
They reply with respectful nods; our profession has always commanded some level of respect in this community, and we’re likely the most successful Ashwalkers among them—especially now that most of our predecessors are dead.
Queens of the Shit Heap,Briar often jokes.
I usually laugh along.
But beneath the humor, I sometimes feel a hollow ache where my sense of pride and purpose should be. And that ache is especially sharp today. I don’t know if it was the encounter with the Mouren camp that did it—brushing so close to so much disgusting wealth—but our home feels even more desperate than usual as we trod down its dirty streets.
The Burn earned its name honestly; even after five years, scorch marks can still be seen everywhere you look. Almost everything carries the grey pallor of ash, too. It’s worked into the cracks of cobblestones, stains the weathered faces of buildings. The air tastes of char and unwashed bodies, of cook fires burning whatever can be scavenged for fuel.
A group of children dart past us, their laughter an unsettling sound amongst the grimness. They're playing some game with a rusted hoop, taking turns rolling it down the street. One of them—a girl no older than seven—has a cough that rattles in her chest. Her name is Lyra; the youngest member of the Corvaine family. Her father was lost on Emberfall, and she had an older brother who later succumbed to injuries he sustained that night.
I have too many records like this twisting around in my brain.
I know of far too many mothers who couldn’t stand to lose another child.
That’swhy I don’t sleep much at night, and it’s why my heart clenches as I think of the reduced payment I took in Lastlight, reminding me again of how few I’m able to help, no matter how hard I push myself.
We leave the majority of that reduced payment at our guild headquarters, in the care of Grier Thorne. Grier was once an Ashwalker himself, until he sustained an injury during one of his runs, leading to the loss of most of his rightleg. Now, he often handles the business side of our operations. He’s blunt, sharp-minded, and mean as a dragon with an empty stomach—which will serve him well when Mavros’s subordinates come to collect. They won’t get a dime over what they’re owed as long as Grier is the one they’re dealing with.
After leaving headquarters, my purse feels depressingly light, as expected. I did look the other way when Briar skimmed a few of the medical supplies from our cargo back in Lastlight, and I’m glad for it, now; at least we have some supplies we can gift to the small, makeshift clinic nearby. The young doctor we hand them to is so grateful for the donation that she breaks down in tears.
We pay a visit to the trading post, too. A few traveling merchants have set up temporary stalls along its weathered tables. Not many; most avoid the Burn entirely, because there’s so little profit to be made here. But we’re able to exchange some of the things Briar stole, and we purchase a few more: a sack of grain, some salted fish, a few jars of lamp oil.
It isn’t much, but we share what we can with our neighbors. We smile and try to lift their spirits as we hand things out, and Briar regales some of them with embellished tales of our latest misadventures.
But by the time all of this is finished, both of our moods are sour. Deflated. Not even Briar can joke her way out of the feeling that we haven’t done enough.
That it’snevergoing to be enough.
We arrive at the small shack we share with Marta. She isn’t home; she’s likely at the shop down the road, mending clothes and trying to spin respectable garments out of whatever scraps people bring her. Doing what she can to help usget by, even though her old hands are so gnarled and stiff she can barely thread a needle anymore.
Briar mutters a goodbye, then disappears into her tiny room and closes the door.
I wash up and change into clean clothes, my motions slow and methodical. The days’ events continue to play on repeat in my mind as I flop onto my worn-out mattress and pull the slightly-musty smelling blanket up around me. Questions swirl. Despair creeps like frost into my heart, killing off any seed of peace that tries to sprout.
But I’m so tired that none of these things keep me from falling asleep.
It’s wellpast nightfall before I wake.
