After five years of living with my injury, I’d like to say I’m no longer self-conscious about it. That would be a lie, though; it’s too hard not to think about it, knowing how it disturbs and frightens people.
The scars around it are gruesome enough, but the eye itself is worse, having gone completely white over the years. Staring into it is like looking into a cold, ugly winter sky, as Elara Greenwich—arguably the prettiest woman in our village—once informed me in her most saccharine, pitying voice. A slightly drunken Briar gave her a bloody nose for the comment, but that doesn’t erase the truth behind it.
It’s easier just to cover it up, along with all the other scars I gained on that fateful night five years ago.
Tearing my gaze away from my reflection, I roll up my sleeve, revealing the Ashwalker brand that I carved into my forearm when I was fifteen.
Thisis what I need to focus on.
I study it for a moment, tracing the four lines—a representation of the four kingdoms—that reach out from a center point made up of an empty circle with a curved crescent underneath it. It looks a bit like a compass, each kingdom line pointing in a different direction, though there are also seven additional, smaller lines between the northern and western arms, extending outward and upward like sun rays.
Guards at any of the destitute places I run between know this mark on sight. It grants passage into places that would otherwise be closed, allowing me to carry out my work without too many questions of allegiance or intent.
This is a scar Iwillinglytook on, just as my parents did.A sign of courage, my father always said. Courage and a desire to keep the world connected, holding it together even as it falls further and further toward ruin. A mark that I actually want to be remembered for, unlike the ugly one on my face.
“Ready?” Briar asks.
“On to business,” I say without hesitation, turning toward the city’s gate.
Its secluded locationmakes Lastlight a quieter city than many of the ones we conduct transactions in, meaningwe don’t have to worry much about rogue gangs or other trouble getting in our way.
We find our designated contact and make the exchange of goods and coins, moving quickly enough that we decide to set out for home after only a brief rest, rather than staying the night as we’d originally planned.
You’d never know we’d had a successful run, though, judging by the expression still darkening Briar’s face long after Lastlight has faded into the distance behind us.
She’s angry because I charged less than we’d planned on to relinquish the cargo we carried. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask for any more than I did; not when I realized that what we were carrying was mostly medical supplies.
Lastlight is not a wealthy city—hardly any better off than our own slum town—and I know the winter has been particularly harsh for them. Grey Fever has been raging within their walls for months; they’ll be lucky if they have enough survivors to handle the spring planting season, at the rate things are going for them.
“Weneed to survive, too,” Briar reminds me, yet again, as we pause at the same waypoint we did earlier.
This time, I dismount long enough to leave my own notes about the current route conditions around us.
“And you know as well as I do that Mavros is still going to expect his full payment for those goods,” she adds, glaring down at me as I gather and stack stones.
Kaine Mavros is the proprietor who hired us for this particular job. He’ll be sending his associates to our headquarters before the week is finished, and there’s no chance they’ll leave with anything less than our agreed-upon sum. Briar isn’t wrong about that.
My stomach twists as I think of the extra mouths I couldhave fed back home, had I managed to be a more ruthless negotiator in Lastlight.
But at what cost?
I wish there was a better solution. Some way to ensure thatnobodyhad to go without. I wish a lot of things in this empire were different, really. But it’s hard to even imagine what that different world would look like, or how we could rise up to reach it with the weight of Mouren and its dragons pressing down on us.
We’re doing good just to survive.
The deal is done, at any rate. So we ride on toward home, slowing again only when we spot the concerning sign of campfire smoke rising ahead of us.
“Our Mouren friends from earlier?” Briar guesses.
I’m beyond tired and irritable at this point, so I’m sorely hoping that isn’t the case.
No such luck.
We crest a hill to find ourselves overlooking a large camp set up along the edge of the road. Red and gold banners snap back and forth in the brisk wind. Several fires blaze, the conversations around them loud and boisterous. At least two dozen tents are arranged in neat rows, soldiers moving between them with the easy confidence of a military that’s never known true hardship or challenge; most of them were likely born well after Mouren had already secured its power and riches.
We debate turning around and heading for an alternate route—the Serpent’s Bend, which we passed a couple miles back. But it’s not a great option, as it would bring us close to several known dragon roosting spots, places I rarely risk in the middle of the day, much less at night. Not to mentionhow much extra distance it would require our already-tired horses to cover.
Cursing, I slide from Garnet’s back and lead her quietly out of the camp’s sight, toward the bottom of a nearby hill. After loosely tying her to a small tree, I creep to the top of the hill and look down.
