Page 1 of Ashen Wings

1

There are ten different uses for the autumn cherry leaf. Nine of which aren’t deadly. Nine of which I don’t give a fuck about.

Not today at least.

Not when I’m one misstep from meeting my end. General Melark was feistier than I expected. The man’s almost sixty-five years old, and his left hook is still brutal enough to star my vision.

I duck the swipe of his blade. The steel glints through hazy sunlight filtered in from the office balcony. Then I swing out my foot. Leather meets bone as my sole connects with his shin. He grunts and collapses to his knees.

“Who the fuck are you?” His words are slurred. The serum I slipped into his wine is finally activated.

Thank Astora. It took a hefty bribe to even get into the servants’ quarters, let alone poison a high ranking military official. But the serum took longer than expected. Maybe I got the ratios wrong?

I recall this morning back at the apothecary. Two drops of concentrated leaf extract, one drop of spring water, and a pinch of sugarcane to mask the taste. No, I definitely mixed it right. Melark’s reaction time must just be slow…slow enough to leave me with a swollen left eye and a split bottom lip. He was supposed to be dead when I got here, so I could rummage through his office in peace, but alas. Instead he charged me like a raged bull the second I slid through the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” Melark repeats. The syllables slide off his tongue in groans and grimaces. In response, I toss him the sweetest smile.

“Oh, how rude of me. Nova Lindwen. Pleasure to meet you.” I extend a palm. Melark’s eyes narrow as he trails the scar bisecting my right brow and my violet eyes. I don’t blink or break our locked gaze. Let him get a good long look. Mine’s the last face he’ll see, anyway.

“You’re one of Finnick’s rats, aren’t you?” His right cheek sags, then his left.

I kneel beside him and place a thumb on his bloated lip. “Oh, General, I’m not just one of Finnick's rats…I’m the worst of them.” Melark’s knees crack under his unsteady weight. “See, Finnick only sends me when there’s a large debt to be paid, and I’m afraid it’s time to collect. Where are the dragonstones?”

Melark coughs and sputters as the serum bites through his veins. He’ll be dead in a few minutes, and there's no time to scavenge through the labyrinth of offices and interconnected archives on this level.

“Hm…maybe you didn’t hear me correctly.” I press my boot into his palm, now splayed on the obsidian-tiled floor.

Bones crunch.

Melark groans again.

The toxin excites the nervous system throughout his whole body, intensifying pain to the point of hysteria. It only takes a little bit of applied pressure to send agony raging through him.

“Let’s try this again. Where are the dragonstones?”

“F-f-u-uck y-y-ou,” he gurgles through drool drops.

“Where are the dragonstones you stole from innocent civilians?”

“Urg-f-u-ur-g.”

“You slaughtered them—your own people—for these stones. So, tell me where they are before the poison kills you.”

“Urggh.”

Shit, there’s no use now—the toxin’s reached his brain. He can’t speak or form meaningful words, let alone spill his deep dark secrets to me.

I shrug. “Have it your way, then.”

The dagger strung to my thigh is unsheathed and lodged in his temple before he can murmur a final plea to our death god, Morvayne. Not that he deserves one. Under our king, Magnius Ashar, Melark’s career is doused in blood. I don’t hesitate to offer all the innocent civilians he’s massacred this small token of retribution.

The alarm downstairs blows its heavy horn.

Fuck.

My missions are always clean. Always precise. Always calculated. That’s why Finnick gives me the highest priority assignments. My throat tightens with the conversation I’ll be forced to have when I get back to the apothecary.

Before wasting another breath, I flip Melark’s door lock and lunge for his vacant desk. Amidst the stacks of reports and military memorandums, the general’s office smells like smoke and decayed parchment. I check the lower drawer. It slides open.