Page 10 of Ashen Wings

Come on…pick it up.

She glances around, ensuring there’s no wandering eyes and kneels beside the discarded arrow. When her slender hands unfurl the parchment she stiffens.

I lick my lip and whistle. It’s a quick enough sound to go unnoticed…unless you’re listening for it. The courier turns in my direction. When our eyes lock, I gesture her closer.

I’m not going to kill you just get the fuck over here, I want to say, but the guards are on high alert. She’s already wasted too much time in the open to attract their attention. Let’s pray that if she’s brave enough to carry contraband over the border, she’ll come. So I wait, and I watch.

The woman clutches her satchel and treads over to me, disappearing into the shadows until she’s close enough to touch if I extend my arm.

“Who are you?” she whispers.

My eyes flash in the darkness, but I force my tone to stay indifferent. “Maeve sent me. I’m to retrieve the package from you.”

“Do you take me as a fool?” She scoffs. I shift my weight toward her, keeping a hand hovered over the blade sheathed to my thigh. With a back step, her eyes dart to the gleaming hilt.

“Look, take it up with Maeve. I’m just following orders. The buyer requested an expedited shipment, and she sent me to relieve you.”

“Maeve wouldn’t just send you without notifying me first,” she says, her fingers clenched around the satchel.

I sigh and lean against the cracked stone building. There’s a drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere behind me that echoes incessantly, filling the silence between us with an apprehensive rhythm. The guards will notice if she’s late to her crossing, and just like the water droplets—time’s ticking.

“Fine. Let’s go talk to Maeve now then, I’m sure she’ll really appreciate being woken up at this hour to write a delayed shipment notice to the buyer.” I pick at my nails, keeping my eyes narrowed and lip curled. The lies flow cleanly from my lips to the point where I almost scare myself at just how easy it is to step into someone else’s shoes.

The courier bites her lip. Her fingers dance along the satchel’s stitching, and I already know I’ve won. “Give me your directive papers and I’ll be on my way.”

She watches me for a moment, but retrieves the parchment from her bag.

“I still expect to be paid for this job,” she huffs, offering the scroll to me.

“The stipen’s all yours,” I reply, pocketing it. The beat of wings disrupts the sky above us. Time to go. “The package?”

With lips thinned, the courier hands me her satchel.

“A word of advice?” Gods, everyone around here loves to give unwarranted tips these days. “There are whispers that Jace Ashborne’s been catching patrols with his border guards. Just…watch your back out there, and stick to the trail, okay? It’s marked with black banners, you can’t miss them.” Her icy blue eyes glitter in the hazy moonlight.

I curl my lips into a thankful smile and secure the satchel beside my pack. Now, I’m no better than a damned mule with all the shit I’m carrying.

“Thanks,” I say and brush past her. The courier’s gaze brands into me as I exit the alley and start for the western gate. Only when I reach the two guards leaning lazily against their post does she follow the path back toward the city.

Neither speaks, but the taller of the two men sizes me up. He outstretches his hand for my directive, his gaze lingering a little too long on my chest. I shift to allow my cloak to fall over my thigh. The dagger sheathed there burns hot against my skin. The guard unfurls the directives and reads the handwritten ink.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, returning the parchment to my palm.

“Thanks,” I reply.

The gate groans open in protest.

This is it. The moment everything changes. The first time in twenty-two years I’ve stepped outside of Smoke, but there’s a heaviness holding my breath hostage. I close my eyes for a moment and steady my rapid heartbeat. The tracking link sends a rippling reminder over my skin, like Finnick himself breathes down my neck.

I take a step, then another, and cross into the land of rot and darkness—the faction of death.

7

The sun rises over a sweeping hillside of scorched earth and dying greenery. Shadow is exactly as expected—a desecrated land crippled with blight. The air cools as I descend the mountainside trail and cross a vast open valley of boulders and rotten black oak. Only a faint hum whispers from the earth.

There’s no life here. No birds or field mice. No beetles or spiders, even. I knew the stories of our western neighbors, but nothing could prepare me for the smell—rotting bone and over-bloomed hyacinths. I follow a narrow crossing through the field to the brambled tree line on its far side, my hand never leaving my dagger’s pommel.

By midday, I’m chilled to the bone. Even the air out here breathes Morvayne’s frost. It’s frigid and barren, and the backwoods are all too quiet. All too still. But most certainly not empty.