Page 11 of Ashen Wings

There are eyes in these trees. I feel them following me…no, hunting me, and I don’t dare let my gaze linger too long on the shadows. There are things that don’t wish to be seen, and so I respect their wishes. I know better than to fuck with the ancient forces of the earth.

A black sash tied around the base of a massive stump marks the next turn in the trail, taking me deeper into the heart of the forest. Three more trail markers bring me to a slithering brook, its streaming water whispering in lost languages and ancient melodies. I jump the narrow footbridge and scan the canopy for the next marker.

By dusk, I’ve second and triple guessed every twist and turn on the trail. These woods are endless, stretching into the horizon in thickly settled patches of thorny brush and gnarled trees. A rotten stump, infested with lichen, has me wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Is that log just eerily familiar to one I’ve passed or am I going in circles? It’s too late now to question the blind faith I’ve put in the courier’s advice, so I press on, locating the next scrap of torn black fabric. It’s one I haven’t seen before. That’s promising, at least.

Astora help me.

When the daylight fades, this mission starts to feel helpless. I’m significantly underprepared with no bearings and a dry water flask. But don’t worry, I’ve got more weapons than all of Smoke’s armory. Gods be good, I’m a dumbass. I shouldn’t be allowed to make these types of decisions, but it’s far too late to turn around—if I could even find the path back.

The silence out here leaves me breathless. After years of deafening violence, how can I withstand the quiet? I kick a rock with my boot. For someone who’s constantly sought the serenity of isolation, I’m a fucking baby when I’m truly alone.

I tell myself if I don’t keep moving, I’ll be stuck out here with the nightmares and wraiths, but they’re no worse than those of my own creation. Maybe I’m not running from Shadow’s ancient creatures, but the demons that come when there’s vacancy in the silence.

Focus on the target. The mission. I repeat the words I’ve told myself over and over again.

When I spiral so far into violence that I barely recognize my own reflection, I whisper that mantra, but now the weight of this place keeps it lodged in my throat.

Just before midnight, I reach the tavern. A faint glow of candle lit tables wisps through the trees with the rustle of an approaching storm. Half mad from the journey, half terrified of the backwoods, I shuffle through the entrance. Exhaustion’s grip loosens when the heat from a blazing hearth warms my face. Only a handful of patrons remain, most glazed and pink faced from one too many ales.

“Last call is soon, so make it quick,” the barkeep says from behind a cracked slate counter. I keep my eyes low as I take a seat beside a stumbling woman and the man she’s clearly decided to take home. The lovers share quiet murmurs of drunken seduction, and my cheeks blaze at their wandering fingers and parted lips.

The last night I shared with another ended in my knife pressed to his throat after waking to find him rustling through my top drawer. I’ve never had the best taste in partners. My preference for toxic, broken men has left me full of regrets, but the eager thrill of being just shy of danger is one I can’t seem to shake off. Seeing these two, now engaged in such normal, unremarkable affection, sends a tinge of heartache through me. A few more weeks, Nova. Then you can engage in all the drunken flirtations you want.

“Just a pint, please,” I say to the barkeep. She nods and pours a chipped glass to its brim.

“You’re new to these parts,” she says—not a question, but a statement—and places the drink before me. I gulp the ale down, then gesture for a refill.

“I’m here on business,” I reply.

“Two pints doesn’t seem all too professional to me.” She raises her needle thin brow. “What sort of business?”

“I’m delivering a package.” She’s quiet for a while, contemplating whether to trust me, no doubt. “Have a look.” I pull the directive from my satchel and smooth it out on the bar. “Official business.”

The woman squints at the parchment, then returns her brown eyes to me.

“Out back.”

“Thanks.” I toss her a couple of stipen and rise from my seat, leaving the lovers to their late night whispers.

The hallway leading to the back rooms is a mess of doors with rusted hinges and tarnished locks. This place makes the roughest of bars in Smoke look fit for royalty. It’s damp, and dirty. Even just traversing the narrow corridor leaves my skin sticky with rotten wood and mildewy grime.

The exit creaks in protest as I step into the night, taking in the fresh taste of midnight stars. Moonlight washes over a small paddock with two white mares grazing in the ankle-high grass. Just beyond their enclosure of makeshift fencing is a barn…or at least what once was a barn. It’s by no means suitable for a complex smuggling operation, but this is Shadow after all. Stranger things have happened.

I reach the open doorway and take a moment to gather myself. The courier never specified what she carried, because she assumed I knew, but now the satchel is heavier than rock. This could go well…or gravely for the worst. I steal a glimpse inside. Something gold and far too expensive to be tossed into a ripped up sack glints in the starlight. So gold or jewels from Ashar’s vault then. I swallow the lump in my throat and re-secure the clasps.

Piri’s warning comes back to me in whispers, no louder than the late night breeze. Cael Fleetwing isn’t someone I’d go looking for if I were you.

But it’s too late now. I’m here. I’m doing this whether I gain my freedom or meet Morvayne. The flickering glow of candlelight heats my cheeks as I enter the barn.

“Business?” A man dressed in decadent purple velvet sits at a table center to the space. The absurd contradiction of his lavish attire amidst the hay bales and chicken shit is a sight to behold, but I stifle the grin before my lip twitches. This is most certainly not the time to crack jokes.

“I’ve brought cargo,” I reply. The man’s hand, adorned with glittering rings of every precious gemstone, juts toward me.

I blink.

“Gods, courier, your directives? I don’t have all night,” he snaps.

My cheeks heat, but I rustle through the satchel and retrieve the scroll before any suspicion sets in. Without glancing up from the ledger propped open before him, the man takes my directives and sets them beside a stack of unopened scrolls, each carrying the emblem of a different faction. Other trade authorizations…it’s not just Smoke who’s taken interest in Fleetwing’s goods then. Maybe that’s somewhat relieving? Knowing Ashar isn’t the only one gathering dragonstones.