Page 13 of Ashen Wings

“Fuck!” he cries. My dagger is back in hand before Isra recovers.

I take in the mountain of a man. He’s huge with rippling corded muscles trailing up his arms, but there’s a lean to his stance. A defensive posture curling ever so slightly to the right. My lips spread into a grin. He’s wounded. Maybe Cael was a tougher opponent than Isra expected.

Isra draws his blade, a dark smile creeping over his narrow lips. I raise my dagger, welcoming the oncoming attack.

He charges.

That’s his first mistake.

I dodge the swipe of steel and tuck myself under his bicep, streaking my blade through emerald cloth and black leather. Where I expect Isra to react, he stays steady. Either his pain tolerance is astronomical or he’s far more experienced in being carved up than I am.

“Let’s not be difficult,” he says, whirling to face me. My teeth grit as I slide to a halt and lunge for him. He’s too fast. I don’t expect the blade as it barely misses my cheek.

So speed’s not his weakness. Neither is pain.

“Let me go, and I won’t speak a word of this encounter,” I say.

He ticks an index finger, eyes flaring in the amber firelight. “And miss an opportunity to fight such a skilled opponent? Never.”

My breath catches. He’s toying with me, like a cat with its prey. I grip my dagger tighter, letting the fury wind itself around me. Clearly, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, dodging another slash of his blade.

“Sweet girl,” he muses, then lashes toward me again. We dodge and strike, strike and dodge, until we’re both winded. The injury he’s nursing is more of an inconvenience than a hindrance, though, as he performs his lethal dance.

My once secured hair falls free, revealing the silvery strands I’ve left to frame my face. I tell myself it’s a stylistic choice, but there’s a piece of me—a piece of my lineage—I refuse to conceal with dye. It’s reckless, I know, but I can’t help myself. His eyes follow the locks.

“What faction are you from?” he asks, sidestepping my oncoming attack with ease.

“W-what?”

“Humor me little one, what faction do you hail from?” he asks again. My attack falters with the disarming nature of his tone.

Isra catches my wrist.

Fuck.

“Why do you care if you intend on killing me anyway?” If I risk jerking my wrist away, it could very well snap. He’s got me.

“Answer the question.”

“Smoke,” is all I say.

“And you were born there?” Isra scrutinizes every crease and curve of my features—my violet eyes, dyed hair, bloodied lip. His gaze lands on the scar, just as every opponent does when given the opportunity to get close.

“Yes.” The lie hisses through my teeth, like I’m a cornered animal.

“Disappointing…” He shrugs before wrapping me into a chokehold.

My throat burns against the pressure of suffocation. I scratch and squirm as the desperation sets in. Isra is going to kill me. This is it. But I refuse to meet Morvayne without a fight.

Stars speckle my vision when his grip tightens.

“Isra…that’s enough.” A voice darker than the blackest void fills the room. Even in my breathless haze, I swear time itself stands still—frozen by sheer cosmic power.

Isra’s hands loosen but keep me confined. Air swells my lungs, filling me with a sputtering, reckless relief. He turns our bodies to face the exit.

Standing in the doorway is the most devastating man I’ve ever seen. Thick black hair falls all too casually across his brow, and his eyes…fuck those eyes. Like starlight and ink.