Page 18 of Ashen Wings

Flames erupt down the hallway, illuminating a strip of blazing sconces housed in crystal tubing. I stumble, watching the warm light flicker across various regal portraits. Isra’s fingers curl around my shoulder to catch my fall.

“Careful there,” he says, dropping his hand. I smooth my bloodied tunic and glance out the window before he can see the blood rush to my cheeks.

The greenery isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. Shrubs with purple blooms and rubbery leaves grow silently below, as if they’re frozen. There’s no autumn breeze, as expected this time of year, or faint birdsongs. There’s nothing, in fact. Nothing but a picturesque stillness that makes this place feel like a painting, a snapshot immortalized in time.

“The property is warded so even if you’re psychotic enough to scale the exterior, you won’t make it far. Only those who are free to cross are able to.” That’s not unexpected. Smoke’s own royal palace is warded by fire—step foot over the barrier and you’d burn to a crisp. Part of me wonders what might happen when crossing Shadow’s ward. Death by darkness?

“What kind of trees are those?” I ask.

Isra raises a brow, lacing his massive arms across one another.

“What?” I say, suddenly very aware of the intensity in his mossy green eyes.

“No where am I or will you let me go. Just what kind of trees are those?” He inflates his voice to imitate my own and my eyes narrow.

“I’ve accepted you’re probably going to execute me once I’m no longer of use to whatever it is you’re doing here, so why would I have any need of those answers?”

He shrugs and continues down the corridor. “They’re darkling oaks. Native to Shadow. You won’t find them anywhere else on the continent.”

I sigh and leave the strange foliage to its peaceful slumber. Isra stops before a door dripping with lush carvings of constellations. I’m not as familiar as I should be with our cosmos, but a faint memory resurfaces. Maybe my father’s shown me this one?

“Dinner will be served in an hour downstairs. I’ll come get you when it’s ready. Bathe, rest, meet Morvayne attempting an escape, whatever you prefer,” he says, producing a simple key from his trouser pocket. The door unlocks with a click and swings open.

“You’re simply leaving me unattended?” I blink, confused by the hint of hospitality. “Aren’t I your prisoner?”

Isra’s lips stretch into a wry smile. “If you’d prefer, I’m happy to escort you in the bathing chambers, but I don’t believe Jace would be all that thrilled.”

I click my tongue and shove him aside, crossing through the doorway. Pompous asshole.

Any rage searing my veins simmers almost instantly as I take in the bedchamber. Just as the corridor, its gemstone-colored wallpaper lines the vaulted ceiling and basalt flooring. There’s a four poster bed at the room's center, draped in luxurious down comforters of matching color and a grand stone fireplace nestled in the corner. To think there are those on the continent that live in luxury such while I sleep on a stained hand me down mattress that’s barely thicker than plywood and the citizens of Smoke build makeshift hovels from scraps.

A gown of midnight velvet is laid out on the bed, embellished with various gemstones of garnet and onyx. Gods, this place isn’t just dripping with wealth, but everything is surreal…unusual. My captors are either trying to win my favor or disguise their motives with expensive fabrics and glorious furniture.

The lock clicks behind me. Well, make their intentions the latter.

“Be ready in an hour,” Isra calls through the door. His footsteps fade down the hall, and I realize…again, I’m alone. Perfect.

I lurch for the window. The panes open outwards with ease, but the hedges and blooming bushes below are mere specks across the dark garden’s perimeter. The exterior walls are smoother than marble with little to no notches or footholds.

Scaling the exterior is definitely out of the question.

I make a mental note to enlist in some climbing lessons if I ever make it back to Smoke, because Astora so help me, if I find myself in another predicament where my escape is limited to climbing…for now, if there’s no means of fleeing, I’ll just have to go with my second plan.

I sweep the room, searching for anything to use as a weapon. There’s an antique shelf housing various tomes—A Brief History of Shadow’s Antiquity, The Rider’s Guide to Intermediate Flying, and Sage Vermouth’s Codex of Subterranean Botanicals. In another life I might comb through these at my leisure, but my heart ticks like a broken clock. I need something, anything to defend myself with.

A velveteen box rests by a neat stack of scrolls on the mantle. Its open glass case reveals a small, vacant mount for a ceremonial knife. Those fuckers. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. They swept the room. Of course they did.

A clock chimes somewhere below, reminding me of Isra’s return. My only hope at escape might very well be to play along. So, I gather myself like scraps of parchment, and make for the bathing chamber.

Unsurprisingly, it’s just as glorious as the attached bedroom. A basalt counter, filled with baskets and boxes of various bathing salts, is mounted below a crystalline mirror. I offer my reflection a brief glance and wince. My face is bruised and caked with grime. My eyes are puffy from exhaustion and my hair? Gods, it’s a mess.

If I’m honest, I look half-fucking-dead.

My locks frame my face in matted snarls. The mousey brown dye has already started to fade, leaving the brilliant silver tone all the more apparent. The dye never lasts. No matter how concentrated a mixture or how frequently I rinse, it always fades. Like my bloodline refuses to be silenced. That’s the least of my concerns right now, though. They’ve caught on to my lineage whether I admit to it or not.

I pad to the bath—an obsidian bowl at the room’s center—and spin the faucet. Steam curls through the air, swirling and writhing like fleeting spirits. I peel off the soiled clothes and wade in, careful to keep my neck straight. Again, in another life, I might admit to enjoying this. The warm, soapy water against my muscles releases all tension of previous combat, and I can finally exhale without protest from a bruised rib.

I close my eyes, and for the briefest of moments, surrender to the luxurious captivity I’ve found myself in, but the clock below chimes again, and the moment escapes.