Page 2 of Ashen Wings

Arrogant enough to keep his records unlocked. Better for me, I guess.

The drawer houses files and scrolls detailing combat tactics deployed in the last attack against Storm. Smoke’s typical burn it all mentality really shines when leadership doesn’t care about civilian death tolls. Last week’s invasion attempt resulted in two more scorched villages with a full casualty rate.

“Those fuckers are gonna blast us off the continent if they keep this up,” Finnick once said. After years of warring factions and a death toll long enough to reach the cosmos, I’m starting to agree.

But Smoke’s dragons are unbeatable. You can only extinguish so much dragonfire.

I sigh and slam the drawer shut. The alarm below signals my untimely exit, and I scuff through the rest of Melark’s records, landing on one easily missed.

Smoke Trade Authority, 2nd Month of Astora’s Year

Authorized shipment to Shadow Trade Authority via courier.

Item Description: Satchel with unmarked contents weighted at 2 pounds 3 ounces.

Point of contact: Cael Fleetwing

I’ll bet my dinner ration these “unmarked contents” are the dragonstones. Finnick’s intel suggested three to four of them which should put them at around two pounds, and if they’re unregistered…someone’s been tipped off to keep quiet.

But there’s no import authorization attached. Whatever these dragonstones were purchased for is significant enough to keep the rest of the transaction off the books.

I slip the trade receipt into my pocket and fly to the door. Melark’s office is on the top floor of the military academy. Unfortunately, even I can’t scale ten levels without risking death.

So, the front door it is. This might get messy.

I stow my dagger and replace it with the short sword sheathed on my back. It’s lighter than the typical broadswords Finnick’s mercenaries carry, but I prefer the fluid ease of the blade. Especially when speed is my best advantage.

The office exits into a narrow corridor lined with rooms adorned in red placards denoting various military and civilian officials. The same rotten scent lingers in the air as I plummet down the corridor, my feet light with each step.

Boots thud up the stairwell, and I shift my stance to lower my weight. Two Smoke guards in burnt crimson uniforms appear opposite me, both wielding heavy steel blades. The Smoke insignia—a dragon’s tooth encircled by flames—is carved into their matching shields.

“Stop!” one of them cries, throwing himself toward me. My boots skid on the black stone floor and I screech to a halt, raising my own weapon.

The guard lowers his shoulder and barrels toward me. I suck in a breath and let the corridor fade away. It’s just my opponent, me, and the lethal dance of our heartbeats intermingling in the dark.

He swings.

I dodge, then strike.

He falls to the floor, unaware of the gash across his abdomen. Blood seeps into the cotton fabric of his uniform, staining it a deeper shade of crimson, and I focus my attention on the second guard.

He’s in the standard Smoke offensive position—sword raised and shield hovering just beneath his chin—but unfortunately for him, I’ve studied the army’s combat manuals since I was old enough to read. He’ll step and jab, bearing his weight on the defensive side, then shove the blunt edge of his shield toward me.

The alarm horn rings again, deafening my breaths, as I anticipate his move with memorized ease. The motion comes as naturally as a blink or a twitch, but I don’t waste time engaging in proper combat. I flex my feet, feeling the gritty sole of my boots, and curl my toes. Then I pounce.

Quick, silent, lethal.

As is expected of me.

The second guard joins his companion on the floor. Blood beads on my blade as I hurtle down the spiraling steps, hacking and slashing through the swarm of Smoke guards as they file in from each level.

Ninth floor—the junior officers quarters. Two more guards’ blood staining the grout.

Eighth—the classrooms. Three guards.

Seventh—cadet quarters. Four more.

They pour into the stairwell, meeting my blade with interrupted war cries. By the time I reach the bottom level my face is masked under a thick film of blood. My breath is shallow. I did say it’d be messy. I rip a scrap of crimson from the lifeless guard’s cloak at my boots and swipe my face clean.