Page 22 of Ashen Wings

Jace Ashborne can play his seductive little games and give me life-altering information like treats, but I won’t be his pet. They’ve brought me here. Taken me captive. Toyed with me until I’m a mess of confusion and cowardice. Now the world’s been knocked out of orbit. There’s a guardian egg waiting to hatch. Waiting for its rider.

In silence, Isra accompanies me back to my bedchamber…or should I say prison cell. The room sounds like it’s underwater, muffled and muted by turbulent waves.

With the click of the lock, I truly let myself feel the weight of my current situation—my lungs refuse air, my tongue is dry, and the walls cave in until I’m crushed by ornate floral wallpaper and crown moulding.

A fucking Astralwing. Sovereign’s dragons, although the smallest of the species are by far the most powerful. Only bonded riders—which were few and far before the war—fully understood their dragons’ connection to the cosmos. The last guardian Astralwing was immortalized into our histories as a conduit for Astora herself.

I sigh and start on the corset laced down my back. The continent needs a guardian, now more than ever. When Ashar led his invasion, his army of dragons and riders alike incinerated the faction—scorching all rivers, valleys, and flesh in their path. I was only a child then, but at six-years-old, I knew what the smoke trails lingering over the horizon meant.

The black gown falls down my frame, leaving me bare and trembling. Every muscle begs me to lunge into bed, to slip into a death-like sleep until morning. But I need to run. I need to leave this place and never turn back. Does that make me a coward? Yes. Am I selfish for refusing to involve myself in something that’ll most certainly save the continent? Also yes, but I’ve earned it. The universe has been far from kind, and now, with freedom just out of reach, I’ll prioritize my own survival over that of anyone else.

I glance out the single window overlooking the back courtyard. There’s a glimpse of silvery moonlight dancing on the surface of a fountain, and just beyond, an iron gate fades into darkness.

An old mission scratches my thoughts, and I nearly smack myself for not realizing earlier. One of Finnick’s clients required a certain record to be expunged from Smoke’s official ledgers. It wasn’t my job to ask why, but merely to break into the office of registrar and retrieve it without attention. Unlike with Melark, the plan went accordingly. I bite my cheek, recalling the ruby dragonstone used to generate the ward surrounding Ashar’s castle. Once removed from Scorath’s Spring, we were able to slip through the sewage drains to the castle grounds.

Of course. Favors of the gods only withstand so long as the offering does. Take the dragonstone away…the ward falls. Simple, right?

Except absolutely fucking not. I’d have to find my way out of this fortress, somehow determine a path to Morvayne’s Well, Shadow’s connection to their death god—provided it's on the property, and retrieve the specific stone used to cast the ward, all while avoiding my absence. The plan is incredulous to say the least, but it’s a plan.

I strut toward the shelf of tomes, refusing to acknowledge the wash of exhaustion falling over me. A Brief History of Shadow’s Antiquity might have some sort of map of the faction—outdated, perhaps, but the continent isn’t known for modernization of its territories. I rustle through page after page, skimming the handwritten text until my eyes land on a simple illustration—a crudely sketched map of various landmarks.

Morvayne’s Well is nestled between two major mountain peaks and just below it, a sketched fortress. Yes. The fortress, like an impenetrable gate through the mountain pass, spearheads Shadow’s central districts. Although the well isn’t quite within the fortress’s main grounds, it’s close enough that I don’t think I’ll be betrayed by the sunrise. Besides, that leap of faith is one I’m forced to make.

Moonlight washes the room in bleached light, reminding me of the late hour. I desperately want to crawl into that massive bed and tuck into a dreamless sleep, but there’s no telling what tomorrow might bring. Maybe it’s the half-maddening exhaustion taking hold or merely a desperate survival instinct, but the plan unfolds in my mind. I’ve backed myself into a corner, and this is the last option.

Before I can talk myself out of the absolutely ludicrous decision, I rip the quilts and silken sheets from the bed and begin tying them together. This makeshift rope won’t get me to the ground, but I’ll be close enough that the jump won’t break any bones…I hope.

Full damsel in distress style, I secure one end of the sheets to a support column and launch the other out the window. The grime covered tunic and trousers I came here with are still heaped where I’ve left them. They reek of shit-stained blood, but I pull them on anyway and quickly lace up my boots. One can only run so fast in a fucking ball gown, so stinking clothes it is.

Next thing I know, I’m rappelling down the countless number of stories, gripping the sheets so tightly my hands cramp. This was a mistake. I’m not a rider—trained to scale cliff sides or leap from the skies. Nor am I built like Isra, who I imagine hikes up Terrafyre for fun. But I force my muscles to work, lowering myself hand by hand until I reach the last knot.

The ground is far enough to send my heart skipping, but the jump doesn’t seem lethal. Either I face death inside the fortress walls or I face death out here. Again, the options are limited, nor are they in my favor.

Fuck.

I glance back up at the window left ajar, the sheets taught under my weight. With a quick breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and let go.

Air rushes around me, holding me in its terrifying embrace. My boots impact the ground and the sheer force of the landing is staggering, as my knees give out and I crumple.

Save for the throb of force pounding up my legs, there’s no pain when I take inventory of myself. I wiggle each toe then each finger. I’m sore and bruised but not broken.

The late night air greets me with a maddening silence. Strange flowering bushes and massive black oaks rustle as I rise to my feet. The fortress grounds incite an all-encompassing dread through me. This place is weird, and near impossible to comprehend, but I locate the northern star and start through the gardens. If I’ve read the old sketch correctly, Morvayne’s Well shouldn’t be far, maybe a mile or two from the fortress. I tell myself the journey is no problem, but my ankles ache with each step.

The garden’s fountain lingers like a blurred memory, a dream resurfaced. Its spout, as if frozen in time, trickles in a seamless arc. I wash my hand through the falling water, half expecting the stream to be made from glass. It scatters briefly then resumes its perfect flow. There’s no sound, no turbulent bubbles in the pool below. What the fuck is this place?

The shudder creeping down my spine keeps my pace fast as I leave the fountain to its eerie daydream and cross a footbridge toward the tree line.

If I’ve learned anything from my time here, it’s that Shadow really loves their creepy forests. Starlight spatters in from the gnarled canopy overhead, like little gemstones writhing across the forest floor. Just like the haunted woods around the border, this place shakes me. The shadows mold and sculpt into outlines of wriggling creatures. I tell myself it’s just a trick of the light, but they stalk me like prey as I follow the cleared route through the brush.

Just ahead, there’s a crumbling stone foundation. Maybe once a gardener’s shed or guardhouse. My stomach flips as I realize something I’d been too distracted before to even comprehend. Other than a cook or two, there are no staff here. No chambermaids or hand servants. No guards or groundskeepers. Maintaining a property of this size would require at least fifty on staff, but there’s no one. Dread gathers tight in my chest. Where are they all? Or, more importantly, what happened to them?

My blood chills as I approach the destroyed shed, ensnared by overgrown vines and grasses. Rusted gardening tools and rakes lean undisturbed against the crumbling wall, exposed to the elements by a collapsed roof. There’s a scythe with hairline fractures webbing over its blade just beneath a tangle of overgrowth. Broken beyond use, but adequate enough for self-defense. I pull the handle, freeing the tool from its earthly imprisonment and freeze.

It’s not the blood spatter staining its blade that causes my veins to ice over, but the broken grimy skull it’d been lodged in. The scream builds up my throat before I can swallow it. I’ve seen death before, experienced violence and decay, but these remains shatter me to my core. I don’t dare look too closely, knowing I’ll find bodies littering these woods as I sprint down the trail, leaving the scythe and corpse to rot into the earth.

The path spirals through the woods like a labyrinth, and by the time I reach a clearing, the brisk light of dawn peeks from the horizon. Sharp cliffs jut into the brightening sky on either side, and there, in the center, is a circular shrine, with a dome carved from onyx, supported by plain columns spaced equally around its base. That has to be Morvayne’s Well. The air chills as I sneak toward the shrine steps, scanning the clearing for any sign of movement.

Hushed voices engaged in an intense conversation echo from within. I duck behind a column, pulse flaring in my ears, and scan the shrine.