Page 32 of Ashen Wings

“Yes, but he got closer than I’d have preferred,” I breathe. His touch burns a trail of wildfire down my skin, and I drop my gaze, praying to Astora I’m not as translucent as I feel.

“Not possible. I’ve seen the bruises you’ve given Isra and he’s our best fighter. Better than me if I’m being honest,” Jace says, his words more than a simple remark.

“With my weapons, yes, but the blade was too heavy and I misstepped.” I don’t know why I offer the admission, but I do. Had I just been strong enough, fast enough, lethal enough, I wouldn’t be wincing with every step or nursing a black eye. Maybe Roe wouldn’t be adjusting the medical wrap around her shoulder either.

“It was wrong of me to send you unarmed. That won’t happen again.” He watches me through lowered lashes and my entire fucking body clenches.

“No, it won’t,” I say finally, swallowing the traitorous heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Good,” he says, then turns his attention back to the mission.

Gods, I’m fighting a losing battle against the sheer physical reaction he draws from me. Have I forgotten he’s kept me here against my will? Threatened my execution?

Roe’s backed me up in combat, Isra’s offered me honesty, and Jace has worried over a swollen cheek, but these people are still captors.

I can’t allow a gentle tone or seductive smile to persuade me from the truth. Jace Ashborne may be beautiful and confident and exactly my type, but that doesn’t make him any less of a monster. The hundreds of corpses laid to waste along his borders is proof of that. Ruthless—entirely merciless—just as his father was and the other Ashborne nobility before him.

“If Storm is still as I left it, Yaris Lightbrood will be along the western shore, maybe somewhere in one of these ports here. The major trade lanes come right through this isle, and if he’s as wealthy as Pyris claims, he’ll be well integrated with the merchants there,” Isra says.

“So that’s where you’ll go.” Roe nods and shoves off the table. “Leave after sunset to avoid being seen from the ground.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s wait a moment. We can’t just saunter into Storm without an official directive,” Jace says.

“So grant one. You’re the king aren’t you?” Roe cocks her head.

“We need an official directive from Storm’s monarchy, and after what happened last time…well, I won't hold my breath that Queen Raine will jump to sign off.” Jace eyes Isra from across the study.

“What happened last time?” I ask, my gaze rallying between the two men. Isra shrugs and tucks a curl behind his ear.

“Isra’s dragon ate fifteen of Storm’s infantry when they intercepted him during patrol,” Roe says, and her tone sounds almost proud.

“It wasn’t Serelyn’s fault, they swarmed us unannounced. First rule of the continent—never startle a dragon.” Isra’s cherry red cheeks are proof that the endeavor most certainly was Serelyn’s fault, but second rule of the continent—never blame a dragon, only its rider.

My heart pumps with the next question—Isra is a rider, too? He’s from Storm which means Serelyn must be a Jadetail. They aren’t as common a breed as Crimsonclaws, but they’re nonviolent…at least when unprovoked. I shiver at the thought of the immense power flickering through their massive bodies—lightning breath. The last sacrificial line of defense, but an impenetrable one at that.

During the war, the Jadetails refused to ally with Sovereign’s Astralwings. The riders argued that unleashing their power would cause not just one breed of dragon toward extinction but all of them. So, Storm stayed a non-active party in battle, but unlike Shadow, they opened their borders to refugees when Sovereign’s final pillar crumbled.

“Rainey dearest is a family friend. Send me to Storm, she’ll give us her support,” Isra says.

“If I recall correctly, Queen Raine’s last correspondence suggested otherwise.” Jace arches a brow at him.

“Blasphemy,” Isra replies, a wry grin spreading over his lips. Pacing to his desk, Jace clears retrieves a scroll marked with the House of Raine’s sigil—a bolt of lightning forming a dragon tail—and clears his throat.

“Isra Kaari, emissary of King Ashborne III, is hereby declared an enemy of our great faction. He is not, nor ever will be, welcome across our borders until he meets Morvayne,” Jace reads. A hint of amusement laces through his tone, sending his lip twitching at the corners.

Roe snorts and pats Isra on the shoulder. “There we have it, my friend.”

I stifle the curl of my lip before it spreads.

“So, if Isra can’t cross back into Storm, who then? Roe?” I ask.

“Oh gods no, I’m not stepping even a toe over the border,” she says, her warm humorous demeanor replaced by one of stern formality.

“No, Roe will stay here.” Jace doesn’t offer anything else, and the sharp bite of his words suggests it’s not open for discussion.

“So, what? You want me to track him? By myself? In a faction I’ve never been to nor am familiar with at all?” My lips part incredulously as all three of their gazes land on me. “You’ve all gone mad. What’s to say I won’t just disappear once I’ve crossed the border?”

“You won’t,” Jace states, inspecting the ring on his index finger.