Page 5 of Ashen Wings

“Kallus came back from drill practice whiter than a wraith. During flight ops he and another cadet got caught up in a storm and broke off from the formation. Before they knew it, they’d crossed the border.”

I rest my spoon back in the bowl. Even hunch-backed away from me, Gale’s intoxicated whispers are loud enough for the whole damned bar to hear, let alone my curious ears.

“He crossed the border? Into Shadow?” the woman asks.

Neither patrons notice my wandering eyes under the fog of tobacco and ash.

“Don’t worry, Cee, I gave him an earful. That damned boy is gonna get himself killed before he sees even a shred of combat. But it wasn’t just the border crossing that had him damn near pissing himself.”

I lean in, entirely forgetting the cramp in my stomach and the half-eaten broth.

“Tell me he didn't cross paths with Jace Ashborne. Gods be good…I heard he’s picking up land patrols with his guards.”

Jace Ashborne. At thirty, he’s the youngest heir to the midnight throne ever to succeed. But he’s also the most cutthroat. The most lethal. Fuck, Ashborne makes Smoke’s king, Magnius Ashar, look like sunshine and rainbows—even after his army wiped the northern faction, Sovereign, from our maps.

Just Ashborne’s name sends a prickle down my spine.

“Thank the cosmos, no. You and I both know he’d be dead if he had a run in with the Midnight Heir. That fruit didn’t fall far enough from the Ashborne tree,” Gale spits.

I bite my lip, drawing a tinge of blood with my canine. King Van Ashborne, the late King of Shadow, was an ally to Ashar when Sovereign fell.

Even if Smoke’s king led the armies, Van Ashborne ensured Sovereign’s demise when he closed off his borders in the final hours of battle. Hundreds of fleeing refugees begged and pounded on the gates, and yet Shadow’s regent did nothing. Whoever wasn’t incinerated by dragonfire was sent to the slave district in Smoke.

House Ashborne only breeds cruelty, and just as Gale so eloquently said, Jace Ashborne isn’t any different than his father. Shadow’s borders haven’t ever been open, but more so now, with ruthless land patrols and vicious executions. I’d rather bathe in dragonfire than find myself in Jace Ashborne’s presence.

“Kallus claimed he saw spirits lingering in the woods, terrifying as all ten hells. These weren’t just servants of Morvayne or those crossing over either. No, he said they were demons, void of eyes or any features for that matter, just lurking in the trees. When he landed to catch his bearings, there they were…watching him from the bordering woodlands.” Gale’s whispers garner several other sets of probing eyes, but the drunken man pays them no mind.

Something about these creatures shoots ice through my veins. The forests bordering Shadow are said to be haunted. Filled with twisted roots and rotten marsh, their trails guide those crossing into Morvayne’s Court. Passed loved ones and fallen soldiers, flickering in and out of existence, until they meet the death god and receive their sentence. There’ve been many a whisper muttered in hushed tavern corners, of ethereal spirits long since departed, but never anything described such as this. I should shake it off as simply a cadet’s made up tale to distract from his noncompliance, but a shudder still escapes at the thought of something malevolent lurking over the border.

“Sounds better than getting caught without a crossing sanction by Ashborne if you ask me,” Cee huffs. With a shrug, Gale returns to his ale, swaying off balance atop the barstool in a fit of drunken snickers.

I return to the bowl, now barely warmer than the chilled air just outside. My appetite’s escaped me, though, with the mention of Ashborne and these so-called creatures. Fuck Jace Ashborne, and his whole bloodline right along with him. They may as well have held the whip as it sliced across my adolescent back. My mother’s weak embrace and soft whimpers pulse through me. My father’s final goodbye before marching off to hold the line. I squeeze my eyes shut before the memories catch.

A few more weeks, Nova. You’ve endured worse. The reminder is forced as I gather my empty coin pouch and make for the door. With a quick nod to Val, who’s glaring from her stoop behind the bar, I exchange the tavern’s haze for the sleepy evening air.

Terrafyre glows over the night sky in hues of orange and ash, like an ever-present deity keeping watch over her people. The breeze rustling through the soot-coated air sends goose flesh up my arms as I cross the silent street back toward the apothecary.

My mind reels with the impending sunrise, turning over the hypotheticals of what it’ll bring again and again, and by the time I slip into bed, I’m wound tighter than a coil. Only visions of the future, just beyond my fingertips, soothes the blooming ache at the base of my neck. So, I let hope spin its dangerous web.

This mission is irrational, impossible, and most certainly ludicrous, but I fall into dreams with a smile drawn at the corner of my lip.

4

Finnick’s contact is a sly little man called Piri Wex. He’s short with a stocky build and grimy hands that look like they could easily find their way into unsuspecting pockets.

“Nova Lindwen, I presume,” Piri says, shoving off the wooden archway he’s been waiting under. I trek toward him, boots shuffling over cobblestone. The growls of juvenile dragons quicken my pulse with each stride. According to Piri, a meeting at the trade authority was too susceptible to curious ears, so his solution…the hatchery. Because hungry younglings and a wide open courtyard are definitely a better option. The sacred keepers take a vow of silence—sacrificing the common tongue for the language of dragons—so at least we can speak openly without discretion, but the dragons…get too close and you’ll lose more than just information.

“Piri Wex, pleasure to meet you,” I reply, keeping my gaze locked on the crimson dragon eyeing me like I’m the prized pig.

Of course, like everyone else on the continent, I’ve spent my life around dragons. Coming to the hatchery for Scorath’s Grace—when the new generations of dragons hatch—watching the flight patrols overhead during ops training, and so on, but I’m close enough to Little Red over here to feel the steam pouring from his needle sharp teeth.

“Finnick said you had some questions regarding an inter-border exchange,” Piri says. I nod and shift closer to him, leaving the youngling to his freshly butchered bull.

“A source provided me with some information about a trade authorization made between an unspecified courier and a Cael Fleetwing of Shadow. Tell me about that.” Before he makes his demand for payment, I retrieve the pouch of stipen from my satchel and toss it to his boot. “That should be enough to slick your tongue.”

“I’ll answer your questions, but Cael Fleetwing isn’t someone I’d go looking for if I were you.” Piri’s joints crack as he bends to take the pouch, weighing it in his palm before speaking.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”