Page 53 of Ashen Wings

I toss the silken sheet off me and swing from the bed. The moon beams in from the circular window beside me, casting the guest room in washes of silver. The armchair opposite the bed rests vacant, like an eerie, empty presence seeing through my fractured walls. The gilded clock on the side table ticks like a countdown, knowing my time is limited.

For someone who found themselves in lavish bedding and warm, comforting chambers twice now, I’m not managing this well. Gods, I should be sleeping like a fucking baby under the high-end blankets and soft pillows.

I throw on a cotton robe and wander down the hall. Maybe some fresh air and herbal tea will calm my nerves enough to find sleep.

Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet under the heavy blanket of sleep. Dried rosemary flutters in the cool breeze, wafting the room with its sharp, fresh scent.

I place the kettle on the hearth embers and rummage through the cabinets until landing on the jar of elderflower.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Yaris’s voice sends a jolt down my spine. I spin, pulse pounding in the base of my throat. The tea canister slips from my grasp and thank the gods it’s copper because its contents scatter across the counter in a soft, papery snowfall.

“Oh—Yaris, you scared me.” With pink cheeks, I rush to clean the mess, gathering the dried petals with stiff fingers just to avoid Yaris’s gaze.

“Sorry.” He chuckles, stepping from the entrance. “Here, let me help you.”

His hand brushes mine as he takes the canister. The contact is brief, but something in my chest settles like his warmth is that of an old friend.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

The question lands too precisely, and my fingers hesitate on the countertop. “What?”

“Well, clearly you’re working through some things if you’re unable to sleep. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” I murmur.

A quiet thread of understanding hums between us. He doesn’t push, nor does he backpedal either. With a warm smile, he roots himself there in the silvery quiet.

“And that’s fair,” he says. “I realize I’ve probably been a bit overenthusiastic. It’s just…Nova, I cherished my sister, estranged as we were, and father’s friendship. After the war I held on to the hope for so many years that they’d gotten out safely. It wasn’t until recently did I let go of that notion. Now, seeing you here…” His voice trails away.

I drop a pinch of herbs into my mug. The expression etched in his violet eyes holds an ache I recognize all too well. It both breaks and pieces my heart back together, like I’m staring at a warped reflection.

“I understand, it’s okay. I’m sorry I was cruel to you,” I say.

Yaris retrieves the kettle, now whistling on the hearth, and fills my cup. “It’s okay to be angry, to leave space for the rage, especially directed at me. I deserve it.”

In this light he looks older than before, more exhausted, more broken.

“No, you don’t.” My throat tightens. “It was easy for me to forget that, even with such a beautiful home and comfortable life, you’re a survivor, too. You lost just as much as I.”

Something shifts behind his eyes—grief, but maybe also relief—like he’s finally being seen. He reaches for a plate of leftover pastries on the counter, and my stomach betrays me with a grumble. “I hope I can earn your forgiveness somehow, Nova.”

The burden of our exchange presses too tightly against my ribs until I can barely breathe. So, I reach for levity like a lifeline. “Pass me one more of those little chocolate cakes and it’s all yours.”

His mouth curls at the corner. “Deal.”

We stand beside one another for a while, indulging in a peaceful silence as much as the late night sweets. I’ve run from the past my entire life, buried myself under layers of blood and basalt and ash, but something stirs in me I barely recognize now—comfort, maybe? Or a residual memory of it, at least. I take a bite of the cake and let the foreign sweetness linger.

“So tell me about Sovereign. I only remember glimpses of it.”

Yaris’s eyes soften with the distant glaze people wear when grief finally settles into something manageable, like a dull blade or healed-over scar.

He leans back against the countertop, arms folded over his chest. “It was a beautiful place. Moderate temperatures and crystalline falls. There was a brightness no matter where you went in the city, and the sanctum—pristine and beautiful. Your mother loved the gardens. She once said the only place you were truly content as an infant was nestled in the lavender fields beside the hatchery. Something about the scent or the proximity to the dragons soothed you, I guess.”

I picture it only in blurry fragments—golden light through latticed stonework, gardens powdered in pastel pollen, my mother’s laughter echoing like chimes on the breeze. It’s slippery though, like all of my early memories, and the images fade away. There’s nothing solid to cling to, just brief fleeting glimpses of a life now world’s away.

A small, unsteady breath slips from me. “I don’t remember it.”