Page 54 of Ashen Wings

“How could you? You were so young,” he replies. “But even then you were fearless. You used to run ahead of us and bury your hands in the flowers, like you thought you might pull their sunlight straight from the ground.”

I huff a quiet laugh through my nose. “That doesn’t sound like me anymore.”

“I’d dare to disagree, Nova.” He strokes his long, silver beard. “You’ve just forgotten the parts of yourself that grew in the sun instead of the shadows.”

I set the half-finished cake down before my fingers betray the tremor building there, unable to let the flood of what I hold captive loose. “Sometimes I’m not sure there’s anything left to remember.”

Yaris’s expression shakes when he notices the quiver in my lip. He folds his fingers over mine on the counter and offers a nod of understanding. Part of me begs to run for his safety. To plow through the pain of reminiscing and feel all of it—the grief, the loneliness, the rage, but I can’t.

It’s been twenty-two years of burying my ghosts, shielding the weakness with sharp blades and blood-lust. What might become of me if I allowed it all to resurface? Would I scare Yaris away? Would I fall apart? It’s easy to fuel the rage rather than embrace the sadness, and I’m nowhere near strong enough to withstand it. I wield a blade expertly, put on an irrefutable mask to gather whispers, and walk the shadows as if they’re brighter than the sun, but facing my own damned self…the predator becomes prey.

He clasps a hand over my shoulder. “Come, let’s get some rest. You’ll need your strength tomorrow with all the dragon shit there is to shovel.”

I snort and finish my tea. “Gods be good, it better be worth it.”

25

The following morning, Ashe leaves me with two other disciples—a woman, with clipped blonde hair and fierce sky-blue eyes, called Thaye and a young boy, with dark brown braids, called Wren. The pair lead me through the ground level of Obdiris's temple, traversing narrow corridors, and out to a central glade just beyond the life tree.

Long-trunked oaks line the exterior of the hatchery and mossy green younglings muddle about, nipping playfully at one another.

"We clean their dens once during the midday feed and again just after dusk. Don't get too close to the mother Jadetails. This generation of hatchlings is still quite young." Thaye offers me a wood-handled shovel.

"Got it," I say, questioning every decision that led me to spending what little time in Storm we have shoveling dragon shit and crisp goat carcasses.

A full grown Jadetail lurks across the clearing, her deep citrine eyes tracking my every move. One snap of those sword-sharp teeth and she could split me in two. Jadetails, although fairly peaceful, won’t hesitate if provoked. I don’t know much about the magic, gifted from Obdiris, they wield but excerpts from our histories report lightning strikes and instant death. They’re not to be messed with, especially the mothers.

Wren and I step into line behind Thaye, closely following her path around a trio of hatchlings gnawing on splintered bones. My stomach turns at the scent—incinerated flesh and boiled blood, but the three little dragons crunch contentedly on their meal. One flicks its tail in warning as I cross a hair too close to its lunch.

"Easy there Misty, she's not going to steal your meal," Wren says, raising a palm. The hatchling huffs and wraps its claws over the chunk of what I can only assume is a sheep’s thigh.

"And no, you can't eat her. That's your third goat! Save some for the other younglings."

Thaye snorts and continues to the farther boundary of the grove.

"Misty can be a little protective with her meals, so I'd not tread too close if I were you,” Wren says.

Misty clicks her fangs at me.

"Noted.” With a feigned smile I force breakfast back down my throat, and scan the grove for Misty’s mother. Wren and I join Thaye, now leaning against a boulder, with a steel pail held toward us.

"Let's get to work. It stinks of dragon out here." She tosses Wren the bucket and starts for the nest beside us.

I expected a Jadetail’s nest to be...grander? Crimsonclaws in Smoke's hatcheries prefer the caves along Terrafyre's eastern precipice, but Jadetail nests are simple mossy mounds of lichen and fallen trees. I sink my shovel in, overturning moss and brown clumps of what I'm telling myself is just dirt. Each scoop into Wren's pail draws tears from my eyes and churns my stomach. How in Astora’s name did I get myself here…?

"Were you born into service, Wren?" I ask, closing my nostrils as best I can.

"Yep! Both of my parents serve Obdiris, like my grandparents and great grandparents before them. You'll come to find that most of us here are of multiple generations," he replies.

Thaye takes the now full pail from beside her and dumps its contents down the incline at our backs. I throw a glance below, only to hurriedly return my attention to the nest. At the bottom of the sloping, forested hill is a ravine, rotting into the earth. And the smell, Astora help me! Like putrid flesh and marshy swamp. I can't imagine enduring it on a hot day. Thank the gods we’re nearly into the cold season.

"I'm sorry if this is forward, but that comes as a surprise. I thought disciples were sworn to a life without love," I say.

Wren wipes the sweat from his brow and we move on to the next nest.

"Obdiris doesn't require that oath of his followers, unlike the other gods. He offers us freedom to love any partner of our choosing," Thaye says.

Damn, Storm has been surprise after surprise. I'm not sure what I expected of the faction or its people, but it's so different from Smoke. There's a whole world, gleaming and brilliant, with cultures I know nothing about. Suddenly, I feel small. Smaller than a mouse or a stone or a grain of sand in comparison.