Page 6 of Ashen Wings

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He raises a brow and watches an aging keeper stroke a palm down the scaly length of Little Red’s neck. The youngling rumbles low in his throat, almost like a purr. In another life, perhaps I’d enjoy being a keeper. At least I wouldn’t have to interrogate any more greedy pricks like Piri. I’m good at pulling information, but I’m better at minding my own business.

“The courier’s name is Maeve Emera. She’s head of our rare exports agents and took on the assignment herself, but she won’t tell you anything. Maeve’s specialty is discretion, hence why she’s in rare exports,” Piri says.

“Rare exports suggests this isn’t the first authorization for a shipment of this kind. I thought the borders were locked down years ago.” The keeper tosses another ration of meat to the dragons in the yard. Little Red arches his spine like a cat. Each scale, layered on its tiny outstretched wings, burns in the daylight like gleaming pyre flame.

“You’re only half correct. After the war, all regular trade was terminated, but we still need a means of importing and exporting items of interest,” he replies.

“You mean dragonstones.” My eyes dart to his.

Dragonstones bind us, through offerings and blessings, to our gods. The more a faction holds, well, the more powerful they are. A month or so back, there were whispers around the apothecary that Magnius Ashar had taken to stockpiling them. For what purpose, I’m not sure, but I know I don't want to be around to find out. Now, Piri’s insight confirms what we all hoped wasn’t true.

“Yes. I mean dragonstones,” Piri says, pocketing the coin pouch.

“That doesn’t make sense, though. Why would an export of dragonstones be authorized? It goes against everything Ashar wants.” I pull at my tunic for any relief from the smothering air.

“Perhaps what was promised in return is of higher value,” Piri suggests, his tone all too casual.

“Perhaps…” I trail off. The only thing of higher value than dragonstones only exists in heavily guarded hatcheries—dragon eggs.

Not to mention, smuggling eggs is forbidden. Punishable by death in every faction.

Hatchlings stay connected to their sacred breeding grounds until they reach adulthood. Without access to the natural magic, rooted in their ancestral land, they wither and die. To take an egg before it hatches—my stomach knots at the thought.

“Want my advice?” Piri crosses his arms.

“Not particularly.”

“If you’re set on chasing this, forget about Maeve. She’s loyal to Ashar. If she catches wind that Finnick’s taken interest…well it won’t just be this mission that’ll be terminated.” The old man scans my reaction, waiting for any hint of a message received. I tuck my fists into my trouser pockets and keep my features expressionless. There’s no assurance Piri himself won’t report us the minute our meeting concludes.

“Ok, so tell me how to find Cael Fleetwing then. If Maeve’s a non-option, I’ll go directly to him.”

Piri barks a laugh, then blanches, realizing I’m serious. “You’ll be burnt to a crisp before you even step foot over the border.”

“I’ve survived this far in my line of work. Tell me where to find the smuggler.” My voice is steady with resolve, but I know Piri’s right. An attempt at crossing any of our borders is a death wish, especially into Shadow.

Piri clicks his tongue, but obliges my request. “From what I’ve heard, Fleetwing operates out of a tavern just over the border. We haven’t received any import authorizations yet, so whatever he’s traded the dragonstones for is still in Shadow at least.”

“And how do I get into Shadow undetected?” I ask.

“You don’t.”

My eyes narrow at the old man. “Okay, then how do your couriers cross the border without getting incinerated on the spot?”

“An official directive…granted by King Ashar himself.” My jaw threatens to drop. Ashar must really be desperate for these deals if he’s authorizing official border crossings. “Like I said, it’s impossible.”

“Piri…” I lower my voice. “Finnick doesn’t pay you that amount of stipen for anything to be impossible. I’ll ask again, how do I get my hands on one of these directives?”

Piri shifts, and suddenly, I realize the old man’s withholding. He’s most certainly already formulated a plan to cross into Shadow and retrieve the dragonstones, but whether it’s concern or cowardice, he’s kept it to himself.

My fingers twitch over the pommel of my sheathed dagger. Desperation is a ruthless ally, and for a chance at my freedom…I won’t hesitate.

Before I pull my blade, my eyes catch on the old man’s wrist. He’s pushed his sleeve up. The gesture was an unintentional reaction to the morning heat, but I see it. The rider insignia on his forearm, tangling up toward his elbow, like a swirl of flames and wings.

My throat dries.

He was a rider. The ridge of scars dividing the tattoo down its middle suggests he’s a dragon-less one at that. Maybe he served in the war. Maybe his dragon fell. I choke on the thought, and suddenly it makes sense why his location to meet is the hatchery.

“Piri…if they’re smuggling a dragon egg for these stones…you know just as well as I what Ashar would do. Do you really want to give him the opportunity?” I press.