Page 69 of Ashen Wings

The thrum in my temples hasn’t subsided, but it’s dull enough now to focus on their rallying game. I chugged so much of Morvayne’s Water, I fear I may have drank the well dry, but the healing minerals are potent and fast acting. Even the cut across my forehead is starting to heal over.

“It’s been ten years. Don’t you think enough time’s passed? You can’t hide over the border forever.” Isra flashes his canines.

“I’ll be cold and dead in the fucking ground before enough time’s passed,” Roe spits.

“No, you’re just being a coward, and you know it.” Isra throws an index finger toward her like a blade ready for the kill. My eyes widen, but I stay quiet. I’ve been injured enough, and provoking either of them could very well knock me on my ass.

“Isra Kaari, if you spew your bullshit golden boy act again, it’s not me who’ll be hiding over the fucking border. Don’t push me.”

The energy blazing between them is damn near palpable enough to taste—sour and brutal like underripe lemon.

“Grow up, Roe. The continent needs you, remember?” Isra rises from his seat. The sconces mounted over Jace’s desk flicker with a surge of fury. Roe’s chest stills and her eyes simmer to the deepest of blues.

“Fuck the continent,” she whispers, her lips stretched into a tight line. “And fuck you.”

Isra runs his hands through his curls and paces to the window. There’s a speckle of brown in the trees, foreshadowing the seasonal change that’s almost upon us. Soon this place will sparkle under a blanket of ice.

Roe shifts in her boots and starts for the hall, leaving us under a swollen silence.

“That went well…” Isra sighs and turns to face me. The muscle in his sharp jaw clenches then softens when his gaze meets mine. “She’ll come around I’m sure.”

“You were a little harsh, don’t you think?” I ask, risking an opinion I might regret.

“Maybe, but a little groveling and a few rounds tonight at Abe’s and she’ll be back to her normal sunshine.” He shrugs.

“When did you say Jace is expected to return?”

Isra’s brow releases with the much needed subject change.

“He mentioned a patrol with Tenebris after his council meeting. He’ll probably be back later tonight. Why? Miss our king already?”

I snort. “Gods no. I have a few questions he owes explanations to…and so do you for that matter.”

He raises a brow. “Me? Dark and mysterious? No, that’s Jace’s style.”

“Seriously, Isra. What’s wrong with him?”

He sighs and sits on the sofa beside me. “There are things you don’t want to know. Just let it go, okay? You’re not the only one haunted by your past.”

Well, that’s cryptic, and nowhere near an answer I’m looking for. “But Is…”

“Just drop it. Are you feeling up to some breathwork? I need to get my mind off some shit, and I imagine you do, too.” He offers me an empathetic glance that tells me Jace’s mission debrief wasn’t nearly as summarized as he initially let on.

There’s a one-sided understanding between us. Isra knows my truths, I’m sure of it, but he hasn’t yet offered me any of his. The frown molded to his full lips is evidence enough that he might not ever.

“Sure.” I sigh. “But if you force me to do lunges again, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

Isra laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

Abe’s pub is just as gross as my first visit, but he’s reassured us the dungeon-like backrooms are empty. One last glass of Morvayne’s Water kicked my recovery to full, and after practically groveling at Isra’s feet to let me join them this evening, he complied. My bedchamber was too silent, too still, haunted by wraiths of the past and the pain of Yaris’s death. Perhaps he saw the glint in my eye, desperate for an escape. So, when I asked him a fourth time to let me join in on their plans, Isra agreed with an understanding nod.

Tobacco smoke lingers around our table in thick, hazy wafts as I sip the pint Isra’s slammed down in front of me.

“So tell me, Nova, any Storm men catch your eye during your travels?” Isra shoots me a broad, gleaming smile, and I know he’s already had one too many. The last two hours have been nothing but desperate groveling and heavily poured drinks. Much to Isra’s dismay, though, Roe’s scowl stays permanent and her ale untouched.

“No,” I reply, watching a flushed-cheek couple slip down the corridor at the far end of the bar.

“That’s surprising. Storm men are the most handsome on the continent. Or so I’ve heard.”