Page 7 of Ashen Wings

The factions only bond with dragons birthed from their patron deity. For Smoke that’s Crimsonclaws. Storm, Jadetails, and Sea, Sapphirejaws. Shadow’s dragons, Blightfangs, refuse to bond, and Sovereign’s Astralwings went extinct with their people.

A bond between rider and dragon of opposing factions could be…cataclysmic…apocalyptic. It goes against every law of the cosmos we have. I shudder at the thought. To bond a dragon outside of one’s faction is to mock the gods themselves. And if this egg is a Blightfang? Morvayne’s wrath nearly buckles my knees.

Piri wraps his cloak tighter around his stocky torso. “Fine. There might be a way. Another courier’s completing a trade with Fleetwing. Nothing as enticing as dragonstones or gods forbid an egg, but she’s scheduled to cross before sunrise. If she were to be intercepted…well, the couriers travel under pseudonyms…”

“So no one would question if I took her place.”

“She’ll be following the spice routes up toward the western gate. I’m not at liberty to give out her name, but she’ll be wearing her courier uniform. You won’t miss her.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it too.

He nods and scans the hatchery grounds. Two more crimson younglings joined Little Red for their breakfast and now nip and wrestle with one another. Their small growls and puffs of smoke echo through the yard, and my heart breaks.

How difficult it must be to live with a severed bond. Most riders are lost to madness or depression, taking their own lives shortly after their dragon falls. Either Piri is really good at faking it or he’s accepted the pain enough to survive. I can understand either.

“I promise Piri, I’m not after the egg, if that’s what it is. Just the dragonstones.”

He smiles sadly. “I hope so, Ms. Lindwen. For that hatchling’s sake, I really hope so.”

I nod and offer a quick goodbye, but the weight of Piri’s trust is heavy on my chest. To put his faith in me feels more like a shackle than it should. In my line of work, we’re taught to trust only ourselves. We work alone. Live alone. Die alone.

I already know what my sentence will be, and I pray to the gods that when I face Morvayne, he sees past the blood on my hands.

5

“Did Piri provide what you need?” Finnick asks as I enter the apothecary. The trek back from the hatchery was one fueled by frantic boots and burning thoughts. I have so much to prepare, so much to pack, and not nearly enough time.

“Yes. I’ll leave tonight for Shadow.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” With his hands coated in bluish powder, Finnick throws me a glare. I pause mid step, heading for the apartment upstairs. The second floor living quarters are reserved for Finnick’s favorite rats, and I get the only room with a window.

“Your assurance. No, I haven’t forgotten.” I bite my tongue. “What is it you want?”

Finnick’s lip curls as he wipes his palms on a rag and retrieves a bone-carved rune from his pocket.

“What is this?” I ask, the black inked symbol pulling my attention like a trance. He places it in my outstretched hand. It’s heavy, denser than expected, and ancient, like it’s carved from the stars.

“This, dear child, is a tracking rune,” Finnick says. He unfurls a handkerchief from his pocket to reveal a garnet gem and places that too, in my palm. The dragonstone hums beside the rune, whispering in a language I don’t quite understand.

“You’ll offer it at Scorath’s Spring, and once the tracking link is in place, we’ll be tethered until you return. If you try to run, try to hide, gods, if you meet Morvayne, I’ll know.”

“This is old magic, Finnick. Where did you get this?” I trace a cautious thumb across the rune.

“I have powerful clients."

I draw in a breath and let the dragonstone pull me into its cosmic orbit. Something long forgotten strikes through my chest, like the little essence of aether in my palm is a distant memory.

“Pack, say whatever goodbyes you have to, then meet me here. We’ll go to the spring together,” Finnick says, returning to his unfinished tonic.

I nod, simply because I’m stunned out of words. The rune and companion dragonstone may carry a terrifying sliver of our gods, but they feel warm…serene…at peace. Like they’ve waited for the familiar touch of my skin. Like they’re home. What the fuck?

“Nova?” Finnick says.

I don’t hear him. I don’t see him. The stone consumes me in wholly.

“Nova!”

Finnick’s fist on his mixing station sends a jolt down my spine.