Page 8 of Ashen Wings

“Sorry, sorry. Yes, I’ll be back in a minute.” I place the two stones on the counter and turn on my heels, grateful for the distance I’ve put between us.

“Oh, and Nova?” Finnick glances up one more time. “Dye your hair. The people in Shadow don’t take kindly to silver-haired beauties such as yourself.”

I roll my eyes but make note to run another rinse of ink through my strands when I bathe.

Just before dusk, I’ve washed, gathered every weapon I can pack out, and offered a measly goodbye to the other mercenaries. The apothecary goes through bodies faster than Morvayne himself, so there are only a handful of familiar faces I tell myself I’ll miss. In truth, I’ve learned over the years it’s better to keep my distance. Either a new companion winds up dead or I push them away.

Finnick tells me I’m goal oriented, but maybe I’m just a bitch. Hardened by slavery. Broken by death. Whatever you call it, it’s easier to be hated, and so why not lean into the persona expected of the top mercenary?

In a few weeks’ time, I’ll leave this place and won’t ever look back. That’s all that matters. Not the tear stricken teenager down the hall coming to terms with her first kill, nor the male I’ve found myself under every so often the last few months. They mean nothing now. They’ll forget me the moment I’m gone. And maybe that’s for the better.

“You ready?” Finnick asks as I exit the stairwell into the candlelit shopfront. The scent of freshly brewed yarrow tea lingers between us as I adjust the straps on my pack.

“As ready as I can be,” I say.

He nods and tucks his hands into his robe sleeves. “Let’s go, then.”

We travel the sloping mountainside through the rest of the mercantile district in silence. Only the screech of the night duty dragons and their riders fills the air. Smoke’s curfew keeps its civilians at home past sunset, and only those with official business or emergencies risk the trek. Finnick, however, struts over the cobblestone like he’s Magnius Ashar himself. I’m sure he’s paid the night guards off handsomely.

The decadent city streets shift to rural shacks and makeshift cabins until only the bare bones of Smoke’s outskirts remain. It’s hard to envision the wealth of the city’s official district from out here.

Ashar’s military siphons most of Smoke’s stipen vaults, and it’s clear the regent cares very little for the backbone of his people. A single flame flickers through a cracked glass window. The hovel’s front entrance is made from scrapped metal and stone. Scorch marks lick up the decrepit exterior and I look away. The war’s been over for twenty-two years and still Smoke’s people are left neglected.

“It’s hard to take in, even for me,” Finnick cuts in. His brown eyes glisten in the candlelight as if he’s reliving some past nightmare.

“What was it like out here? Before the war I mean.” I risk the question, but Finnick’s distant expression tells me he’ll oblige a response. I’ve grown into adulthood around the man. I can tell when he wants to talk and when he doesn’t.

“Different, that’s for sure. This place was packed with families. You couldn’t walk a block without hearing laughter or feeling the joy here,” he says. The words are quiet in the fading daylight. “My wife loved coming out here. Getting away for a night or two, you know?”

“It sounds peaceful.” I glance at the hazy sky above. Through the blanket of smoke lingering around Terrafyre’s peak, I can almost make out the faint twinkle of a star. The city’s too smoggy to see the night sky in all its vast glory, but that little flicker of silvery light reminds me it’s there…stretching endlessly around us.

“It was.” I let Finnick grow quiet in his reminiscent thoughts. The mention of his wife isn’t new. She comes up on occasion, but I never press further. One’s demons are theirs alone. I, of all people, know that.

“The trailhead is just up there,” he says finally.

We cross the all too quiet street and follow the snaking path through boulders and rubble until we reach the clearing.

Scorath’s Spring is the only water source in Smoke—a naturally occurring hot spring with healing pools and swirling, crystal depths. Aside from our main source of drinking water, it links us to the fire goddess herself. Sages claim the first guardian dragon was born here—not hatched but birthed from the earth and the sky and the cosmos all at once. Lyseria, the first, was a crimson gargantuan of legend, with scales, each as large as a hatchling, coated in molten stone and claws sculpted from the sharpest of meteorites.

The guardian dragons are just whispers of myth now. The protectors of the stars, channeling the power of our deities, kept peace between warring nations. Each generation born from a different faction. Each rider cycled through the different peoples.

The last one, Giselle of Storm and her rider Arctos, fell during the war. But with the cycle next landing on Sovereign, the newest guardian was left riderless, and thus never hatched. Nor appeared for that matter.

No one truly knows what happened to the guardian egg, but I suspect it burned along with its sacred hatching ground. The Sovereign massacre not only wiped a whole faction from our histories, but it fated the downfall of our guardians.

“Let’s get this over with, I can’t miss my window at the border,” I say, tucking my chin into my hooded cloak.

Finnick retrieves the rune and dragonstone from his pocket and follows the waterline to a small basalt altar carved into the cliffside. I take a breath as Finnick places his offering and wades into the pool. He pauses when he reaches the center, the crystalline water lapping just below his knees.

“Come on,” he whispers, gesturing for me to follow. I tread carefully into the spring and position myself beside him. The water soothes my aching joints as it swirls around me. It takes me in, learns every piece of me. My truths, my lies, the spring sees it all. I blink hard, stifling the panic blooming in my chest.

“This will be unpleasant,” Finnick mutters. “Tracking links always are.”

My stomach roils, but I steady myself against the oncoming pain. I’ve been whipped to near death, beaten too many times to count, and nearly lost my life to more than one enemy blade. I can handle this.

“Do it. Clock’s ticking,” I whisper.

Finnick murmurs a few words meant as blessings before wrapping his fingers around my wrists. His touch is cold, and I fight the urge to rip away. I need to do this. It’s the only way I earn my freedom.