Page 80 of Ashen Wings

“That was my thought, too, but look at the seal in the corner.” Jace draws an index finger to the corner of the page. Inked there is House Ceti’s signet. Sovereign’s noble house prided themselves on the complexity of the design, making it next to impossible to forge.

“What does it say?” I ask, though I’m not sure I’m truly prepared to hear the answer.

“It discusses House Ceti’s late heir. A list of punishments set forth for various indiscretions, but the excerpt cuts off before going into depth,” Jace explains. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sits back in his chair.

“Why would Ashar send this to us?” Roe asks, seated on Jace’s desk beside him. “To taunt us? That conniving little weasel is always up to something.”

“Perhaps. Or he wants us to know he has the upper hand, maybe to make us sweat, maybe to draw us out of Shadow. Regardless, it’s imperative we find the rider before he does,” Jace replies.

“Well then, we need to find a way into Sea.” Isra shifts over his knees.

My heart thunders in my throat with a pent up rage, begging for release. I’ll be damned if I let Samkiel take any other Sovereign survivors before we reach them. He and I have a date with Morvayne.

“There might be something we can offer Mercora enticing enough to authorize a crossing,” Jace says.

Dawn’s light trickles in from the windows, coating his skin in gilded shades. The stifled yawn in my throat is desperate to go back to bed, but with the egg stoning, and now Samkiel’s threat, there’s no delaying any possible forward movement in our plans.

“And what’s that?” Roe asks, flicking the dirt from her nails. She kicks a booted foot against the desk leg with an impatience reflected in all of us, but gods does the woman ever sit in an actual seat?

“My mother’s circlet. Mercora’s been trying to get his paws on it for years.” Jace pulls a tome from one of the many over-stuffed shelves. Everyone’s stills, but me.

“A piece of jewelry? I’ll admit I don’t know much about Sea, but they can’t possibly be struggling that much for stipen,” I say.

“The center gem on the circlet is a rare kind of dragonstone, starling, from your home faction. It’s one of a kind and a stone that size could please the gods enough for the highest of blessings.” Jace turns the page of the tome resting open before him like my question bores him. I grit my teeth, watching a lazy curl fall over his brow.

Asshole.

“The dragonstone is from Sovereign? How in Astora’s name did Shadow’s late consort come into possession of it?” My fingers grip the armrest at my side. “A war prize, perhaps?”

Jace’s eyes land on me like a blow to the cheek. “No. It was a gift. From the servants of Astora themselves.”

I scoff, clicking my heels against the floor. “Somehow I doubt that. Astora’s servants wouldn’t simply offer a dragonstone of that stature to anyone.”

“Doubt all you want, starling, but I only speak the truth.”

“That’s unlike you,” I retort.

A growl rumbles in Jace’s throat, but Roe throws up a palm. “Before you two claw each other’s throats out again, and the courier here locks herself in her bedchamber, I have a question.” She hops from her seat. “You’ve known about the circlet this whole time and just now mention it? Wouldn’t that have saved us all the headache of bickering?”

“It’s not that simple.” Jace wets his thumb before turning another page. Gods, this man is…insufferable, miserable, entirely consuming. Isra coughs beside me, drawing my attention from the thumb now stroking the page’s corner.

“You’ve gone mad, I think.” He approaches Jace, leaning a palm against the King of Shadow’s shoulder. “But your plan just might work.”

“Gods be good, this continent was forged from greedy houses and slimy bastards.” Roe sighs and pushes off the desk. “Where is the circlet?”

“Well, that’s the other problem. My mother was buried with it.”

Isra’s lips thin. “Fuck, okay.”

“Why is that a problem?” I risk the question, even if the thought of exhuming a long since departed Ashborne has my stomach churning.

“The Ashborne tomb is carved into Shadevale’s peak. Just as every fallen rider is, my mother was buried alongside her dragon, and the Blightfangs don’t particularly enjoy unsealing their graves. Especially not during a blood moon,” Jace replies. “If we are to retrieve the circlet, it could piss off a lot of already enraged dragons and potentially tear a way through the veil that separates us from the damned.”

“Hold on a second…” I rise from my seat. “What do you mean tear the veil?”

“Gods be good, the blood moon, starling. Didn’t any of those books you claim to read tell you about our lunar cycle?” Jace strolls to the cabinette, pouring himself a heavy glass of whiskey. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and I’ve already driven him to drink. If not for the lingering memory of that horrific hangover, I’d pour myself a glass too.

“Just that it occurs once a month, when our sun eclipses the moon and turns the sky red.”