CHAPTER 47 Wren
CHAPTER 47
Wren
‘Subtlety is a far deadlier weapon than a blade or brute force. Turn a target’s body against them and the war is won without ever drawing a sword’
– Elwren Embervale’s notes and observations
A LL-CONSUMING. S OUL-DESTROYING. M IND-ALTERING.
His kiss had set Wren on fire.
At last. At fucking last.
A blinding force of passion had coursed through every part of her, desire thrumming across her skin like a fever. She had never felt so alive, so desperate for another person in all her life.
And then he had doused the flames.
‘There are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t have done that...’ Torj said, pulling away from her, trying to catch his breath.
Wren was still perched on the workbench, her thighs open, her chest heaving. She knew she must have looked thoroughly ravished. Flushing furiously, she jumped down and smoothed her skirts. The damp ache still pulsed between her legs, and her nipples were hard and sensitive against the fabric of her bodice. ‘Then why did you?’
Torj’s expression was pained. ‘I...’ He cleared his throat and straightened his clothes, adjusting himself in his leathers. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It can’t happen again.’
It was like a bucket of icy water had been tipped over Wren’s head, with the icy wrath to match.
‘Get out.’
‘Embers—’
‘ Don’t call me that.’
A woman had died tonight, and what was Wren doing? Kissing her damn bodyguard, who apparently thought kissing her was a mistake .
It was all she could do not to physically shove him through the adjoining door. ‘Get out,’ she repeated, voice cold and brutal.
He at least had the sense to listen. She slammed the door after him and jammed her chair underneath the handle in a fit of rage. Giving the same treatment to the shared bathing room door, she looked around wildly, wanting to break something, wanting to expel the rage that seemed to dance with her magic so dangerously.
She glanced at the main door, where outside she knew Cal was standing guard. He’d be easier to slip past than the brute on the other side of the wall, but she calmed herself, listened to her own voice of reason.
A woman had been killed.
Cal had whisked her away from the scene within seconds, blocking the body from view and hurrying her back to her room. There, she’d tried to distract herself with her experiments until the Bear Slayer had all but kicked in the door.
Wren pressed her fingers to her bruised lips, the taste of him still on her tongue, the echo of his touch still dancing across her skin. There are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t have done that...
‘Bastard,’ she muttered, though the anger she felt was just as much for herself. She’d been stupid, had allowed herself to get caught up in the moment, caught up in him —
A light knock sounded at her door.
‘Yes?’ Wren called tentatively.
To her surprise, it was Farissa who entered.
‘How goes the work?’ her former mentor asked softly, eyeing the messy bench.
‘Good, I think...’ Wren shifted on her feet. ‘I dedicate what little time I have left to it, but I need—’
Farissa reached for the satchel slung over her shoulder and produced a metal flask. ‘You didn’t get this from me.’
‘What—’ But as Wren unscrewed the lid, a metallic scent hit her nostrils. ‘Blood?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘ Royal blood? Where did you—’
‘Audra procured it for you at my insistence.’
‘Whose—’
‘I don’t know,’ Farissa told her. ‘All I know is that when I asked, this is what I was given.’
Wren took a deep breath. Her work could continue; she could create more controlled tests, trial more reactions...‘Thank you.’
Farissa nodded. ‘I want to hear more about your experiments when you’re ready. For now, I have to...’ She gestured to the door, to the commotion they could still hear in the halls.
‘I’ll send for you,’ Wren offered quietly. ‘When I have something solid.’
Farissa stared at her for a moment, her gaze flitting to the scar at Wren’s throat before meeting her eyes again. ‘You do that.’
When her old mentor had left, Wren paced the room. She was under no illusion that sleep was anything but beyond her now. The woman’s death, the flask of royal blood on her table, and most of all...the heat of Torj’s mouth on hers. Her mind raced, her heart pounded against her sternum, and her hands itched to move...
And so, Wren did what she did best.
She worked.
She couldn’t bring herself to meet the Warsword’s eyes the next day – not as he opened her door for her, not as he escorted her through the corridors. Wren could still feel the imprint of his hands on her, making the lightning beneath her skin sing. And she could still feel the flush of her cheeks as he told her it was a mistake.
But the memory of their kiss was soon swallowed up by the presence of Guardians from Thezmarr, stationed at every entrance throughout the academy. An alchemist had died, and Drevenor had answered in kind.
Everywhere Wren looked, she saw a warrior presence, and a militant efficiency seemed to hum throughout the building. Morning meal had been sent directly to students’ rooms, and so Torj was escorting her straight to the poisons dungeon.
When Wren slid into her seat next to Dessa and Zavier, their expressions were sombre as they listened to the surrounding buzz of speculations and theories.
‘Do we know how she died?’ Dessa asked in a hushed whisper.
‘Strangled,’ Jasper Greaves declared.
‘No. Someone slit her throat,’ someone else argued.
‘Horseshit,’ Selene chimed in. ‘She was poisoned.’
‘ She had a name,’ Zavier said quietly. ‘Blythe Rookford.’
‘Poor Blythe,’ Dessa sighed. ‘What will happen to her team?’
‘Who cares about her team?’ Zavier muttered, clearly agitated. ‘What about her ? Her family?’ Then he glanced at Wren, lowering his voice even more. ‘You notice anything about her, Poisoner?’
‘What do you mean?’ Wren asked.
‘You’re saying you never noticed the likeness you shared with Blythe?’
Wren tried not to flinch as an image of the woman’s bronze topknot flashed in her mind’s eye. ‘I never really gave it much thought...’ Truth be told, she hadn’t known Blythe at all. Since arriving at Drevenor, she had focused solely on her own team, her own ambitions.
‘Oh, your hair colour was basically identical,’ Dessa nodded.
‘Not to mention you had the same unfortunate taste in clothing,’ Zavier added.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Wren hissed at him.
‘That perhaps she wasn’t the true target...?’ Zavier replied with a raised brow.
Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of the Warfare Master.
‘Novices.’ Master Crawford’s voice was as sharp as ever. ‘As many of you have already heard, one of our own, Blythe Rookford, was found dead last night under troubling circumstances. Today, we mourn not only the loss of a student, but also a friend, a classmate, and a member of our tight-knit community here at Drevenor. In this time of grief and uncertainty, it is important that we come together. Together, we will weather this storm and emerge stronger, wiser and more united than before.’
To Wren’s surprise, Master Nyella entered the dungeon after him. They were in stark contrast with one another – the pressed, precise attire of the Master of Warfare against the flamboyant colours of the Master of Design.
‘We decided to set a task together today,’ Master Nyella explained. ‘One that incorporates both warfare and design...Given that it was a combination of these that infiltrated our halls last night and resulted in the death of one of our own.’
Silence fell across the dungeon as Master Crawford clasped his hands together and addressed the cohort. ‘The brief is this. We want you to imagine that a ruler has sought our help to eliminate a target in their kingdom. Someone who has posed a threat to the peace and safety of their lands for years; an assassin in their own right.’
The hair on Wren’s nape stood up. For the first time, she saw her alter ego as the Poisoner from Torj’s perspective. The mark Master Crawford was describing could have easily been her before she came to Drevenor. But what Wren had done as the Poisoner was different. She had helped rid the midrealms of its rot. She pushed her feelings of discomfort aside as Master Crawford continued.
‘This person is incredibly paranoid. They will not ingest anything without a cupbearer or food taster. They are known to be incredibly violent, with a proclivity for crossbows, and they are as cruel as they are cautious. We want you to present a proposal on how to deal with such a target.’
‘The team who impresses us the most will receive thirty points,’ Master Nyella added.
Inspiration was already sparking in Wren’s mind. Two of her passions had come together in this task and she’d be damned if she didn’t give it her all. She turned to Dessa and Zavier. ‘I have an idea.’
Dessa grinned. ‘Me too.’
‘Let’s hear them, then,’ Zavier said.
The trio gathered around their table and talked in hushed whispers. Wren didn’t quite know when things had changed between them, but they had, for the better. The looming Gauntlet had brought them together, and the strength of three minds rather than one was instantly apparent to Wren. With Dessa’s talent for design, Zavier’s natural affinity with lifelore and her own experiences during the war, they found themselves in sync for the first time, and Wren, who’d initially hated the thought of a team, was suddenly grateful for their insights, their innovation.
An hour later, their cohort presented their concepts to the masters.
Wren watched the other teams’ proposals, her heart pounding with anticipation. The first team suggested using advanced alchemical smoke diffusions to incapacitate the target’s guards during a staged diversion.
While clever, Wren noted the plan’s vulnerability in its lack of adaptability should the diversion go awry, and the likelihood of trace evidence with a broader method of dispersion. The crease between Master Crawford’s brows deepened, while Master Nyella pursed her lips and said nothing.
The second team proposed developing a slow-acting alchemical compound that could accumulate in the target’s body over time, introduced through various environmental factors. Wren recognized the ingenuity, but also the inherent difficulty in controlling the dosage and preventing collateral exposure.
The third team’s proposal showed some promise, recommending the use of disguises and personality-altering potions to infiltrate the target’s inner circle. They suggested creating a ‘miracle cure’ for a fabricated illness to appeal to the target’s health paranoia. But Wren knew the time required for such a plan made it less than ideal for a quick resolution, not to mention the risks if the alchemical effects were to wear off unexpectedly.
She exchanged glances with Zavier and Dessa as they stood to deliver their concept.
‘Our design is a crossbow wherein the trigger holds the poison,’ Wren told them, holding up their sketches. ‘When the mark fires the weapon, a mechanism activates a tiny prick – so slight it can’t be felt over the recoil of the crossbow. It would spring from the trigger and inject the deadly toxin into the pad of his finger.’
‘And how do you propose to get this crossbow in the hands of a mark?’ Master Crawford asked bluntly.
‘A number of ways,’ Dessa replied. ‘Modify an existing crossbow he owns, pose it as a gift from someone he trusts, or introduce it as a new product on the market – create demand, speculation and intrigue around it. The latest weapon that every crossbow-loving enthusiast simply must have.’
‘And the poison itself? What would you use?’ the Master of Warfare pressed.
Zavier spoke next. ‘It depends on the details of the brief, but generally I’d opt for a dose of the death cap mushroom. No purgative can save a victim from it, as the poison is in the bloodstream, particularly with this pinprick method.’
‘And the symptoms of such a poisoning?’
‘At first, the victim experiences a deep feeling of unease,’ Zavier continued. ‘Then a while later, violent stomach cramps that improve after a day or two...Then death from kidney or liver failure within the week.’
An awed silence followed.
‘Can a novice obtain this poison?’ Master Nyella asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ Wren answered. She had asked Zavier that very same question. ‘It grows in the Evermere Forest beneath the birch and spruce trees. It has a red cap and white warts.’
The two masters exchanged looks, and Wren didn’t know if they should be troubled or proud.
The answer came moments later. ‘Elwren, Zavier, Odessa,’ Master Nyella said. ‘See to it that you collect several specimens of the mushroom during your next lifelore lesson. And check the garnet leaderboard at the end of the week.’