Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
When I returned to the Ascension Grounds, the tension hit me like a slap. I didn’t have to get close to know something was off, the air felt charged, like a storm was about to break.
Zander and Remy were standing near the dragon rails, arguing, not loudly, but fiercely, their voices tight and low, too controlled to be casual. Their body language said everything—squared shoulders, clenched fists, close enough to snap if either of them so much as twitched the wrong way.
And I knew, before I even reached them, that this was about me.
Again.
“What’s going on?” I asked, stepping between them.
Remy’s jaw flexed as his glare turned to me. “I think I know where to find the man who attacked you.”
I blinked. “Which time?”
His lip curled into something not quite a smile. “When you were dosed with Lucorin.”
Zander stiffened beside me, his lavender eyes darkening.
Remy folded his arms, eyes never leaving mine. “But later we will talk about you. And the fact that it’s obvious you’re not safe in the castle compound.”
“You know who he is?” I asked sharply.
Remy shook his head. “No. But I know where these vagrants hang out. They’re not Order, too sloppy. But they are assassins for hire. And I need you to come with me. And tell me which one it was.”
“And then?” I asked, though I already knew.
“We question him,” Remy said coldly. “Before I kill him.”
“No,” Zander said, voice clipped. “She’s not going anywhere near those bastards. You want to play assassin again, fine, but she stays here.”
“I need to know who’s trying to kill me,” I interrupted before they could escalate. “And I don’t think this is about the Order. Not anymore.”
Zander turned to me, his jaw tight, eyes searching mine for something that might change his mind. He didn’t find it.
He sighed through his teeth, sharp and furious. “Fine. But, if she gets hurt, Remy, you’re dead.”
Remy smirked like he’d been expecting that threat.
Before either of them could say another word, Riven’s voice floated from nearby.
“Gods, the testosterone in this place is thick enough to bottle. Can we get a warning next time before the territorial growling starts?”
Naia snorted, and Jax muttered something about dragons having better manners.
I just shook my head.
Because if the danger didn’t kill me, these two would. I turned on my heels and headed to our barracks.
Once in my room, I stripped off the upper layer of my armor and pulled a loose, shapeless tunic over the rest. It hung down to my thighs, frayed at the cuffs, and just baggy enough to hide anything that could identify me as a rider.
I tied my hair up tight and shoved it under one of my favorite caps, the faded one with the cracked leather band. No white strands showed.
I crouched down near the edge of my cot and rubbed two fingers across the dusty floor, gathering dirt and grime, then smeared it into my cheeks and across my jawline. A few quick dabs along my neck and arms, and I looked like someone who hadn’t seen a clean basin in days.
Kaelith’s voice moved through my mind like thunder wrapped in silk.
Do not tell me you trust that traitor with your life.
With my life? I responded. Yes. With my heart… never again.
She growled softly.
Good. Don’t get dead.
Then her presence faded, leaving a faint echo of concern behind. I smiled faintly.
The door creaked open, and Remy stepped inside wearing a tunic even dirtier than mine. There were three different stains on the front, and I couldn’t tell if the brown streak across his collar was dried blood or wine.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
We slipped from my room and into the castle halls like ghosts, moving with practiced ease. The guards barely glanced our way. One even stepped aside to let us pass without question, and I couldn’t help but wonder, why did they fear him so much?
Remy didn’t carry a visible weapon. He didn’t wear a noble crest or bark orders. And yet the air shifted around him, like the shadows bent to make space.
Outside the castle compound, the world opened up, messier, louder, realer.
We navigated the stone alleys and market streets of Warriath’s village as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting the world in gold.
The scent of roasted meat drifted from open tavern doors, mingling with the odor of damp earth and hot bread.
Vendors shouted over each other, children darted between stalls, and laundry lines crisscrossed the air like banners from another war.
It was just before dinner, the busiest time of day.
Perfect cover.
Remy moved like he belonged to this place. I followed half a step behind, just a shadow with no name.
Whatever came next, I was ready.
Because I had to be.
The streets of Warriath village pulsed with energy as the sun dipped lower, casting long golden shadows between crooked stone buildings and overpacked market stalls.
I stuck close to Remy’s side as we wove through crowds thick with laughter, arguments, the clang of metal from blacksmith stalls, and the occasional shriek of children darting underfoot.
We passed out of the merchant sector, past rows of aging homes with sagging shutters and cracked steps, until we reached the southwest edge of the city, where the cobblestones were broken, and no guards patrolled unless blood hit the dirt.
A tavern squatted at the corner, leaning just enough to look like a stiff breeze could bring it down. Its sign swung lazily overhead, cracked and weather-worn, with the name scrawled in fading red paint—The Crooked Claw.
It fit.
The stench hit me the moment we opened the door, burnt meat, sour ale, unwashed bodies, and something darker beneath it all.
Inside, the tavern was a hive of noise—tankards clashing, dice rolling, someone cursing in three different dialects.
A man bellowed with laughter at the next table while two others argued over who owed who a broken nose.
They were serving something in tin bowls, stew by the consistency, but I couldn’t identify a single ingredient. The bread was stale, crusted in spots I didn’t want to question. The smell of beer clung to the air like smoke.
Remy didn’t slow. He moved through the crowd with purpose, and I followed him to a shadowed table in the far back, tucked near a wall splintered with knife marks.
A tall, slender man was waiting for us.
He had pale, sun-worn skin and narrow eyes the color of old brass. His hair was shaved on one side and fell in an uneven curtain on the other, and his fingers twitched constantly, like they hadn’t learned how to be still. A jagged scar split his top lip, making his smile seem half-permanent.
Remy clasped the man’s hand, firm, brief, and I caught the flash of silver as a coin passed between their palms.
We sat.
“I’m Derren,” the man said, his voice rough with too many cigars and not enough sleep. He looked at me with a curiosity I didn’t like. “And you must be the ghost the Order misplaced.”
I smiled at him, tight-lipped. “I don’t haunt so easily.”
He grinned. “I like her.”
“Tell us about the assassins,” Remy cut in.
Derren leaned back, arms crossed lazily. “Only a few here would dare cross the Order. Not if they like breathing. But we got a handful with nothing to lose.”
He nodded toward a table where three men were playing dice.
“That one?” I asked.
“Name’s Harven.”
I shook my head. “Not him. He’s too small.”
He pointed at another, older, with a crooked jaw. “Drel.”
“Not him either. He’s the size of a small dragon.”
Derren frowned, then tapped his fingers. “Then it must be Lomard. He’ll be in shortly. Drinks himself stupid every night just past supper.”
Remy nodded. “We’ll wait.”
Derren poured himself a drink from a flask and offered none.
“And the Lucorin?” I asked. “How often is it used?”
He chuckled darkly. “More than you’d think. Especially among the court.”
“What?” My brows pulled together. “Why?”
Derren’s smile turned sour. “Females dose nobles when they’re ordered to get pregnant.”
My stomach turned. “Ordered?”
“They prefer noble blood,” he said. “Or so I’m told.”
“Why would they have a child out of wedlock on purpose?”
Derren looked genuinely surprised. “You’re an Order daughter. How can you not know how that works?”
Remy’s jaw clenched. “If a noble gets a commoner pregnant, he’s legally required to support her. It’s a way to extort nobles across the city.”
“That’s how the king knew there were commoners with magic,” I murmured.
“It’s likely,” Remy said softly.
Before I could respond, the door slammed open.
A man stepped inside, broad-shouldered, with a battered coat and a deep scar down the left side of his neck. His voice boomed through the tavern as he waved off the barkeep.
“Ale. Now.”
My stomach twisted.
I knew that voice.
“That’s him,” I said, my voice low, sharp. “That’s the one who dosed me.”
Lomard grabbed the tankard from the barmaid with a grunt, taking a long swig that emptied half of it in one gulp. Ale sloshed down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand before his gaze swept the tavern.
His eyes landed on Remy.
They stopped there, burning with recognition.
He didn’t even glance at me.
“You,” he roared, slamming the tankard down with a crack.
Remy rose from the table with infuriating calm, and the tavern shifted. Chairs scraped. Tankards stilled. Patrons backed away from the center, some tripping over their own feet to get out of the blast radius.
The center of the tavern cleared like someone had screamed fire.
Lomard drew his blade, steel whispering out of its sheath.
“Were you lookin’ for me, you pathetic piece of dragon dung?” Remy asked in a deadly tone. He tilted his head as he stepped into the open space between them.
“Sure am. There’s a hefty bounty for you and your fae wench,” Lomard said, his voice dripping with venom.
Remy’s expression didn’t falter. “Why are you after a woman, Lomard? Is that the extent of your skill, attacking girls in the dark?”