Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The scent of scorched wood still clung to the smoldering ruins of The Crooked Claw, and the sun had begun to dip behind the rooftops, painting the sky in pale-gold. We continued working, shifting broken beams and hauling charred furniture to the carts that lined the muddy road.
Then a voice cut through the clatter of cleanup, too loud to be casual.
“You’re the bastard that called his flying lizard, aren’t you?”
I turned toward the voice instinctively, as did half the townsfolk within earshot.
A heavyset man with soot-streaked sleeves and a crooked nose stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. His hair was sweat-matted to his brow, and he stank of ale and smoke. His eyes locked onto Remy like a wolf catching scent of blood.
Remy straightened, his stance unreadable. “You got something to say?”
“You sabotaged us,” the man accused, jabbing a thick finger toward the wreckage. “The king’s a madman. He has lost the respect of the court. And your prince regent’s playing both sides, funneling coin to the Varnari like it’ll save his throne.”
Murmurs rolled through the gathered workers like distant thunder.
Remy’s tone was even, almost bored. “You talk like you know a lot about things no drunk should.”
The man sneered. “I know the Crimson Sigil will be victorious. While the nobles bicker and the dragons sleep on the isle, protecting their young, we are organizing. And when we rise? The riders will burn with the rest of them.”
Remy’s smile was razor-thin. “That’s a bold statement to make when you’re standing five feet from a bonded rider.”
“You ain’t got a dragon at your back now,” the man spat.
“But I do,” Remy said calmly, his voice laced with steel, “and if he thought I was in danger, this conversation would’ve ended already.”
The man hesitated.
Riven and Naia had moved closer to me, shoulders brushing mine as we pretended to focus on the splintered timber in front of us. But all three of us were locked in, ears tuned, breaths held.
Remy shifted slightly, his tone lowering, turning almost conversational.
“You said the prince regent’s funding the Varnari. That’s a serious claim. Where’d you hear it?”
The man snorted. “You think we don’t see what’s going on? Guards look the other way. Coin passing hands. Supplies vanishing from the storehouses before they’re even inventoried.”
“And the Sigil?” Remy asked, casual as a breeze. “You part of it?”
“I will be,” the man said, proud. “They’re choosing us. The ones who’ve been used for generations. When the lines are drawn, you’ll see. We’re already here. Just waiting.”
Remy nodded once, thoughtful, like he was merely indulging a drunk’s rant. “And what’s the goal? What happens after the dragons fall?”
The man’s grin was all teeth.
“Then we take everything.”
Solei was gone, vanished like mist in the wind, but Riven’s expression had darkened beside me, and Naia’s jaw was clenched so tight I could hear her grinding her teeth.
The man turned and walked off, satisfied he’d delivered his message. But even as he melted into the crowd, I saw Remy’s eyes stay fixed on the smoke drifting from the ruined tavern.
And I knew what he was thinking.
The fire hadn’t finished anything.
It had only ignited hatred.
Ash smudged across my sleeves as I hefted another scorched beam into the debris cart. The oversized tunic hung loose over my armor, the hem frayed and damp from mud. My cap shadowed most of my face, and with my hair tucked away and dirt still on my cheeks, I didn’t look like a dragon rider.
I looked like one of them.
Exactly as I intended.
With the others occupied clearing the far end of the tavern ruins, I quietly drifted away, toward the line of townsfolk working closer to the market lane. None of them gave me a second look as I stepped in and began hauling debris beside them.
A wiry older man with deep creases around his eyes handed me a broken stool leg.
“Thanks,” I said, tossing it into the pile. “Was this your favorite watering hole?”
He nodded, brushing soot from his worn sleeves. “The Crooked Claw? Aye. My nephew played the lute here on weekends. They served the worst stew and the cheapest ale, but it felt like home.”
“I heard someone say the Crimson Sigil was rising,” I offered, voice casual. “What do you think of them?”
His expression darkened. “Been hearing their name more each week. Whispers in the alehouses, scrawls on back-alley walls. Some folk say they’re just talk. Others say they’ve already taken three villages and are training in the wilds.”
“And the Varnari?” I asked.
The man frowned. “Don’t know much about them. Heard the name. They’re newer, but there’s… fear when people mention them. Word is they have magic. Real magic. Not ward tricks, but trained users.”
Another voice chimed in behind me, a broad-shouldered woman with a burn scar along one arm. “The Sigil wants to burn it all down. Nobles, riders, castles, anyone who ever had power.”
I turned to her. “And the Varnari?”
“They want to claim the power,” she said with a grunt as she dragged a broken chair across the dirt. “Gather it. Use it. But they’re not recruiting the same kind of people. Sigil’s full of bitter blood. The Varnari… they pick carefully.”
“Do you think they’re working together?”
She laughed without humor. “They hate each other, but they share a goal. One wants the ashes. The other wants the throne.”
I helped her lift the chair onto the heap and nodded as if I were just another pair of tired hands trying to understand the chaos unraveling around us.
As we worked, I asked quiet questions. Nothing invasive. Just listening.
Some feared the Sigil—called them reckless, dangerous, filled with rage and resentment.
Others feared the Varnari more, not because they were louder, but because they were organized.
And magic always made things more dangerous.
As I moved among them, hauling shattered beams and gathering charred stone, one truth became clear—
The kingdom was breaking.
And the people?
They were already choosing sides. And neither included the royals or the riders.
Zander’s voice rang out over the quiet hum of the village square, sharp and unmistakable. “Thrall Squad, back to the compound—now.”
I watched as my squad began gathering near the edge of the ruined tavern, falling into formation with practiced ease. Riven, Naia, and Jax clustered together, their steps loose and casual to any onlookers, but I could see the flicker of alertness behind their eyes.
I moved quickly, weaving between them, slipping into the safety of their group. “Stay close,” I whispered under my breath. “I let the townsfolk think I was a commoner.”
Riven flanked my left without hesitation. Jax gave a small grunt and shifted slightly to obscure my side, and Naia subtly adjusted her gait to keep me boxed in. From a distance, we were just another group of soot-streaked riders heading home.
No one looked twice.
We passed through the outer gate of the castle compound in silence.
I waited until we were behind the first wall before I tugged the cap from my head, releasing the cascade of long, white hair down my back.
The moment the strands caught the sunlight, I felt the change in perception around us.
A few guards glanced our way, their expressions shifting with recognition.
I stripped the tunic from over my armor and stuffed it under my arm, standing a little straighter.
For once, I was grateful Cyran had made me hide my most distinguishing feature. That forced anonymity had just bought me valuable insight I never would’ve gained as a rider.
As we reached the barracks compound, Zander moved to my side. He scanned the squad, his eyes catching mine instantly. “Ashlyn,” he called, voice low but expectant. “Come with me to the castle. I need you for something.”
My heart kicked up, not with fear, but with something more cautious, more measured.
I nodded.
The rest of Thrall Squad peeled away toward our barracks, weariness in their steps but watchful still. I didn’t miss the glance Riven gave me before slipping through the door. A silent be careful.
Zander and I continued in silence across the castle grounds and through the high-arched main entrance. The polished floors gleamed, catching the light from towering stained-glass windows. As we climbed the staircase that curled around the inner keep, the air grew quieter. More tense.
At the top floor, Zander paused before an elaborate double door. Carved dragons spiraled across the wood in flight, their wings stretching across the panels like protectors, or wardens.
He knocked once. A beat passed.
Then he opened the door.
The suite was massive. All velvet and gold, with tall ceilings and rich tapestries. A fire crackled in an ivory hearth, and the scent of old books and finer wines clung to the air. This wasn’t a room, it was a throne in disguise. A sanctuary for a king who hadn’t ruled in months.
The door to the adjoining chamber creaked open, and the king emerged, his long velvet robe brushing the floor. He looked… regal, his posture upright, his expression clear.
But there was a slur in his voice when he greeted us.
“My son,” he said, eyes lighting on Zander with a flicker of something warm. “And the storm girl.”
Zander dipped his head. “Father.”
The king motioned for us to sit near the fire, but Zander remained standing, his shoulders stiff. “We need to speak plainly, Father. It’s about Theron.”
The king raised a brow. “Your brother? What about him?”
“He’s consolidating power. Using your absence, your condition, to gain the court’s favor. He’s begun interfering with military decisions. Appointing commanders. Giving orders in your name.”
The king waved a hand, slumping into a velvet armchair. “That’s what regents are for. I chose him.”
Zander pressed on. “I know. But he’s abusing it. He’s not just expanding his influence, he’s funding a sect. They’re called the Varnari. They’ve begun gathering magic users outside the guilds. Secretly. Quietly. And the commoners are beginning to whisper that he supports them.”
The king scoffed, lifting a crystal goblet from a side table. “Nonsense. All the realm’s magic is accounted for. We have the guilds. The riders. The warders. The healers. What else is there?”
Zander’s jaw clenched.
I stepped forward. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, that isn’t true. I spoke to commoners, people who are scared. They say the Varnari are building strength. And the Crimson Sigil too. We saw it firsthand. They have support. And magic.”
The king’s hand tightened around the goblet. His eyes sharpened, then clouded. “Don’t lecture me, girl. My ancestor built the guilds. Our nobility held this kingdom together through blood and fire.”
“We know,” Zander said gently, trying to calm him. “But things are shifting. Theron is—”
“Theron,” the king snapped, rising unsteadily to his feet, “is loyal. You? You were always the difficult one. The rebellious one. I see how you look at me. Like I’m fading.”
Zander said nothing. His silence was steel.
The king pointed a trembling finger at him. “You come here, speak of betrayal, and bring a prospect to pass judgment? Is she your new conscience, Zander? Your new queen?”
His words struck deeper than they should’ve.
I stayed silent, pulse hammering, but Zander’s voice remained even.
“I brought her because she sees what others miss. Because she listens when you won’t. And because she deserves to know the truth, as much as anyone.”
The king scoffed again and slumped back into the chair, suddenly looking years older.
“I’m tired of conspiracies,” he muttered. “Tired of ghosts in the shadows.”
Zander watched him for a long moment. Then he turned to me, voice low.
“He’s slipping again.”
And in the dim light of that gilded suite, we both knew—
Whatever hold the king had left on Warriath was unraveling. And the kingdom’s future was teetering on a blade.
Zander turned to me, his lavender eyes softening beneath the weight of frustration.
“I need to speak to him alone,” he said quietly. “He listens more when there aren’t witnesses.”
If he listens at all.
I nodded, though I didn’t feel good about leaving him. The king’s moods were unpredictable, swinging between lucidity and fury with no warning. But Zander needed the chance—he deserved the chance to try.
“I’ll return to the barracks,” I said.
His hand brushed mine briefly, barely there, but enough to steady the breath between us. Then I slipped out of the suite, closing the ornate door behind me with a gentle click.
The corridor was quiet, the halls near the royal quarters always kept empty unless summoned.
I walked slowly at first, my boots muffled by the thick rugs, lost in the sound of my own thoughts.
The walls here were lined with portraits, stoic kings and dragon riders long gone, all watching with the same cold judgment.
At the far end of the hallway, just before the turn to the main stairwell, I caught the murmur of voices.
I slowed.
Two guards, half-shadowed in an alcove near the window, stood with their heads bowed toward each other. They didn’t notice me. Their voices were low, sharp with urgency.
“I’m telling you, it’s spreading faster than we thought,” one said. “They’re recruiting from the old bloodlines, noble houses that lost everything when the dragons refused their heirs.”
The other scoffed. “You mean the ones who got passed over. Bitter fools.”
“They were powerful once. They still have power. And now the sect’s promising them justice. Revenge against the dragons. The guilds. The riders.”
I stiffened behind a column, holding my breath.
“They blame the throne for their decline. Say the king let tradition die when he let commoners into the Fourth Guild.”
“They’re not wrong,” the second muttered. “Used to be, a rider came from lineage. Honor.”
“And now look,” the first snapped. “That girl—Ashlyn—word is she’s bonded to one of the strongest dragons in the horde.”
My blood turned cold.
“They see that and think the world’s turned upside down. That maybe the Sigil or the Varnari are the only ones who’ll restore the order they lost.”
“And the court? What are they doing?”
“Nothing,” came the bitter reply. “Because half of them are either funding it, or waiting to see who wins.”
The hair on my arms stood on end.
This wasn’t just rebellion.
It was retribution.
And I was suddenly very aware of the white hair falling down my back, and the dragon fire coiled in my blood.