Chapter 4
Chapter Four
It’s nearly morning by the time we make it home.
We’re dead on our feet, so exhausted we can hardly stay upright on our horses. But we still take the time to complete our usual ritual, walking through the ruins of Halvgate on our way to the slum we’ve affectionately named The Burn.
Halvgate is the city I was born in. Before Mouren and its dragons took over the empire, I’m told it was a bustling hub right in the center of a historical trade route.
Even while I was growing up, it was still a relatively large, prosperous city; much better off than many of the others in our Kingdom of Ormyth, at least. The Ashwalker Guild first put down roots in the center of it, as well.
My grandparents were founding members, determined to make Halvgate a beacon of hope and connection among all four of the crumbling kingdoms.
That’s what made it a target, most claim.
That’s why, five years ago—on a harrowing night we now call Emberfall—a horde of dragons descended upon this city, reducing it to a pile of charred rubble and leaving less than three hundred survivors.
Survivors who have been trying to scratch a living out of the dust and debris ever since.
Now, where the vibrant center market once stood, there are only stones. Over two thousand white stones arranged across the space, polished smooth and shining in the first rays of sunlight coming over the distant hills.
Most of the dead were reduced to nothing but ash, or otherwise mangled and melted so horribly they were unrecognizable, so these are memorials to the lost, more than actual burial plots.
Names and family symbols are etched and painted into each one, the marks centered in the white stones making me think of eyes.
Countless eyes watching me carry on, doing the things they can’t.
The weight of their stares gets heavy, at times; I just hope I’m making them proud.
I make my way to a few stones in particular, lined up beside a thorny rose bush that stubbornly continues to bloom, even though most of the vegetation in this scorched area died long ago. Three names await me here: Eiden Vhale. Tomas Vhale. Malachi Sorn.
My mother, my father, and the man I loved with all my soul—all of them gone in a single, fiery night.
Kneeling, I wipe the dust from my parents’ stones, then bow my head to say a quick prayer. To whom, I’m not sure; the gods have a lot to answer for if I should ever come face to face with them. But I find comfort in the ritual, even if the words feel hollow.
On Malachi’s marker, I leave a few bundles of verbena flowers that I collected on my way home—the same kind of flowers he gave me on the day he proposed. The ones I’d planned to decorate the altar with on our wedding day.
My hand closes around my left wrist, where another important symbol is carved, opposite of the Ashwalker badge on my other arm. This one is simpler, just a golden circle with six tapered points bursting outward.
It was the symbol of Malachi’s family.
He carried the same mark, in the same place, and together they were the external proof of the bond we shared. Of the ultimate vows we intended to take.
And this is why I hardly flinched when Briar killed those soldiers last night. Why I wouldn’t have cared if that entire Mouren camp had gone up in flames, incinerating everyone inside of it in the process.
Maybe those soldiers had families. Maybe they had futures. Hopes. Plans. Dreams.
Well, I had those things once upon a time, too.
But no longer.
And sometimes the pain gets so suffocating, so unbearable, that I have to pass it on to someone else to keep myself from going insane.
Briar has no family marked by these memorials; she was an orphan even before that hellish night, left in the shadows of Halvgate’s walls and taken in by Old Marta—and Marta was one of the few who survived Emberfall.
But she waits for me while I pay my respects, sitting on the ledge of a large fountain and watching over the horses as they graze nearby.
The fountain itself no longer functions.
The basin is still intact, though, and some of the Burn’s inhabitants take turns keeping it clean and maintaining filters so it can serve as a receptacle to catch rainwater.
We don’t get much of that, usually, but the past week has been unusually damp, so I help myself to a refill of my waterskin when I catch up to Briar.
“So, a successful job, all in all,” she says, rubbing and rolling the tension from her left shoulder—the shoulder she’s broken twice; once when she fell off her horse as a child, and, more recently, in a bar fight. “Though our dragon-slaying skills need work, I guess.”
I focus on securing my water, avoiding her gaze.
“Doesn’t matter about that last part, though. There’s no way it survives the night, right?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s probably already dead.”
“And good riddance,” she says with a yawn.
I quickly agree. She has yet to realize I didn’t actually fail to slay that creature. That I could have easily finished it off, if only I hadn’t frozen at the last moment.
I still don’t know why I let it live.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was magic, some manipulating spell the stupid thing used against me.
I should have been prepared for that, I guess.
“Let’s talk about something less dismal than dragons,” I suggest. “That whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Fair enough.” Briar cups water in her hands, stepping away from the fountain before splashing it into her face and giving her light brown skin a quick scrub. Without the road dust coating her, she somehow manages to look fresh-faced and bright-eyed.
I give her a tired grin. “How do you always manage to pass through the horrors of the Ashlands and come out the other side looking as though you just stepped out of some perfect, beautiful painting?”
“Because I get ten times more beauty sleep than you do, on average.” She fluffs the raven locks of her hair. “Seriously, Owyn, you should try actually sleeping at night, for once, instead of constantly patrolling the streets around here. You’d look even better than me if you did.”
“Doubtful.”
She fixes me with a stern look.
I concede with a shrug and force my smile to stay in place, pushing down thoughts of all the things that make me want to patrol our streets. The fears. The regret.
The guilt.
Guilt over things only I know about Emberfall and the days leading up to it. Things that I’ve never told anyone—not even Briar—and likely never will.
We leave our horses at the community stable and then head into the Burn, passing under the arch blackened by dragon flame.
Before that night five years ago, it declared the true name of this district—Haven's Rest—but the plaque with that moniker melted clean off. And the area hardly resembles the moderately affluent place it once was, so it’s just as well that we’ve renamed it.
The guards beyond the arch welcome us in. “How are you?”
“Still here,” Briar and I both reply; it’s the regular, quietly defiant greeting between those of us who call this place home.
They reply with respectful nods; our profession has always commanded some level of respect in this community, and we’re likely the most successful Ashwalkers among them—especially now that most of our predecessors are dead.
Queens of the Shit Heap, Briar often jokes.
I usually laugh along.
But beneath the humor, I sometimes feel a hollow ache where my sense of pride and purpose should be.
And that ache is especially sharp today.
I don’t know if it was the encounter with the Mouren camp that did it—brushing so close to so much disgusting wealth—but our home feels even more desperate than usual as we trod down its dirty streets.
The Burn earned its name honestly; even after five years, scorch marks can still be seen everywhere you look.
Almost everything carries the grey pallor of ash, too.
It’s worked into the cracks of cobblestones, stains the weathered faces of buildings.
The air tastes of char and unwashed bodies, of cook fires burning whatever can be scavenged for fuel.
A group of children dart past us, their laughter an unsettling sound amongst the grimness.
They're playing some game with a rusted hoop, taking turns rolling it down the street.
One of them—a girl no older than seven—has a cough that rattles in her chest. Her name is Lyra; the youngest member of the Corvaine family.
Her father was lost on Emberfall, and she had an older brother who later succumbed to injuries he sustained that night.
I have too many records like this twisting around in my brain.
I know of far too many mothers who couldn’t stand to lose another child.
That’s why I don’t sleep much at night, and it’s why my heart clenches as I think of the reduced payment I took in Lastlight, reminding me again of how few I’m able to help, no matter how hard I push myself.
We leave the majority of that reduced payment at our guild headquarters, in the care of Grier Thorne.
Grier was once an Ashwalker himself, until he sustained an injury during one of his runs, leading to the loss of most of his right leg.
Now, he often handles the business side of our operations.
He’s blunt, sharp-minded, and mean as a dragon with an empty stomach—which will serve him well when Mavros’s subordinates come to collect.
They won’t get a dime over what they’re owed as long as Grier is the one they’re dealing with.
After leaving headquarters, my purse feels depressingly light, as expected.
I did look the other way when Briar skimmed a few of the medical supplies from our cargo back in Lastlight, and I’m glad for it, now; at least we have some supplies we can gift to the small, makeshift clinic nearby.
The young doctor we hand them to is so grateful for the donation that she breaks down in tears.