CHAPTER 18 Wren
Wren
‘Resilience is humanity’s oldest alchemy – transforming suffering into strength’
– Transformative Arts of Alchemy
‘I HEREBY PLEDGE MYSELF to Drevenor,’ Wren murmured in reverence as the academy went up in flames.
They fled on horseback as it burned, with Silas claiming its ashes as his own.
Wren and Thea’s lightning had temporarily stunned them all, leaving them with just enough time to run before Silas could take the power for himself, before a fresh wave of incensed People’s Vanguard soldiers descended on the burning academy grounds.
The Kingsbane didn’t pursue them, which told Wren that despite their efforts and all the destruction, he had what he wanted, and he would face them at full power in Delmira.
Wren’s chest constricted and an ache pulsed in her throat as she struggled to swallow the lump that had formed there.
Another home destroyed; another piece of her gone.
Even knowing it was necessary, even having chosen this, the devastation was absolute.
Wiping the blood from her nose, she didn’t speak as they raced through the night, the air thick with smoke around them.
She didn’t trust herself to keep her composure.
During the madness of the fight, Wren had glimpsed small groups of remaining students fleeing into the forest under the guidance of Drevenor’s faculty.
Master Crawford had organized an evacuation route months ago – a contingency they’d hoped never to use.
Wren could only hope that they’d made it out safely, and that they were making their way towards the safe houses established throughout Naarva.
The road to the seaside port town was a blur as shock settled over Wren.
Drevenor was no more. The gardens, the workshops, the conservatory, the poisons dungeon .
. . All nothing but rubble now. The academic institution had survived the brutality of the shadow war only to succumb to another form of darkness.
As they rode, Wren’s mind wandered to the half-finished experiments she’d left behind in the alchemy workshop – projects she’d never complete.
The gleaming Master Alchemist medallion she’d imagined hanging around her neck seemed like a child’s fantasy now.
Despite everything, some small, stubborn part of her had clung to the possibility of returning someday to finish what she’d started at Drevenor.
To earn her mastery, to take her place among the great alchemists whose work she’d studied so diligently.
That fragile hope had burned with the academy.
There would be no graduation ceremony, no quiet afternoons in the workshop perfecting formulas.
The path she’d once envisioned for herself had vanished completely, replaced by the road to war.
Wren’s teeth were chattering, and she realized distantly that she was cold. She could feel Torj’s worried gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet it. If she did, she would fall apart.
Soon, weathered stone buildings with salt-encrusted facades came into view as the road descended towards the harbour, the settlement awash with the glow of street lanterns.
The briny sea air hit Wren’s face, catching on the tears she couldn’t recall shedding, the salt scent mingling with those of fish, tar and chimney smoke.
Gulls circled overhead, while townsfolk eyed them suspiciously as they followed the winding street towards the heart of the port town.
‘If you’re looking for that party of rich pricks, they’re at the Salt and Barrel, three crossroads down,’ came a scratchy voice from a nearby cart.
Wren’s head snapped towards the sound, spotting a withered old man gutting fish at the side of the road.
‘Thank you,’ Thea replied, and the man’s eyes widened at the sight of her.
He put three bloody fingers to his shoulder in salute. ‘Meant no offence,’ he added.
Wren urged her horse on, but heard Thea snort behind her. ‘None taken,’ her sister said. ‘They are a bunch of rich pricks.’
The Salt and Barrel sat right on the edge of the town, its glass windows thick and warped, distorting the view of the merriment within.
The cheerful notes of a fiddle drifted through the door.
Darian stood by a trough outside, sipping from a tankard.
His eyes widened when he spotted them. ‘Do I need to send the rest of the men—?’
Torj’s husky voice cut through the night. ‘Drevenor has fallen. Your bride needs a healer. And rest. See to it that she gets it, Lord Devereux.’
‘While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t take orders from Warswords,’ Darian replied smoothly.
‘You will if you know what’s good for you,’ the Bear Slayer warned, before stalking off, not into the inn, but towards the harbourmaster’s tower.
Gentle hands helped Wren down from her horse. ‘Are you alright?’ Cal murmured.
Numb, she nodded as she was ushered inside. A low-ceilinged common room with blackened wooden beams greeted her, full of mismatched furniture positioned around a large hearth and bar.
‘Now this is my kind of place,’ she heard Kipp declare somewhere behind her, but a chill raked down her spine as her gaze went straight to Lord Lucian.
He was seated at a table in the far corner with Lord Briar and Lord Pendelton, surveying her dishevelled state, his eyes narrowing as he searched the faces around her.
An arm fell across her shoulders and Lucian’s attention lingered a moment longer before he returned to the conversation around him.
‘Torj did well to make himself scarce,’ Darian whispered as he steered her through the rabble towards a narrow staircase. ‘My father’s watching everything. Always.’
Wren swallowed the sob that threatened to burst from her lips. She knew it was safer for her soul-bonded to keep his distance, but it didn’t stop her longing for his presence, for the comfort of his touch.
‘This way. I booked a room for you,’ Darian told her.
‘Silas was at Drevenor,’ Wren managed as she climbed the stairs with him. ‘Not just a unit of his men, but him too. In the flesh.’
‘I know,’ Darian replied. ‘My father’s spies met us here with their report, as did some of Drevenor’s evacuated students. The academy wasn’t at full capacity. Most made it out. But it was too late for us to come after you—’
‘It would have made no difference. He’s stronger than we knew. The fact that he’s not running us down with his army now tells me that he’s got much more up his sleeve.’
When they reached the top of the stairs, Darian guided her down the hallway and stopped at the last door. ‘Do you really need a healer?’ he asked, fitting a key to the lock. ‘I doubt we’ll find one better than you, Dessa or Zavier in this cesspit.’
Wren shook her head. ‘I’m not hurt.’
‘Are you sure? Because it’s my head beneath the war hammer if the Bear Slayer finds out otherwise.’
Wren huffed a weak laugh. ‘I’m sure. I just need to wash this soot off.’
Darian nodded. ‘There’s hot water waiting for you inside.
I brought your pack up as well, so you should have everything you need.
Here’s the key.’ He pressed it into her palm.
‘My father has booked us passage on the first ship out in the morning. It leaves for Harenth at dawn. From there, it’s up to you where we go. ’
The fresh image of cinders settling across the grounds of Drevenor came to her then, along with a truth that stirred within – one she had learned in the wake of the last war . . .
Sometimes, the most resilient blooms were the ones that grew from the ashes.
She could sense the dark clouds gathering overhead, could feel the thunder rolling in answer to her resolve. This time, when her storm broke, it would show Silas the Kingsbane exactly what grew from scorched earth and thorns.
Wren met Darian’s gaze and named a place she’d hoped never to return to again. ‘First we ride to Thezmarr,’ she told him. ‘Then, to war.’