Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Solei stood abruptly, brushing her hands on her tunic. “Come on,” she said, her voice leaving no room for debate. “We’ve got a few things to check out before you two disappear into shadows and safehouses.”
Zander raised a brow, but I didn’t hesitate. I followed Solei through the winding back alleys of the city, the scent of smoke and iron thickening with each step. The sun had begun to rise, casting gold across the rooftops, but it didn’t warm the tension settling in my gut.
She brought us to a squat stone building tucked between a tannery and an old apothecary. The blacksmith’s forge.
I’d been here before.
“Let me do the talking,” I murmured to Zander as Solei pushed the door open. “He knows me.”
The air inside was thick with heat and steel, glowing coals bathing the room in an amber light. The blacksmith stood at the anvil, sweat slicking his muscled arms, the hammer stilling when he saw us.
“Jiaran,” I greeted him, stepping forward. “Good to see you.”
The master smith squinted at me through the haze, then smiled behind his soot-streaked beard. “Ah, the Rebec girl. Glad to see you alive. Thought Cyran had lost his mind keepin’ you buried under that compound.”
I gestured to Zander, who stood slightly behind me in a plain cloak. “This is Lockem. My new bodyguard. Courtesy of my father’s lingering paranoia.”
Zander gave a small nod, playing the role with unsettling ease.
Jiaran chuckled. “Smart man, your father. Dangerous times.”
Solei stepped forward, all business. “We need information. About the Crimson Sigil and their alliance with the Varnari.”
Jiaran didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a glowing blade from the forge and plunged it into the quenching trough.
The steel hissed as it met the water, steam erupting in a cloud that swallowed the space around us.
“They’re fools,” he finally said, straightening. His eyes glinted in the haze. “The Sigil. Trustin’ the Varnari’s like sleepin’ beside a snake and expectin’ it not to bite.”
“What do you mean?” Solei asked, her voice cutting through the hiss and crackle.
Jiaran leaned his elbows on the anvil. “The Sigil want power, plain and simple. Think they can break the world and rebuild it with commoners on top. Magic for all.” He spat to the side. “The Varnari don’t want to share power—they want to control the crown.”
He looked at each of us in turn, his gaze hard.
“They’ve struck a temporary truce because they’ve got a shared enemy. The riders. The guild. Anyone who controls the dragons. But mark my word. As soon as the riders fall, they’ll turn on each other like wolves over a fresh kill.”
Silence hung between us, broken only by the pop of coals in the forge.
“All will betray us,” he said again, quieter now. “Because that’s what desperate people do when they think the throne’s up for grabs.”
Solei didn’t argue.
Neither did I.
Because deep down, we already knew he was right.
Jiaran’s eyes flicked toward Zander, keen and knowing. “I understand your need for secrecy, Your Highness,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather. “But you and that sweet little sister of yours are the only sane ones in your cursed family.”
Zander stiffened beside me. Busted.
My mouth dropped open. “How did you—?”
Jiaran snorted. “I’ve been making blades for the crown since I was old enough to run a forge. I know a Rayne when I see one—especially one who carries himself like he’s holding up the bloody sky.”
Zander exhaled and shook his head. “You’re that Jiaran. I thought you lived in Thubia.”
“Used to,” the blacksmith said, wiping his hands on his soot-stained apron as he moved to a small desk tucked in the corner of the forge. “Cyran made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Moved here a few years back.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bundle of parchment tied with string, setting it on the desk before us.
“You’ll want to see these.”
Zander and I exchanged a look before stepping closer.
“These missives came through the black channel,” Jiaran explained. “Encrypted. Someone was foolish enough to think I couldn’t read them. I’ve been intercepting what I can before they’re passed to other hands.”
Solei moved first, slicing the string with one of her daggers and spreading the pages across the desk.
Dozens of coded messages.
Stamps I didn’t recognize.
Solei scanned the parchment she took from Jiaran, her brow furrowing as she flipped from one missive to the next. The forge light caught the tension in her jaw.
“Why didn’t you give these to me or Cyran before?” she asked.
Jiaran didn’t flinch. He wiped the remaining soot from his palms and leaned one hip against the edge of his anvil, crossing his arms. “Because I don’t work for the Order,” he said simply. “I’m loyal to those I see fit to rule.”
His eyes slid toward Zander, firm and unblinking.
“At the moment, that’s him.”
Zander shifted beside me. “I’m never going to be king. My brother Dorian—”
“—has found a way to make himself scarce,” Jiaran cut in without apology. “I like Dorian, don’t mistake me. Good head, decent heart. But he hasn’t taken control of Theron the way he should.”
Jiaran’s face twisted into something bordering on disgust. “That brother of yours was always a smug little bastard. I once caught him throwing rocks at a bird’s nest when he was a boy.”
Zander blinked. “Seriously?”
“I thrashed him,” Jiaran said, matter-of-fact. “He cried and told the guards. But your father never punished me.”
Zander looked stunned. “I’m surprised he didn’t have you executed.”
Jiaran grunted, a dark chuckle in his throat. “Your father was a good man… once. Before your mother died. After that, well… he started liking his swords more than his children.”
Zander huffed, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, but there was no humor in it.
“True,” he muttered.
The silence that followed was heavy with memories none of us had the strength or desire to unpack.
Solei stared at the red wax seal marked with a single distinct claw.
My breath caught. “These aren’t just between the Sigil and the Varnari.”
Zander’s fingers hovered over one message. “Some of these are between noble houses.”
“Which means,” Solei said coldly, “this goes deeper than anyone thought.”
Jiaran nodded once. “There’s a storm coming. You two better find a way to fly above it.”
The forge door creaked open, a muted groan of rusted hinges and sudden light cutting through the haze.
A man in tattered clothing slipped inside, his hood low and steps quick.
He didn’t say a word—just pressed a folded parchment into Jiaran’s calloused hand and slipped back into the street like a shadow swallowed by smoke.
Solei narrowed her eyes as the door thudded shut behind him. “Why do I get the feeling your spy network rivals Cyran’s?”
Jiaran snorted, shrugging his massive shoulders with the weight of someone who’d seen more than his share of kingdoms rise and fall. “We both know I’ve got no desire to run a criminal underground. If I did, Cyran would’ve had me assassinated years ago.”
I stepped closer, nodding toward the paper in his hand. “What does it say?”
He glanced at it once, then again, slower this time.
His jaw tightened.
“It seems,” he said, “that the dragons… are refusing to answer their riders.”
My blood went cold.
“They won’t come at all?” Zander asked, his voice tight.
“Not a one,” Jiaran confirmed. “The skies are nearly empty. Panic’s already spreading.”
Solei swore under her breath.
Jiaran folded the parchment with precise fingers. “Everyone’s up in arms. And the majors—Kaler, Ledor, have issued a continent-wide search for both of you.”
“Let me guess,” I muttered. “Dead or alive?”
“No,” he said, and his gaze locked on mine, grim and edged with steel. “Alive. They were very specific. Word is, if any harm comes to either of you, the aggressor’s entire bloodline will be annihilated.”
Zander blinked. “That’s… extreme.”
“No,” Solei said softly, looking toward the forge door. “That’s a warning. The dragons aren’t just refusing to fly. They’re making a statement.”
“Siergen ordered the dragons not to fly, but I didn’t really think…”
“That they would break the treaty over us,” Zander said.
“Yeah, that.”
Solei folded the last missive carefully and slid it back across Jiaran’s desk.
“We need to talk to Cyran,” she said, rising to her feet. “See what he thinks our next move should be.”
Jiaran gave us a silent nod, already returning to his forge as the hammer began to ring again.
We slipped out the side door and made our way through the narrow streets, winding through the thrum of mid-morning merchants and bleary-eyed locals.
The tavern above Cyran’s tunnels came into view—faded wood, a tilted sign, and laughter echoing from within.
But there was a tension under the surface now.
The kind of silence that gathers just before the storm.
Inside, we threaded our way through tables full of half-drunk patrons and cloaked figures. The smell of stale ale, pipe smoke, and something spiced drifted thick through the air. I kept my hat angled down, Zander trailing just behind me.
Solei didn’t stop until we reached the tapestry at the back. A faded depiction of a fox in a field of thorns. With a practiced flick, she pulled it aside and opened the door behind it.
We descended into the tunnels beneath the city. The familiar echo of our boots on stone and the glare of torchlight leading us to the deeper hall.
Cyran was already waiting.
He stood beside his desk, arms crossed, bathed in golden light from the hanging lanterns. His eyes narrowed as we entered, first at me, then at Zander, but it was Solei he focused on.
“The dragons have stopped flying,” she said, wasting no time.
Cyran’s eyes snapped to me as if the words couldn’t be real until I confirmed them.
I nodded once. “They’ve stopped answering. None will come to their riders.”
He stared, stunned silence rippling through him.
Then—he laughed.
Not out of amusement, but something colder.
“The dragons are doing what we should’ve done,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Let the liars hang themselves. Let the courts feed on each other.”
He looked at each of us now, a calculating light in his eyes.
“Let’s wait,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Until the lies burn themselves out.”