Chapter 1 #2
No one truly knows why the dragons—and presumably the gods who created them—chose to pull their power from the four kingdoms and grant it to Mouren instead.
The royal family of that dark kingdom claims divine providence.
That all the blessings they now enjoy are merely rewards for dutifully serving as the humble, magic-less centerpiece of the empire for so long.
All we know is that they’ve used their power to make the rest of the empire bow to them.
And those that don’t bow?
They burn.
The area we now call The Ashlands is a scorched region that encompasses parts of all four kingdoms, a dead ring radiating out from the oasis of Mouren.
Most of the surviving cities of those four true kingdoms, including Lastlight and my own city of Halvgate, lie along the outskirts of the empire—as close to the seas and as far away from Mouren as they can get.
I don’t have to look at Briar to know she’s contemplating ways to make these traveling Mouren soldiers as miserable as the rest of the empire. Or, at the very least, she’s calculating how much money we could make if we robbed them.
It would be a stupid risk.
Not the stupidest one we’d ever taken—not by a long shot. But still.
“Let’s just keep moving,” I say, pointedly. “Not much farther to Lastlight, now.”
Reluctantly, she agrees.
We ride on without any more detours, until the city of Lastlight finally appears on the horizon.
The foreboding Barrow Hills roll just beyond it like a dark, endless ocean, which is how the city earned its name; because it’s the last spot of hope before the landscape gives way to something truly uninhabitable.
Like most of the surviving cities in and around the Ashlands, a great wall surrounds Lastlight, made of stone bricks coated in a special alchemical resin that makes it resistant to dragon fire. Resistant. Not impervious.
The same sort of barrier once surrounded my city, too.
Sentries pace along the top of the wide wall, their movements slow and weary.
Too far and few between, and too poorly equipped, to inspire any real confidence in their ability to stop a true threat.
But even with the crumbling watchtowers and desperate atmosphere, the area feels like a sanctuary compared to what we’ve been traveling through.
The air is clearer, if nothing else, so I slide the cloth covering my mouth down and inhale a few deep breaths.
I lead Garnet to a small stream trickling nearby, letting her partake only after testing the level of contamination in the water and finding it relatively safe.
While she drinks, I paw through a supply bag in search of my leather eye patch.
Watching my reflection in a puddle, I strap it on, arranging it so it sits comfortably against my thick, purplish-grey hair.
After five years of living with my injury, I’d like to say I’m no longer self-conscious about it. That would be a lie, though; it’s too hard not to think about it, knowing how it disturbs and frightens people.
The scars around it are gruesome enough, but the eye itself is worse, having gone completely white over the years.
Staring into it is like looking into a cold, ugly winter sky, as Elara Greenwich—arguably the prettiest woman in our village—once informed me in her most saccharine, pitying voice.
A slightly drunken Briar gave her a bloody nose for the comment, but that doesn’t erase the truth behind it.
It’s easier just to cover it up, along with all the other scars I gained on that fateful night five years ago.
Tearing my gaze away from my reflection, I roll up my sleeve, revealing the Ashwalker brand that I carved into my forearm when I was fifteen.
This is what I need to focus on.
I study it for a moment, tracing the four lines—a representation of the four kingdoms—that reach out from a center point made up of an empty circle with a curved crescent underneath it.
It looks a bit like a compass, each kingdom line pointing in a different direction, though there are also seven additional, smaller lines between the northern and western arms, extending outward and upward like sun rays.
Guards at any of the destitute places I run between know this mark on sight. It grants passage into places that would otherwise be closed, allowing me to carry out my work without too many questions of allegiance or intent.
This is a scar I willingly took on, just as my parents did.
A sign of courage, my father always said.
Courage and a desire to keep the world connected, holding it together even as it falls further and further toward ruin.
A mark that I actually want to be remembered for, unlike the ugly one on my face.
“Ready?” Briar asks.
“On to business,” I say without hesitation, turning toward the city’s gate.
Its secluded location makes Lastlight a quieter city than many of the ones we conduct transactions in, meaning we don’t have to worry much about rogue gangs or other trouble getting in our way.
We find our designated contact and make the exchange of goods and coins, moving quickly enough that we decide to set out for home after only a brief rest, rather than staying the night as we’d originally planned.
You’d never know we’d had a successful run, though, judging by the expression still darkening Briar’s face long after Lastlight has faded into the distance behind us.
She’s angry because I charged less than we’d planned on to relinquish the cargo we carried. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask for any more than I did; not when I realized that what we were carrying was mostly medical supplies.
Lastlight is not a wealthy city—hardly any better off than our own slum town—and I know the winter has been particularly harsh for them.
Grey Fever has been raging within their walls for months; they’ll be lucky if they have enough survivors to handle the spring planting season, at the rate things are going for them.
“We need to survive, too,” Briar reminds me, yet again, as we pause at the same waypoint we did earlier.
This time, I dismount long enough to leave my own notes about the current route conditions around us.
“And you know as well as I do that Mavros is still going to expect his full payment for those goods,” she adds, glaring down at me as I gather and stack stones.
Kaine Mavros is the proprietor who hired us for this particular job. He’ll be sending his associates to our headquarters before the week is finished, and there’s no chance they’ll leave with anything less than our agreed-upon sum. Briar isn’t wrong about that.
My stomach twists as I think of the extra mouths I could have fed back home, had I managed to be a more ruthless negotiator in Lastlight.
But at what cost?
I wish there was a better solution. Some way to ensure that nobody had to go without.
I wish a lot of things in this empire were different, really.
But it’s hard to even imagine what that different world would look like, or how we could rise up to reach it with the weight of Mouren and its dragons pressing down on us.
We’re doing good just to survive.
The deal is done, at any rate. So we ride on toward home, slowing again only when we spot the concerning sign of campfire smoke rising ahead of us.
“Our Mouren friends from earlier?” Briar guesses.
I’m beyond tired and irritable at this point, so I’m sorely hoping that isn’t the case.
No such luck.
We crest a hill to find ourselves overlooking a large camp set up along the edge of the road.
Red and gold banners snap back and forth in the brisk wind.
Several fires blaze, the conversations around them loud and boisterous.
At least two dozen tents are arranged in neat rows, soldiers moving between them with the easy confidence of a military that’s never known true hardship or challenge; most of them were likely born well after Mouren had already secured its power and riches.
We debate turning around and heading for an alternate route—the Serpent’s Bend, which we passed a couple miles back.
But it’s not a great option, as it would bring us close to several known dragon roosting spots, places I rarely risk in the middle of the day, much less at night.
Not to mention how much extra distance it would require our already-tired horses to cover.
Cursing, I slide from Garnet’s back and lead her quietly out of the camp’s sight, toward the bottom of a nearby hill. After loosely tying her to a small tree, I creep to the top of the hill and look down.
“Why are they lingering out here?” I wonder as Briar joins me.
“…Looks like there are more of them now, too,” she mutters.
“Something strange is definitely going on.” I take a small, collapsible scope from my bag and use it to inspect the camp more closely.
“We’re two days from the capital, at least, and several of those tents look garish enough to belong to high-ranking officers.
Seems like a lot of important people to be so far from home. ”
“Maybe they’re scouting out a place to put King Asshole’s latest luxurious dwelling?”
“Doubtful.” Most wouldn’t even camp in this place, let alone build anything in it. Even if they could command the dragons to leave this land alone, the damage to it is already done.
Though it wouldn’t surprise me if the King of Mouren was looking to waste more riches on something so foolish.
Since he ascended the throne twelve years ago, Reave Callahan has earned a reputation as a man who delights in building frivolous things, throwing lavish parties, and feasting on delicacies while the rest of us fight for scraps.
I hate him as much as I hate the dragons that he wields like a fist against the four kingdoms—if not more.
My irritability flares hotter. I take a few steps toward the camp, until Briar grabs my arm and pulls me back.
“We’re way past outnumbered now, Owyn.”
I shrug off her grip. “I’m not going to engage with them. I just want to take a closer look.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. And that line always seems to be a precursor to disaster.”
“Not this time. Trust me.”
She lets out a low, disagreeing huff. But her gaze is now locked in the direction of the camp, same as mine.
Drawn in again, no doubt, by the thought of how much coin the supplies they’re carrying might fetch.
The intricately-woven horse blankets alone are probably worth a fortune.
I spot golden navigation tools and map cases, too, along with cooking pots of polished copper instead of practical iron, their contents seasoned with expensive spices that tickle and tempt my nose even from this distance…
So many gaudy displays of Mouren’s wealth, glittering all the brighter against the backdrop of bleak landscape.
“I’m not doing this unless you let me steal things,” Briar says, flatly.
I cut her a backwards glance, but I can’t deny the growing urge I have to redistribute some wealth.
“Fine,” I say. “You may steal a few things. A few.”
She cracks her knuckles. “See, now you’re speaking my language.” Her hazel eyes light up as she scans the camp more closely, sizing up potential targets. “Let’s go investigate, shall we?”
After making sure our horses are secure, we ready a few of our usual devices: thick smoke bombs; small vials of flash powder; a couple of hidden knives to complement the larger weapons we carry.
We douse ourselves in bitterly overpowering bloodroot oil, too—a trick to confuse the hounds patrolling alongside some of the soldiers.
Briar decides on a target: a supply wagon that looks to be damaged, and which is currently being ignored on the edge of the campsite.
While she slips toward it, I find myself drawn elsewhere—to the darkest corner of the camp, where a fire has burned down to its last embers. Three figures huddle close around the dying light, their voices low and urgent. A pile of wood sits within arm's reach, yet they leave it untouched.
Whatever they're discussing, it seems they want to keep it cloaked in darkness.
Thievery is tempting, but I'm far more interested in what's brought this many Mouren soldiers so deep into the Ashlands.
So I drop to my belly and crawl toward a thick tangle of brush near their circle, close enough that I can make out occasional words.
Not enough to understand the full conversation, but enough to pick up on their tone; they're clearly worried about something.
After a few minutes, the conversation abruptly stops.
An odd sensation passes through me—a pulse of uncomfortable heat that makes my heart skip a beat. I go perfectly still, my hand clenching the hilt of my mother’s sword.
At least a minute passes. The fireside circle remains silent, and I’m still so tense that Briar’s sudden, silent appearance makes me jump, even though she makes sure to approach from my non-blind side.
The bag slung across her chest jingles faintly. Dragonfire crystals scraping against the most expensive trinkets she could quickly grab, if I had to guess; a modest haul by her standards. But I understand why she’s already abandoned her heist.
Because the camp seems to have come to life, all of a sudden, and there are far more bodies than what we counted from the hilltop.
“Spot anything interesting over here?” Briar whispers, clearly trying to maintain her usual bravado.
Before I can answer, one of the men by the dying fire gets to his feet. A woman is walking toward him, carrying two lanterns—one of which she hands over to him. As its glow washes over his face, I again go rigid.
He looks unexpectedly…familiar.
I don’t have time to place his face before he turns and follows the woman to a wagon set apart from the others, some fifty yards away.
They pause. Exchange a few words. Their lanterns flare brighter, and I realize the wagon is actually a wheeled cage…
and something small and dark is moving between the iron bars of it.
Then comes a sound that starts as a hiss before dropping lower, shifting into something more like a mournful song.
Briar’s question still hangs in the air as I hold my breath, trying to position myself so I can see what made that sound. I take the small scope from my bag once more, steadying it on a low branch and peering through it with my good eye.
And I spot something very interesting indeed.
A dragon hatchling.