Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“I'm officially done with this side quest,” Briar says under her breath, casting a look toward where we left our horses.
The rest of the group I've been eavesdropping on abandons the dying fire and heads into the heart of the camp, giving us some breathing room—and an easy exit, should we choose to take it.
It would be a lot smarter to take it.
So why am I still staring in the direction of that caged dragon?
“Arowyn. Elizabeth. Vhale,” Briar recites, her tone a warning.
My lips quirk in wry amusement. “Don't full-name me, Briar Sage Flint.”
“Stop giving me a reason to.”
“I haven't even done anything.”
“No, but you're thinking of doing something. I know that look.”
“You aren't at least a little curious about what's going on over there?”
“I couldn't be less curious if I tried.”
“Coward,” I whisper back.
“That's clearly a dragon in that cage.”
“Yes.”
“And—need I remind you—we don't deliberately tangle with dragons. Ashwalker code and all that.”
“It's barely a dragon at all,” I counter, handing the scope over so she can take a closer look for herself.
She frowns, but eventually she takes the instrument from me. After peering through it, she's quiet for a long time, chewing on her bottom lip, before she reluctantly admits, “I've never seen one so…small.”
“Or weak-looking,” I add.
Briar hands the scope back. I look into it again, and this time, I note everything I can about the beast: Its black scales and twitching, feather-tipped tail.
The way it barely moves, even when the Mouren soldiers rap their knuckles against the bars of its cage.
The shiny patches surrounding it—what I'm fairly certain is blood.
Lots of blood. Most of that dark liquid seems to be oozing from a gash in its right side.
Something has torn deeply into its scales, and its right wing is a gory, shredded and crumpled mess.
“…It's seriously injured,” I realize. “Of course it is…that cage wouldn't be holding it in, otherwise; those bars aren't nearly thick enough. Not to mention the top looks like it's made of wood.”
It's so young that it likely can’t expel anything—whether fire or otherwise—that could destroy that wood. But even if it's newly hatched, it should still have enough power to break the cage into tiny splinters.
It must be close to death; that's the only explanation for how they're managing to keep it captive.
Briar looks longingly toward the horses once more before folding her arms across her chest and glancing back at the cage with a sigh. “Did those soldiers do that to the beast, I wonder?”
“Why would they? Dragons are valuable tools to Mouren. And that wound looks too severe to have been caused by human weapons. More likely that another dragon did it.”
“So, they've probably captured it with the intention of nursing it back to health, and then…”
She doesn't have to finish her thought. We both know what that rogue kingdom does with healthy dragons, and the thought opens a massive pit in my stomach.
I hate dragons.
But I also hate the idea of the Mouren crown getting their hands on yet another one to use as a weapon against us.
“If we kill it now, it's one less problem we have to worry about later,” I point out.
“Dragon-slaying definitely wasn't part of the job we agreed to,” Briar deadpans. “Mavros isn't going to give us a bonus for this, you know.”
“It's a service to our world,” I say, creeping closer to the edge of the brush. “One I'm happy to perform for no charge.”
She mumbles something about priorities.
“In or out?” I press.
I don't have to look at her to know she's glaring daggers at me.
Nevertheless, she sighs and asks, “What's the plan?”
“Give me a moment, I'm still making it up.”
“Oh, excellent.”
I go back to studying the scene before us. The woman and the strangely familiar soldier I’d been watching finish their conversation and turn to leave—but not before they both hold their lanterns up to inspect their captive one last time.
The woman hooks her lantern to a post beside the cage, leaving it behind.
The dragon doesn't seem to be a fan of the flickering light being so close; it finally moves with some urgency, cowering into a darker corner of its tiny prison.
The hiss it lets out this time echoes through the growing stillness of the camp, unsettling even from a distance.
Two other soldiers are positioned close to the cage, guarding it. I wait a few minutes to see if more make their way over, but none do. As my gaze falls on the flame dancing in the hanging lantern, a plan starts to form in my mind.
“You have more bloodroot oil on you?”
Briar digs a small vial out of her coat pocket and hands it to me, albeit reluctantly. “That stuff isn't cheap,” she mutters. “Really cutting into the day's profit margins, now.”
“A bit of this on the top of that cage should be enough,” I continue, as though I haven't heard her. “I'll use that lantern to ignite the wood, opening up an escape and driving the dragon away from the camp.”
“Assuming the feeble thing actually manages to flee.”
“There's still life in its eyes. We give it an opportunity to run, it's going to run.”
“…And then we hunt it down and make quick work of finishing it off?”
“Exactly.”
She considers the landscape beyond the camp, and her muttering stops as she realizes we might actually have a chance at success—because it's highly unlikely the soldiers surrounding us know those dust-covered hills and valleys better than we do.
“I guess you've come up with way worse plans than this,” she says with a shrug.
I ignore the slight and continue plotting. “Can you distract the ones standing guard?”
She scoffs, brushing a dead leaf from her sleeve. “Please. It won't even be a challenge, even if I am half-asleep and covered in dust and grime.”
I give her a crooked smile. “There's the arrogant Briar I need. Now, let's move before more guards join those two.”
She gives me a little salute before sneaking out of the brush and into the deep shadows beyond the camp's edge.
I follow without any more discussion. We've been running jobs together for five years now, and we've been best friends much longer than that; I trust her more than anyone, and we don't need to waste time on words when we can practically read one another's mind.
We swing wide, beyond every light of the camp.
When Briar stops behind a small outcropping of rock, eyes on her targets, I keep going, positioning myself to sneak up on the dragon's cage from behind.
I take a minute to size things up from several different angles so I can properly calibrate the distance between myself and that cage—always a challenge with my sight.
Briar waits until I signal that I'm confident to make my next move before she makes her own. She leaves her bow and arrows behind, along with her bag of stolen goods, and she makes her steps more exaggerated, more tired, while hugging her arms around herself.
She'll be playing the role of the lost, defenseless traveler, it seems.
As she stumbles toward the guards, I creep closer to my own target, pausing once I'm some twenty feet away from the cage and waiting in the shadows until the moment is right.
The guards tense when they first spot Briar…
at least until she steps fully into the light of one of the nearby lanterns.
Half-blind or not, I can easily see the rigidity slipping from their bodies.
Undone by her beauty, which is still striking even after a day of rough travel.
Men are pretty much always undone by her—particularly when she plays the role of something delicate and in need of help.
As if she really needs to be rescued by their manly might.
Fucking idiots.
“Could you spare a drink for a thirsty traveler?” I hear her purr as she tucks a lock of hair behind her jewel-studded ear.
The men consider her request, exchanging glances. One of them actually goes for his waterskin. The other one steps closer, full of swagger and misplaced confidence.
“What's a beauty like you doing out here alone?” he asks.
Briar watches his hand sliding away from the handle of his sword—the last of his good sense leaving him.
“Just looking for you,” she says with a wink.
The soldiers exchange a self-satisfied look. I swear to the gods, they're actually preening as Briar continues to flirt, as if there's no doubt in their mind that she’s being genuine. As if they think the Ashlands are full of beautiful women desperate to cuddle up with a Mouren soldier.
I swallow down a bitter laugh.
So many of them have no clue how life really works outside the gilded walls of their precious kingdom.
They're distracted by their ridiculous fantasies, though, and that's all that matters.
Once they're fully enveloped in Briar's game, I silently dart forward, moving into the shadows of the cage.
The dragon lifts its head a few inches as I approach. Its golden eyes are unfocused, blinking slowly. Its tapered snout twitches as it tries to place my scent. Panic skitters through me as it opens its mouth—
It makes no sound.
For now.
Steadying myself, I open the vial of bloodroot oil and toss its contents over the roof of the cage, sprinkling the wood as evenly as I can, even though I’m not tall enough to truly see what I’m doing.
I consider just tossing the lantern next, letting it shatter against the wood; bloodroot oil is flammable enough that any stray ember would do the trick. It would be easier than trying to be precise.
But I'm also trying to be somewhat discreet.
So, I find a stick and dip it in the vial instead, then carefully guide it into the lantern’s flame.
It's annoying how many times it takes me to line up these simple tasks, thanks to my lack of proper vision.
Spatial awareness—just one more thing I took for granted before that awful night that took so much from me.
After several attempts, I finally manage to turn the stick into a small, lit match.
I glance over to check on Briar, to make sure she's ready to make a run for it, and I find her pinned between the taller soldier and a pile of supply crates. Fury fills me at the sight of the soldier’s hand trying to slide its way under her shirt.
Briar doesn't flinch. Doesn't break character. The charming smile doesn't leave her face, either, even as she whips a knife from the gods only know where and stabs it straight into the man's arm.
Which is one way to distract them, I suppose.
He stumbles back, howling. She aims a kick into his groin, and as he doubles over in pain, she adds insult to injury by grabbing the sword at his hip and whipping it from its sheath.
His companion lunges for her, but she only spins and slices toward his head—all while offering him a charming smile as well. He falls backward, just barely avoiding a quick death. Briar pins him to the ground with a boot on his chest, pressing the stolen blade into his stunned, wide-open mouth.
Clearly, she has things under control.
I toss the burning stick onto the roof of the cage. The oil catches quickly, as I knew it would, but the wood itself is stubborn, glowing brighter and brighter without igniting. Smoke billows up in thick, dark plumes.
Too much.
The wood smolders with pops and hisses.
Too loud.
It seems to take an eternity before any flames truly take hold, eating through the slats with a slow, grudging appetite. Though it never truly turns into a proper blaze, it consumes enough of the roof to leave plenty of space for the dragon to slip out.
One of the men Briar is fighting bellows out an agonized cry before collapsing to the ground.
That's going to attract some attention.
As is the smoke still rising in a dark column against the night sky, even as the fire burns itself out.
The dragon has yet to move—the damn thing is just glaring at me.
Is it too weak to climb out?
Shouts ring out from deeper in the camp.
Panicking, I set the lantern down and ram into the side of the cage as hard as I can.
The wheels screech and grind. Bits of the roof’s charred, glowing wood crumple and fall inward.
The sight stirs unpleasant memories, but I push them down, closing my eyes and throwing myself into the side of the cage again.
After a few more attempts, the dragon helps—whether on purpose or not, I'm not sure; but it finally shows signs of life, leaning into the bars on the opposite side. Between its weight and my shoving, we topple the entire thing over.
After a tense moment where neither of us moves, it squirms through the burned-out roof with a low, guttural sound, twisting around and fixing its golden eyes directly on me.
Outside the cage, it looks bigger. The size of a large wolf, maybe. Its feathery wings flail awkwardly about, as if it’s trying to tuck them against its heaving sides but can’t manage it; the right one looks like it’s barely attached.
It stumbles back as embers from the still-smoldering roof drift toward it. It really doesn't seem to like fire—which seems odd and wrong for one of its kind, but it's something I can use to my advantage.
I grab the lantern I'd set aside, using it to scare the beast into motion and chase it farther from the camp. As it serpentines its way across the cracked, dusty ground, Briar joins me; she's left both the guards crumpled and lifeless in the dirt.
“Actually killing them?” I arch a brow. “Really? We were trying to avoid attracting attention, weren't we?”
“They got a little too adventurous with their hands.” She shrugs. “Also, it's not my fault these Mouren fuckers don't know how to die a quiet, dignified death.”
I start to reply, but our conversation is cut short by the arrival of reinforcements.