Wings of the Ashen Dragon

Chapter 1

There are ten different uses for the autumn cherry leaf. Nine of which aren’t deadly. Nine of which I don’t give a fuck about.

Not today at least.

Not when I’m one misstep from meeting my end. General Melark was feistier than I expected. The man’s almost sixty-five years old, and his left hook is still brutal enough to star my vision.

I duck the swipe of his blade. The steel glints through hazy sunlight filtered in from the office balcony. Then I swing out my foot. Leather meets bone as my sole connects with his shin. He grunts and collapses to his knees.

“Who the fuck are you?” His words are slurred. The serum I slipped into his wine is finally activated.

Thank Astora. It took a hefty bribe to even get into the servants’ quarters, let alone poison a high ranking military official. But the serum took longer than expected. Maybe I got the ratios wrong?

I recall this morning back at the apothecary.

Two drops of concentrated leaf extract, one drop of spring water, and a pinch of sugarcane to mask the taste.

No, I definitely mixed it right. Melark’s reaction time must just be slow…

slow enough to leave me with a swollen left eye and a split bottom lip.

He was supposed to be dead when I got here, so I could rummage through his office in peace, but alas.

Instead he charged me like a raged bull the second I slid through the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” Melark repeats. The syllables slide off his tongue in groans and grimaces. In response, I toss him the sweetest smile.

“Oh, how rude of me. Nova Lindwen. Pleasure to meet you.” I extend a palm. Melark’s eyes narrow as he trails the scar bisecting my right brow and my violet eyes. I don’t blink or break our locked gaze. Let him get a good long look. Mine’s the last face he’ll see, anyway.

“You’re one of Finnick’s rats, aren’t you?” His right cheek sags, then his left.

I kneel beside him and place a thumb on his bloated lip.

“Oh, General, I’m not just one of Finnick's rats…I’m the worst of them.

” Melark’s knees crack under his unsteady weight.

“See, Finnick only sends me when there’s a large debt to be paid, and I’m afraid it’s time to collect. Where are the dragonstones?”

Melark coughs and sputters as the serum bites through his veins. He’ll be dead in a few minutes, and there's no time to scavenge through the labyrinth of offices and interconnected archives on this level.

“Hm…maybe you didn’t hear me correctly.” I press my boot into his palm, now splayed on the obsidian-tiled floor.

Bones crunch.

Melark groans again.

The toxin excites the nervous system throughout his whole body, intensifying pain to the point of hysteria. It only takes a little bit of applied pressure to send agony raging through him.

“Let’s try this again. Where are the dragonstones?”

“F-f-u-uck y-y-ou,” he gurgles through drool drops.

“Where are the dragonstones you stole from innocent civilians?”

“Urg-f-u-ur-g.”

“You slaughtered them—your own people—for these stones. So, tell me where they are before the poison kills you.”

“Urggh.”

Shit, there’s no use now—the toxin’s reached his brain. He can’t speak or form meaningful words, let alone spill his deep dark secrets to me.

I shrug. “Have it your way, then.”

The dagger strung to my thigh is unsheathed and lodged in his temple before he can murmur a final plea to our death god, Morvayne.

Not that he deserves one. Under our king, Magnius Ashar, Melark’s career is doused in blood.

I don’t hesitate to offer all the innocent civilians he’s massacred this small token of retribution.

The alarm downstairs blows its heavy horn.

Fuck.

My missions are always clean. Always precise. Always calculated. That’s why Finnick gives me the highest priority assignments. My throat tightens with the conversation I’ll be forced to have when I get back to the apothecary.

Before wasting another breath, I flip Melark’s door lock and lunge for his vacant desk. Amidst the stacks of reports and military memorandums, the general’s office smells like smoke and decayed parchment. I check the lower drawer. It slides open.

Arrogant enough to keep his records unlocked. Better for me, I guess.

The drawer houses files and scrolls detailing combat tactics deployed in the last attack against Storm.

Smoke’s typical burn it all mentality really shines when leadership doesn’t care about civilian death tolls.

Last week’s invasion attempt resulted in two more scorched villages with a full casualty rate.

“Those fuckers are gonna blast us off the continent if they keep this up,” Finnick once said. After years of warring factions and a death toll long enough to reach the cosmos, I’m starting to agree.

But Smoke’s dragons are unbeatable. You can only extinguish so much dragonfire.

I sigh and slam the drawer shut. The alarm below signals my untimely exit, and I scuff through the rest of Melark’s records, landing on one easily missed.

Smoke Trade Authority, 2nd Month of Astora’s Year

Authorized shipment to Shadow Trade Authority via courier.

Item Description: Satchel with unmarked contents weighted at 2 pounds 3 ounces.

Point of contact: Cael Fleetwing

I’ll bet my dinner ration these “unmarked contents” are the dragonstones. Finnick’s intel suggested three to four of them which should put them at around two pounds, and if they’re unregistered…someone’s been tipped off to keep quiet.

But there’s no import authorization attached. Whatever these dragonstones were purchased for is significant enough to keep the rest of the transaction off the books.

I slip the trade receipt into my pocket and fly to the door. Melark’s office is on the top floor of the military academy. Unfortunately, even I can’t scale ten levels without risking death.

So, the front door it is. This might get messy.

I stow my dagger and replace it with the short sword sheathed on my back. It’s lighter than the typical broadswords Finnick’s mercenaries carry, but I prefer the fluid ease of the blade. Especially when speed is my best advantage.

The office exits into a narrow corridor lined with rooms adorned in red placards denoting various military and civilian officials. The same rotten scent lingers in the air as I plummet down the corridor, my feet light with each step.

Boots thud up the stairwell, and I shift my stance to lower my weight. Two Smoke guards in burnt crimson uniforms appear opposite me, both wielding heavy steel blades. The Smoke insignia—a dragon’s tooth encircled by flames—is carved into their matching shields.

“Stop!” one of them cries, throwing himself toward me. My boots skid on the black stone floor and I screech to a halt, raising my own weapon.

The guard lowers his shoulder and barrels toward me. I suck in a breath and let the corridor fade away. It’s just my opponent, me, and the lethal dance of our heartbeats intermingling in the dark.

He swings.

I dodge, then strike.

He falls to the floor, unaware of the gash across his abdomen. Blood seeps into the cotton fabric of his uniform, staining it a deeper shade of crimson, and I focus my attention on the second guard.

He’s in the standard Smoke offensive position—sword raised and shield hovering just beneath his chin—but unfortunately for him, I’ve studied the army’s combat manuals since I was old enough to read.

He’ll step and jab, bearing his weight on the defensive side, then shove the blunt edge of his shield toward me.

The alarm horn rings again, deafening my breaths, as I anticipate his move with memorized ease. The motion comes as naturally as a blink or a twitch, but I don’t waste time engaging in proper combat. I flex my feet, feeling the gritty sole of my boots, and curl my toes. Then I pounce.

Quick, silent, lethal.

As is expected of me.

The second guard joins his companion on the floor. Blood beads on my blade as I hurtle down the spiraling steps, hacking and slashing through the swarm of Smoke guards as they file in from each level.

Ninth floor—the junior officers quarters. Two more guards’ blood staining the grout.

Eighth—the classrooms. Three guards.

Seventh—cadet quarters. Four more.

They pour into the stairwell, meeting my blade with interrupted war cries. By the time I reach the bottom level my face is masked under a thick film of blood. My breath is shallow. I did say it’d be messy. I rip a scrap of crimson from the lifeless guard’s cloak at my boots and swipe my face clean.

The grand entrance doors groan open and I file into the bustling crowd of merchants and civilians, leaving my massacre behind.