Chapter 2
Finnick’s apothecary is two miles from the Academy. Charred rock and scorched earth crunches under my boots as I follow the maze-like streets, taking a left into the mercantile district. Spice sellers and stone carvers seated at their carts avert their eyes as I pass.
Any other day I’d humor myself and engage their fear with a smile or a smirk, but my palms sweat with the rapid rise of panic as the apothecary gets closer.
Finnick absolutely will have received the report of my slaughter by now.
He’ll have to clean up the mess. So, I keep my eyes focused on the cracked basalt cobblestone and travel in silence.
At least I’m not returning empty handed.
The apothecary front comes into view—an ashy red door with chipped paint. There’s no shop sign. No wares displayed in carts or shelves out front.
But everyone knows this place.
Smoke’s one stop shop for retaliation, revenge, and secrets.
There’s a small basin of sun-warmed water beside the faded old steps.
I pause and take inventory of my reflection.
Gods, I’m a nightmare worse than Morvayne.
Skin paler than snow, matted hair to match.
White ridgelines of past assignments carved across angular cheeks and a sweaty brow.
My eyes flash amethyst in the pool’s reflection—a trait from parents I barely remember.
A mother stolen from me by a wound left to fester. A father slain on the battlefield.
You’d think after twenty-eight years I’d be able to look upon the features so clearly theirs painted on my face. I skim a hand across the water’s surface, rippling my image, and fortify my mental shields.
The apothecary’s interior is a damp contrast to the city’s burning air.
Smoke is carved from the basalt and boulder of Terrafyre—an ever flowing volcano that molds and shapes the continent.
It’s said our ancestors were molded from cooling lava flow, and I believe it.
Smoke’s citizens are fiery…especially the riders.
Even more so their dragons. There’s a reason our military is the strongest on the continent.
Unbeatable, unbreakable, inextinguishable.
“Nova!” Finnick’s bark makes my spine jump. The old mercenary turns from the shelf of various jarred herbs and minerals to face me. “I thought I was clear…In, out, no mess.”
“I know Finnick, I’m sorry. Things didn’t really go as planned,” I say, picking at a scab on my thumb.
“Seventeen casualties, Nova. Seventeen. Do you know what that’ll cost me?” Finnick’s leathery brow creases as he treks toward me, lacing his long, skeletal fingers across his chest.
“Seventeen?” I hadn’t kept track of the guards as I hacked my way through them, but damn…that might be my highest record yet. A flicker of guilt long since buried scratches the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. There’s no sense going there when what’s done is done.
Finnick’s ember eyes simmer as he retrieves a ledger from behind the stone counter and flips through the pages—each one with a name written in clean, blunt writing at its header. His thumb lands on my page.
“Now, you’re lucky our client paid in advance, but I’ll have to factor in the clean-up fees for this one.” He scribbles a charcoal pencil across the page. “With your current debt repayment and the seventeen casualties, that leaves you with…five hundred stipen.”
My body tenses. “Five hundred stipen? No way. Melark’s a high ranking officer. This job was worth way more than that, Finnick. You’re shorting me.”
He arches a brow and slams the book shut. “Seventeen casualties, Nova. Maybe had you done the job as expected you’d have more left.”
“Five hundred stipen won’t even buy me a full dinner tonight, Finnick. I need more,” I say, reeling over the debt I’d slowly been chipping away.
“Do not test me,” he replies as he hobbles back to herb shelves.
“If anything, I’m being generous. You’re lucky I don’t send you back to the slave sector.
Tell me, Nova, how many scars are there on your back after only two years in?
Do you want to add more? Five hundred stipen.
That’s what you get.” His tone is final.
“How do you expect me to ever repay my debt when you rob me of an honest pay?” My fists curl at my sides. I remember every face. Every punishment I received as a child. Every whip slicing through my skin. Every slaver. Their days are numbered.
“Simple. You want to buy out our contract, do more jobs. Don’t make a mess.
” He shrugs, and my jaw clenches. The old mercenary never intends on letting me go.
He purchased me at auction when I was eight years old.
It’s been twenty years. Twenty years of killing, stealing and sneaking around for him, for his laundry list of unnamed clients.
On my sixteenth birthday I packed a bag, waiting until the midnight chimes, and left. I made it all the way to Smoke’s border, too. But our neighboring factions aren’t kind to refugees and the border is heavily patrolled from land and sky. No one gets in. No one gets out.
In Smoke, freedom comes at a cost, either stipen or lives.
“Now, tell me what you found.” He holds a stipennote toward me.
I sigh and pocket the measly payout. “I found a transaction record. A courier delivered an unregistered package to someone called Cael Fleetwing in Shadow.”
“Damnit,” Finnick curses, scratching the ungroomed stubble on his greying chin. “I’ll alert the client of our findings. If those stones are across the border, there’s no chance of recovery.”
Shadow—the land of eternal darkness. Where souls wander through blight-stricken forests and unbonded black dragons breathe darkness itself.
If that’s not terrifying enough, their king is a creature of nightmares.
As Finnick plucks each individual leaf and berry from its respective jar, a thought forms in my mind.
It’s irrational and illogical and will most certainly get me killed, but this could also be my chance.
“I can retrieve the stones,” I state. Finnick’s working hands pause and he lowers his pestle.
“Did you take a blow to the head?” His eyes narrow.
“Finnick, I’m the best tracker you’ve got, and if this client is aggressive enough to send me to General Melark himself…
think of the price. The stacked travel and endangerment fees.
We’d both be sleeping on golden beds if I can pull this off,” I say, pressing the idea in the only way Finnick might agree.
He shakes his head. “Even I can’t get you across the border to Shadow.
You think the other factions are locked down after the war?
Shadow’s not like Storm or Sea. They don’t even allow us access to emissary routes.
Besides, it’s a death sentence if I send you out there.
King Ashborne doesn’t take kindly to those without a crossing sanction.
Then I’d be down my best mercenary and the client’d be out hundreds of thousands of stipen. ”
Desperation tastes a little sweet though, as my mind formulates a plan that’s guaranteed to end with my freedom.
This job requires the highest level of discretion, organization, and calculation.
That’s what makes it perfect. I could buy out my contract with a little left to find my place in this world, to leave Smoke and never look back.
Maybe I’d buy a cottage in Sea and watch the sunrise on the open blue horizon each morning, or maybe a townhome in Storm. The opportunities suddenly feel endlessly in reach.
“But this courier crossed the border on the books. You have a contact in the trade authority, don’t you? Press him on the courier. Let me do this.”
Finnick huffs a breath but doesn’t disagree. The little glint of fire in his aged eyes tells me he’s formulating a plan. My lungs refuse to exhale when my future hangs in the humid herbal air between us.
“Fine. I’ll pitch it to the client, but Nova, there will be contingencies. You won’t simply disappear into Shadow. You won’t turn your back on our contract. I need assurance just as you need stipen,” he says.
I nod in agreement. Even if his words still maintain my captivity, I’m one step closer to the freedom I’ve so desperately clung to for the last twenty years.
“Okay,” I agree.
He smirks and shuffles to his desk, fetching a small key from the fold of his robes. The drawer clicks and slides open with a groan and Finnick places a velvet tied pouch on his desk.
Dragonstones.
“If the client agrees, I’ll set up a meeting with my trade authority contact. Do not fuck me on this, Nova. I know I haven’t been the kindest to you over these years, but I’ve kept you safe. Kept you fed and bathed.” He watches my every move, eyes fierce in the hazy light.
More like kept me prisoner. Forced me to wield a blade. Molded me into a monster…a killer. I shove the thoughts down. Finnick’s trial before Morvayne will come, and it’ll be by his own hand that he meets fate.
“The client will agree” I can handle whatever assurances he throws at me—I’ve managed this far. The plan is barely in motion and my head has already soared to the cosmos. If I do this, complete this, that payout will change everything.
“We’ll see. Now, go bathe. You stink of blood and entrails.
” He flicks his wrist toward the back rooms. The grin curls on my lips before I can suppress it, and I have the urge to throw my arms around the old man.
Gods, I really want to hug him? I must have a head injury or I’ve gone mad. The latter is more likely.
Regardless, I don’t care, because for the first time in my life, I look forward to tomorrow’s sunrise.