Chapter 5
“Did Piri provide what you need?” Finnick asks as I enter the apothecary. The trek back from the hatchery was one fueled by frantic boots and burning thoughts. I have so much to prepare, so much to pack, and not nearly enough time.
“Yes. I’ll leave tonight for Shadow.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” With his hands coated in bluish powder, Finnick throws me a glare. I pause mid step, heading for the apartment upstairs. The second floor living quarters are reserved for Finnick’s favorite rats, and I get the only room with a window.
“Your assurance. No, I haven’t forgotten.” I bite my tongue. “What is it you want?”
Finnick’s lip curls as he wipes his palms on a rag and retrieves a bone-carved rune from his pocket.
“What is this?” I ask, the black inked symbol pulling my attention like a trance. He places it in my outstretched hand. It’s heavy, denser than expected, and ancient, like it’s carved from the stars.
“This, dear child, is a tracking rune,” Finnick says. He unfurls a handkerchief from his pocket to reveal a garnet gem and places that too, in my palm. The dragonstone hums beside the rune, whispering in a language I don’t quite understand.
“You’ll offer it at Scorath’s Spring, and once the tracking link is in place, we’ll be tethered until you return. If you try to run, try to hide, gods, if you meet Morvayne, I’ll know.”
“This is old magic, Finnick. Where did you get this?” I trace a cautious thumb across the rune.
“I have powerful clients."
I draw in a breath and let the dragonstone pull me into its cosmic orbit. Something long forgotten strikes through my chest, like the little essence of aether in my palm is a distant memory.
“Pack, say whatever goodbyes you have to, then meet me here. We’ll go to the spring together,” Finnick says, returning to his unfinished tonic.
I nod, simply because I’m stunned out of words. The rune and companion dragonstone may carry a terrifying sliver of our gods, but they feel warm…serene…at peace. Like they’ve waited for the familiar touch of my skin. Like they’re home. What the fuck?
“Nova?” Finnick says.
I don’t hear him. I don’t see him. The stone consumes me in wholly.
“Nova!”
Finnick’s fist on his mixing station sends a jolt down my spine.
“Sorry, sorry. Yes, I’ll be back in a minute.” I place the two stones on the counter and turn on my heels, grateful for the distance I’ve put between us.
“Oh, and Nova?” Finnick glances up one more time. “Dye your hair. The people in Shadow don’t take kindly to silver-haired beauties such as yourself.”
I roll my eyes but make note to run another rinse of ink through my strands when I bathe.
Just before dusk, I’ve washed, gathered every weapon I can pack out, and offered a measly goodbye to the other mercenaries.
The apothecary goes through bodies faster than Morvayne himself, so there are only a handful of familiar faces I tell myself I’ll miss.
In truth, I’ve learned over the years it’s better to keep my distance.
Either a new companion winds up dead or I push them away.
Finnick tells me I’m goal oriented, but maybe I’m just a bitch. Hardened by slavery. Broken by death. Whatever you call it, it’s easier to be hated, and so why not lean into the persona expected of the top mercenary?
In a few weeks’ time, I’ll leave this place and won’t ever look back.
That’s all that matters. Not the tear stricken teenager down the hall coming to terms with her first kill, nor the male I’ve found myself under every so often the last few months.
They mean nothing now. They’ll forget me the moment I’m gone. And maybe that’s for the better.
“You ready?” Finnick asks as I exit the stairwell into the candlelit shopfront. The scent of freshly brewed yarrow tea lingers between us as I adjust the straps on my pack.
“As ready as I can be,” I say.
He nods and tucks his hands into his robe sleeves. “Let’s go, then.”
We travel the sloping mountainside through the rest of the mercantile district in silence.
Only the screech of the night duty dragons and their riders fills the air.
Smoke’s curfew keeps its civilians at home past sunset, and only those with official business or emergencies risk the trek.
Finnick, however, struts over the cobblestone like he’s Magnius Ashar himself.
I’m sure he’s paid the night guards off handsomely.
The decadent city streets shift to rural shacks and makeshift cabins until only the bare bones of Smoke’s outskirts remain. It’s hard to envision the wealth of the city’s official district from out here.
Ashar’s military siphons most of Smoke’s stipen vaults, and it’s clear the regent cares very little for the backbone of his people.
A single flame flickers through a cracked glass window.
The hovel’s front entrance is made from scrapped metal and stone.
Scorch marks lick up the decrepit exterior and I look away.
The war’s been over for twenty-two years and still Smoke’s people are left neglected.
“It’s hard to take in, even for me,” Finnick cuts in. His brown eyes glisten in the candlelight as if he’s reliving some past nightmare.
“What was it like out here? Before the war I mean.” I risk the question, but Finnick’s distant expression tells me he’ll oblige a response. I’ve grown into adulthood around the man. I can tell when he wants to talk and when he doesn’t.
“Different, that’s for sure. This place was packed with families. You couldn’t walk a block without hearing laughter or feeling the joy here,” he says. The words are quiet in the fading daylight. “My wife loved coming out here. Getting away for a night or two, you know?”
“It sounds peaceful.” I glance at the hazy sky above.
Through the blanket of smoke lingering around Terrafyre’s peak, I can almost make out the faint twinkle of a star.
The city’s too smoggy to see the night sky in all its vast glory, but that little flicker of silvery light reminds me it’s there… stretching endlessly around us.
“It was.” I let Finnick grow quiet in his reminiscent thoughts. The mention of his wife isn’t new. She comes up on occasion, but I never press further. One’s demons are theirs alone. I, of all people, know that.
“The trailhead is just up there,” he says finally.
We cross the all too quiet street and follow the snaking path through boulders and rubble until we reach the clearing.
Scorath’s Spring is the only water source in Smoke—a naturally occurring hot spring with healing pools and swirling, crystal depths.
Aside from our main source of drinking water, it links us to the fire goddess herself.
Sages claim the first guardian dragon was born here—not hatched but birthed from the earth and the sky and the cosmos all at once.
Lyseria, the first, was a crimson gargantuan of legend, with scales, each as large as a hatchling, coated in molten stone and claws sculpted from the sharpest of meteorites.
The guardian dragons are just whispers of myth now. The protectors of the stars, channeling the power of our deities, kept peace between warring nations. Each generation born from a different faction. Each rider cycled through the different peoples.
The last one, Giselle of Storm and her rider Arctos, fell during the war. But with the cycle next landing on Sovereign, the newest guardian was left riderless, and thus never hatched. Nor appeared for that matter.
No one truly knows what happened to the guardian egg, but I suspect it burned along with its sacred hatching ground. The Sovereign massacre not only wiped a whole faction from our histories, but it fated the downfall of our guardians.
“Let’s get this over with, I can’t miss my window at the border,” I say, tucking my chin into my hooded cloak.
Finnick retrieves the rune and dragonstone from his pocket and follows the waterline to a small basalt altar carved into the cliffside. I take a breath as Finnick places his offering and wades into the pool. He pauses when he reaches the center, the crystalline water lapping just below his knees.
“Come on,” he whispers, gesturing for me to follow.
I tread carefully into the spring and position myself beside him.
The water soothes my aching joints as it swirls around me.
It takes me in, learns every piece of me.
My truths, my lies, the spring sees it all.
I blink hard, stifling the panic blooming in my chest.
“This will be unpleasant,” Finnick mutters. “Tracking links always are.”
My stomach roils, but I steady myself against the oncoming pain. I’ve been whipped to near death, beaten too many times to count, and nearly lost my life to more than one enemy blade. I can handle this.
“Do it. Clock’s ticking,” I whisper.
Finnick murmurs a few words meant as blessings before wrapping his fingers around my wrists. His touch is cold, and I fight the urge to rip away. I need to do this. It’s the only way I earn my freedom.
So, I fill my lungs and let Scorath’s aether flow through my veins. Scorching flames wash through my body. I’m blazing and burning from the inside out. I clench my jaw and swallow the scream demanding release.
Remember when I said I could handle it?
Fuck, no I can’t.
This sort of pain is beyond the earth, the sky, the entire fucking universe.
It consumes me bite for bite as Finnick tightens his grip.
I beg it to stop, clawing at its hold on my desperation, but it just keeps coming.
There is no escape, no end, no beginning, to the razor sharp agony.
Tears stream from my eyes, mixing with the mineral-dense spring water practically boiling around me.
“Almost done,” Finnick says. He’s so still, so calm as if I’m not fighting for my fucking life beside him. “Just a few more seconds.”
I gnash my lips, tasting bile and blood on the back of my teeth. I’m on fire. Burning in the pits of Terrafyre’s deepest vent.
Stars speckle my vision and Finnick’s face blurs beyond recognition. I squeeze my eyes shut, succumbing to everything, everywhere, all at once.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a misty vibration rippling under my skin.
“It’s done,” Finnick says and releases my arms. They fall to my sides, like I’ve forgotten how to use them. I open my eyes and Scorath’s Spring greets me with its serene curls of steam. I’ll admit, I expected a cavernous lake of fire and brimstone.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I rasp.
“I told you it’d be unpleasant. Now, remember…wherever you go, wherever you run, or hide…” Finnick says, wading out of the spring.
“You’ll find me, yes, I know.”
With that, I follow him from the pool and back down the trailhead.
When we’ve crossed back through the mercantile district once more, Finnick turns on his heels to face me.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he says.
I readjust the pack over my shoulder, feeling the new tracking link ripple down my limbs.
“Have your client ready for pickup,” I say.
“Nova, if it gets too reckless, just come home. Don’t risk your life for this.” His eyes flash with something like kindness. My heart lurches, but the moment’s gone as swiftly as it’s begun. “I can’t lose my best mercenary.”
There it is. The truth of his motives. The intention behind the concern. The home he refers to is just another prison cell and I’m just another transaction. Not a woman. Not a person. Not even an eight year old girl he purchased from a slaver.
I hate that my chest aches in response.
“Have your client ready for pickup,” I repeat, my voice clipped and tight. Finnick dips his chin in a curt farewell and turns back toward the apothecary. He doesn’t waste time waiting for my goodbye before sinking into the shadows of nightfall.