Chapter 7 #2
The name, incited to send me cowering, is of no meaning. “No? Someone in Storm?”
He audibly laughs in my face, as if I’ve lived in a cave all my life. Maybe he’s right, though. Smoke imprisons news from the other factions worse than their captives of war. How should I know who this stranger is?
“Isra Kaari reports directly to Jace Ashborne. The Shadow King himself.”
My stomach clenches. Holy fuck.
“So unless you want to get caught up in the shit storm that’s about to go down when Ashborne arrives, I’d get the fuck out of here,” he whispers.
“A-alright,” I reply. There is no world where I would willingly meet the King of Shadow himself. The boom of my heart begs me to turn and run. Flee as fast as I can and return only when the sun is high in the sky and the midnight shadows can’t reach me. Where Jace fucking Ashborne can’t reach me.
The dagger in my palm burns.
A heavy thud of mass hitting the stone floor echoes through the barn. It’s wet and warm and I’m certain it’s a body. I recognize the fleshy weight of it. Cael’s office is silent. No hushed conversation or breath of life.
Isra Kaari returns, his sword glistening red in the candlelight. I don’t leave time for conversation before taking off toward the exit.
My body accelerates with terror and the sheer animalistic instinct for survival. I’ve been in the business long enough to know those entangled in Jace Ashborne’s affairs only wind up cold and rotting in the ground.
“Courier…” Isra’s voice, smoother than honey, thrums through my head. I freeze at the beat of massive fucking wings descending from the midnight skies just outside. Crimsonclaws this far over the border? Is the whole operation compromised?
Oh yeah, this is bad. Really bad.
The decision to pursue this mission mocks me with vicious words of arrogance and idiocy.
“Courier!” Isra repeats, his tone like a lethal whip across my back.
I don’t dare turn. The mere feet left between the exit and me feel like miles.
His boots thud over stone. A heartbeat later, strong arms wrap around my waist, tightening when I writhe against their grip.
I slash my blade across his forearms, drawing trickles of blood, but he doesn’t flinch at the sting.
Then, there’s breath against my ear, warm and gentle like the calm before the storm. “He’ll kill you if you run.”
Isra’s palm curls against my wrist, squeezing the pressure point with bone breaking strength. My hand opens against my will and the dagger scatters to the floor.
“This is for your own safety,” he says.
I don’t let him finish. The crown of my head slams against his nose with a splintering crack, and Isra’s grip loosens for a beat. I jut my boot toward his shin and the blow lands.
“Fuck!” he cries. My dagger is back in hand before Isra recovers.
I take in the mountain of a man. He’s huge with rippling corded muscles trailing up his arms, but there’s a lean to his stance. A defensive posture curling ever so slightly to the right. My lips spread into a grin. He’s wounded. Maybe Cael was a tougher opponent than Isra expected.
Isra draws his blade, a dark smile creeping over his narrow lips. I raise my dagger, welcoming the oncoming attack.
He charges.
That’s his first mistake.
I dodge the swipe of steel and tuck myself under his bicep, streaking my blade through emerald cloth and black leather. Where I expect Isra to react, he stays steady. Either his pain tolerance is astronomical or he’s far more experienced in being carved up than I am.
“Let’s not be difficult,” he says, whirling to face me. My teeth grit as I slide to a halt and lunge for him. He’s too fast. I don’t expect the blade as it barely misses my cheek.
So speed’s not his weakness. Neither is pain.
“Let me go, and I won’t speak a word of this encounter,” I say.
He ticks an index finger, eyes flaring in the amber firelight. “And miss an opportunity to fight such a skilled opponent? Never.”
My breath catches. He’s toying with me, like a cat with its prey. I grip my dagger tighter, letting the fury wind itself around me. Clearly, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, dodging another slash of his blade.
“Sweet girl,” he muses, then lashes toward me again. We dodge and strike, strike and dodge, until we’re both winded. The injury he’s nursing is more of an inconvenience than a hindrance, though, as he performs his lethal dance.
My once secured hair falls free, revealing the silvery strands I’ve left to frame my face. I tell myself it’s a stylistic choice, but there’s a piece of me—a piece of my lineage—I refuse to conceal with dye. It’s reckless, I know, but I can’t help myself. His eyes follow the locks.
“What faction are you from?” he asks, sidestepping my oncoming attack with ease.
“W-what?”
“Humor me little one, what faction do you hail from?” he asks again. My attack falters with the disarming nature of his tone.
Isra catches my wrist.
Fuck.
“Why do you care if you intend on killing me anyway?” If I risk jerking my wrist away, it could very well snap. He’s got me.
“Answer the question.”
“Smoke,” is all I say.
“And you were born there?” Isra scrutinizes every crease and curve of my features—my violet eyes, dyed hair, bloodied lip. His gaze lands on the scar, just as every opponent does when given the opportunity to get close.
“Yes.” The lie hisses through my teeth, like I’m a cornered animal.
“Disappointing…” He shrugs before wrapping me into a chokehold.
My throat burns against the pressure of suffocation. I scratch and squirm as the desperation sets in. Isra is going to kill me. This is it. But I refuse to meet Morvayne without a fight.
Stars speckle my vision when his grip tightens.
“Isra…that’s enough.” A voice darker than the blackest void fills the room. Even in my breathless haze, I swear time itself stands still—frozen by sheer cosmic power.
Isra’s hands loosen but keep me confined. Air swells my lungs, filling me with a sputtering, reckless relief. He turns our bodies to face the exit.
Standing in the doorway is the most devastating man I’ve ever seen. Thick black hair falls all too casually across his brow, and his eyes…fuck those eyes. Like starlight and ink.
“Don’t kill her…yet.”
Jace Ashborne leans against the barn door, his full lips curled into an arrogant smirk. The King of Shadow, heir to the midnight throne, stands before me. I blink, praying to Astora this is all just some fucked up nightmare.
“You’ve got enough fight in you to suggest you’re not just some courier,” he says as he approaches on controlled strides. The air fucking bends around him like it succumbs to the sheer power thrumming through him.
His voice is barely a whisper, but far deadlier than the most potent of poisons. A tinge of the Shadow dialect inflates his pronunciation in an irresistible darkness. My knees quiver. Yep, I’ve lost my mind.
“Tell me the truth.” He leans into my space, placing his lips inches from mine. The scent of dew drops and moonlight swirls through me, glazing my tastebuds with an intoxicating thrill. “Where are you from?”
“I already told your attack dog here. Smoke,” I snap.
Jace’s inky eyes stare into mine as if he can see through my very soul. He twirls a loose strand of silver hair around his ringed index finger, and I don’t dare move. Standing this close to death incarnate, I’ve grown smaller than a field mouse.
“I’m finding it hard to believe you,” he whispers, letting the hair slip between his slender fingertips. My stomach nearly evacuates my body.
Jace tucks his hands behind his back and puts space between us. Thank the gods.
“I’m here to track down a shipment of dragonstones. That’s it. If you let me go, I won’t speak of any of this, I swear it to Astora,” I say, the distance reigniting a sliver of courage.
Jace arches his perfect brow. “Interesting that you speak our lost goddess’s name.”
Fuck, I am not handling this well. “You have my word. My lips are sealed once I leave this place.”
“You and I both know even if you’re entirely genuine in that sentiment, I can’t let you leave.”
“Yes, you can.” At risk of playing one too many cards, I continue. “You’re right in that I’m not a courier. I’m not even a Smoke official. I’m just here to retrieve the dragonstones then disappear. That’s it.”
Jace kneels beside the ledger man, now cowering behind his desk.
His lip twitches as he retrieves a blade concealed under his loose black tunic.
The strings have come undone, revealing the curves of a warrior’s chest. Gods, what is wrong with me?
I’m terrified, but my eyes draw to that perfectly sculpted skin like I’m some sort of feral animal.
“Unfortunately, starling, there’s no room for loose ends,” he says, driving his blade through the man’s temple. The body falls limp to the floor with a heavy thud like soaked sandbags on stone.
“Isra, did you take care of Cael already?” Jace asks, rising to his feet. Isra nods, his grip still tight around my waist. “Hmm…no fun, but alas, we don’t have time for this. Deal with her before you return to Roe.”