Chapter 10
An Astralwing? A fucking Astralwing? Sovereign’s dragons died out with their people during the war. If there was truly one left…the only surviving dragon would complete the celestial cycle. That would make this egg…a guardian.
Jace Ashborne could be making up lies to keep me here, but what use would I be if he wasn’t telling the truth? The risk of my understanding has to outweigh that of my betrayal.
“That’s not possible. Astralwings died when Sovereign fell. Ashar and your father made sure of that,” I snip, jaw clenched and trembling.
“So says the histories, and yet here the egg is,” he replies. My stomach threatens to upheave its contents all over the dinner spread. “And if it’s not turned to stone, then there’s a surviving rider it’s waiting for.”
“Show me,” I demand, fighting the pump of blood through my veins.
“I can’t.” Jace braces his palms on the table.
“And why not? You think I’ll simply believe this incredulous claim without physical evidence? I’m not a fool, King Ashborne.” A feeling I refuse to name tugs at my chest though when my eyes lock on his.
“The Blightfangs have taken it to nest with their other hatchlings, and they don’t trust strangers.
You’ll be shredded to bits before even stepping foot on their lands, and we risk it stoning if we move it.
” His argument is a logical one. All dragon eggs, regardless of breed, are kept warm in their native grounds until they’re ready to hatch, but still this is Jace Ashborne I’m dealing with.
In no world would I willingly take his word, especially in regard to something entirely earth shattering as this.
“How do I know you’re not lying through your teeth?”
“I guess you don’t.” He shrugs, adjusting the ring on his index finger. “But I have no reason to make up such a claim, especially when you could weasel your way back to Smoke and report me to your king. Why do you think Ashar’s been dishing out dragonstones like they’re nothing?”
I force myself still. Do I trust Jace’s words without further proof?
He has a point in that even making a false claim is a risk, especially with Magnius Ashar chomping at the bit for those trade deals with Fleetwing…
but I remind myself of the facts. These people threatened to kill me—no, attempted to kill me, and now hold me captive without any intention of release.
But an Astralwing egg changes the entire course of the continent.
The sole survivor of its breed and the next in line for the cosmic cycle.
If a guardian were to rise again, Ashar’s conquest attempts would be fruitless.
I suck in a breath. My mind begs me to think rationally and see through Jace’s bullshit, but the pulse roaring in my ears… well, that pleads to believe him.
“Now, I’ve given you my dark little secret. Time to give me yours. Tell us where you’re really from, starling.” Jace watches me with a heavy, expectant gaze. I swallow the urge to squirm and force myself straight. There are truths I’m most certainly unwilling to offer, Astralwing egg or no.
“I have. I’m just a mercenary,” I hiss, but my tone falls flat.
“Ok,” Jace replies, his tone void of any emotion. “Then you can return to your rooms until we’ve discussed what to do with you.”
He rises from his seat, and the chair chills with a vacancy not gone unnoticed. The room spins out of control, stealing my rationality with it.
“I told you this was a waste of your time,” Roe spits, plucking a grape from its stem. “She’s from Smoke. She’s as selfish and ruthless as the rest of them.”
My fingers lock around the fork with knuckles bleeding white. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve become selfish and cutthroat, but am I not a result of the violence, the pain, the isolation this world’s offered me?
I’m a fucking mercenary for Astora’s sake.
Jace Ashborne can play his seductive little games and give me life-altering information like treats, but I won’t be his pet.
They’ve brought me here. Taken me captive.
Toyed with me until I’m a mess of confusion and cowardice.
Now the world’s been knocked out of orbit.
There’s a guardian egg waiting to hatch. Waiting for its rider.
In silence, Isra accompanies me back to my bedchamber…or should I say prison cell. The room sounds like it’s underwater, muffled and muted by turbulent waves.
With the click of the lock, I truly let myself feel the weight of my current situation—my lungs refuse air, my tongue is dry, and the walls cave in until I’m crushed by ornate floral wallpaper and crown moulding.
A fucking Astralwing. Sovereign’s dragons, although the smallest of the species are by far the most powerful.
Only bonded riders—which were few and far before the war—fully understood their dragons’ connection to the cosmos.
The last guardian Astralwing was immortalized into our histories as a conduit for Astora herself.
I sigh and start on the corset laced down my back.
The continent needs a guardian, now more than ever.
When Ashar led his invasion, his army of dragons and riders alike incinerated the faction—scorching all rivers, valleys, and flesh in their path.
I was only a child then, but at six-years-old, I knew what the smoke trails lingering over the horizon meant.
The black gown falls down my frame, leaving me bare and trembling.
Every muscle begs me to lunge into bed, to slip into a death-like sleep until morning.
But I need to run. I need to leave this place and never turn back.
Does that make me a coward? Yes. Am I selfish for refusing to involve myself in something that’ll most certainly save the continent?
Also yes, but I’ve earned it. The universe has been far from kind, and now, with freedom just out of reach, I’ll prioritize my own survival over that of anyone else.
I glance out the single window overlooking the back courtyard. There’s a glimpse of silvery moonlight dancing on the surface of a fountain, and just beyond, an iron gate fades into darkness.
An old mission scratches my thoughts, and I nearly smack myself for not realizing earlier.
One of Finnick’s clients required a certain record to be expunged from Smoke’s official ledgers.
It wasn’t my job to ask why, but merely to break into the office of registrar and retrieve it without attention.
Unlike with Melark, the plan went accordingly.
I bite my cheek, recalling the ruby dragonstone used to generate the ward surrounding Ashar’s castle.
Once removed from Scorath’s Spring, we were able to slip through the sewage drains to the castle grounds.
Of course. Favors of the gods only withstand so long as the offering does. Take the dragonstone away…the ward falls. Simple, right?
Except absolutely fucking not. I’d have to find my way out of this fortress, somehow determine a path to Morvayne’s Well, Shadow’s connection to their death god—provided it's on the property, and retrieve the specific stone used to cast the ward, all while avoiding my absence. The plan is incredulous to say the least, but it’s a plan.
I strut toward the shelf of tomes, refusing to acknowledge the wash of exhaustion falling over me.
A Brief History of Shadow’s Antiquity might have some sort of map of the faction—outdated, perhaps, but the continent isn’t known for modernization of its territories.
I rustle through page after page, skimming the handwritten text until my eyes land on a simple illustration—a crudely sketched map of various landmarks.
Morvayne’s Well is nestled between two major mountain peaks and just below it, a sketched fortress.
Yes. The fortress, like an impenetrable gate through the mountain pass, spearheads Shadow’s central districts.
Although the well isn’t quite within the fortress’s main grounds, it’s close enough that I don’t think I’ll be betrayed by the sunrise.
Besides, that leap of faith is one I’m forced to make.
Moonlight washes the room in bleached light, reminding me of the late hour.
I desperately want to crawl into that massive bed and tuck into a dreamless sleep, but there’s no telling what tomorrow might bring.
Maybe it’s the half-maddening exhaustion taking hold or merely a desperate survival instinct, but the plan unfolds in my mind.
I’ve backed myself into a corner, and this is the last option.
Before I can talk myself out of the absolutely ludicrous decision, I rip the quilts and silken sheets from the bed and begin tying them together. This makeshift rope won’t get me to the ground, but I’ll be close enough that the jump won’t break any bones…I hope.
Full damsel in distress style, I secure one end of the sheets to a support column and launch the other out the window.
The grime covered tunic and trousers I came here with are still heaped where I’ve left them.
They reek of shit-stained blood, but I pull them on anyway and quickly lace up my boots.
One can only run so fast in a fucking ball gown, so stinking clothes it is.
Next thing I know, I’m rappelling down the countless number of stories, gripping the sheets so tightly my hands cramp.
This was a mistake. I’m not a rider—trained to scale cliff sides or leap from the skies.
Nor am I built like Isra, who I imagine hikes up Terrafyre for fun.
But I force my muscles to work, lowering myself hand by hand until I reach the last knot.
The ground is far enough to send my heart skipping, but the jump doesn’t seem lethal. Either I face death inside the fortress walls or I face death out here. Again, the options are limited, nor are they in my favor.
Fuck.
I glance back up at the window left ajar, the sheets taught under my weight. With a quick breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and let go.