Thom could be in trouble—no, hewasin trouble. She’d known that for a while now, even before the screeching. But that horrifying soundcouldbelong to him. He might need her help.
But trepidation gnawed at her insides, the same way she started gnawing on her hair again.
She hadn’t wanted it to come tothis. If Kestrel could’ve had it her way, she would’ve stayed locked away in this tower for the rest of her life, perfectly content to be buried in a book or gazing out across the sea every now and then, wondering abouthow the dragon had fallen, let alone the entire continent. She would’ve spent the rest of her days safe. Content.
If she left the tower, she could die.
But if she didn’t, Thom might die. The only person she had ever known.
He was out there, possibly running for his life, maybe even injured or maimed—Kestrel didn’t know. But she did know that right now the prospect of his life meant more to her than her own.
Kestrel stormed back up the stairs. She changed to clothes that seemed better suited for travel, things Thom typically wore: an airy tunic that she tucked into a pair of baggy trousers with patches sewn throughout. She tied a belt around her waist to make sure they wouldn’t fall. It consequently gave her somewhere to stuff one of the sharpest knives they owned, just in case. The only thing she couldn’t find was a pair of extra goggles—Thom always wore some whenever he left the tower, to protect his eyes from the frequent and unpredictable sandstorms that could blow through the barren desert. All she could find was a long, brown scarf, that she tied loosely around her neck, in case she needed to shield her face.
For a moment, she considered taking off her ring. It had belonged to her mother, and so the last thing she wanted to do was risk losing it. Then again, she had never taken the thing off, not once since Thom had given it to her.
Deciding against it, Kestrel turned her attention to the last of her tasks and grabbed a tattered pack from underneath Thom’s cot. She hastily shoved a few supplies into it, things she had seen Thom cram into his bags for his excursions over the years—a waterskin, dried fruits, and the last of the bread.
Then, Kestrel turned to the dimly lit stairwell and sighed into the darkness.
“I can do this.”
For Thom, she would have to. She would save him, and hopefully not die trying.
And so, for the first time in twelve years—since she had snuck out of their tower, been chased into an oasis by a cinder, and nearly drowned—Kestrel would leave the safe confines of her tower and once again venture into the Wilds.
Chapter 3
A Traitor
ELORA
The shackle around Elora’s neck made her skin itch. When she had agreed to the queen’s proposal, she hadn’t realized wearing such an overt sign of her captivity would be part of the deal. Then again, like the good little hostage she was, she hadn’t exactly asked to review the fine print of the arrangement either. She had simply heard the wordbedchamberand that had been all the convincing she had needed.
When Elora left her room in the earliest of the first-hours today, she had tried tucking the neckline of her silver gown under the hailstone collar, but even that wasn’t protecting her sensitive skin enough. The anti-magic properties of the shackle seemed to be pervasive; hopefully in time, she’d become used to thenecklace—that was what they wanted her to call it, a necklace. And Elora supposed if she hadn’t known it for what it was, she might’ve found it to be a beautiful statement piece, the solid band of light blue stone a complimentary contrast to her slate-grey pigment.
But a collar was a collar.
A chain: a chain.
And although Queen Signe had released Elora from the dungeon and was now granting her permission to roam the castle grounds more freely, Elora knew she was still a prisoner.
But she tried not thinking about that as she enjoyed the modicum of freedom she had been granted to stroll the Irongate gardens.
They were the most beautiful sight her sorry eyes had beheld in decades. The white-pebbled paths wound in and around hundreds of species of flora, every size and shape imaginable. And Elora admired every one of them—the bright pink, cup-shaped petals that were still filled of dew from the last rainstorm; the bundles of clustered goldenrod flowers with a swarm of hungry honeybees surrounding them; the white and ruby roses that seemed to glow like gems wherever the sunlight touched them.
Elora marveled at the beauty of each and every display, even if flora here still paled in comparison to the breathtaking and wild beauty of the plants and flowers that thrived in Eynallore.
This was home now. She would need to get used to it. And truthfully, shecouldget used to daily strolls through this garden—there were far grimmer places to reign.
Every time she inhaled the richly floral scent though, her eyes closing gently in serenity, she feared that when she opened them again, she would find herself back inside the Irongate dungeon. Or worse, that the Caeloran Guard would be marching toward her, ready to drag her back to her former abusers. Suddenly, the sunshine beaming down felt like the burn of a hot iron. The gentle breeze wafting against her skin felt like the stinging lacerations of whips and knives and every other pain-inducing torture device the Caelorans had taken to her skin.
Elora cradled her arms over herself, her fingers rubbing all the places where they had harmed her. Only there was no proof of their cruelty—she had no scars to show for all that she had endured. That was part of the unbearable curse of being an Ashen: immortality and rejuvenation of the flesh. It made her the perfect prisoner of war. The perfect torture victim. Immune to death, but fully susceptible to pain.
Elora breathed in another waft of flowers, pulling herself out of those dark memories and back to the present. To the garden that represented her home now. But a home different than Eynallore.
She wondered what her family was doing at that very moment, if her sibling Dinian had found someone new to pester, and what had come of their father, Aethic—presumably, he’d succumbed to the Corrupt Queen’s curse as well, but in what ways and with how much severity, Elora didn’t know. However, the thought of them ached just as much as it brought her joy, because now she knew she was never going back to Eynallore. Never returning to her people. She was to marry the prince of Irongate and become their queen so as to secure peace and assuage any historical grievances between their two lands.
Even if she wasn’t, it wasn’t like the Ashen had wanted her.
