Astraia’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Because I am your asset,” she sneered.
“Something like that,” he replied, taking a step backward, pointing toward the inn.
A command. Not a request.
Without another word, Astraia trudged through the muddy field with the bounty hunter at her heels.
Chapter 12
The provinces boil over with contempt, waging wars amongst the Starborne within. Peace evades them, like the winds that flow between the snowcapped peaks of Skyforge. The people seek a scapegoat for their suffering, for the barren lands and barren tables. Those Star blessed are so easily hated, with lumenmarks as the target.
Polentias, Scribe to the Priest of Power
ASTRAIA MOANED AS HER CHILLED body slid into the hot bath water, burning her frozen fingers and toes. Leaning her head against the back of the tub, she attempted to decipher the interaction in the field. The glimmer of empathy from the bounty hunter unnerved her. It could all be a trick to tame her before marching her to the foot of the throne. Or he might have been genuine—which made Astraia’s pulse quicken with trepidation.
Heartless bounty hunter determined to kill her, she could handle. A man with compassion and a conscience was an impediment in her plans.
She sighed, dunking her head under water. She closed her eyes, allowing her mind to clear as sounds muffled. If only hermind could be so quiet without the constant war between her bonds overtaking her and darkness calling to her like a siren of the Atherdeep.
Astraia stepped out of the tub, hands pruned from staying in the warm water so long, and pulled Draven’s shirt over her head. A different kind of warmth skimmed over her skin, with faint hints of pine caressing her nose.
Running her fingers through her wet hair, she opened the door, only to find Draven standing near the fireplace, the faint glimmer of a wax seal—the seal of the Celestial Court—visible beneath his hands as he read a piece of parchment.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what he held. Draven glanced up at her and crumpled the letter in his hand before tossing it in the flames.
Astraia bit her tongue as she made her way to the bed. She could feel Draven’s eyes boring into her as she sat on the edge of the mattress, running fingers through her tangled hair.
She wanted to scream, demanding he let her go if he truly did care if she lived or died.
Before she could confront him, he turned and stalked out the door. Astraia flinched as he slammed the door behind him. She strained to hear if the lock clicked, but there was no such sound.
Surprised, she jumped up from the bed and tiptoed to the door, placing her hand on the doorknob. Hesitating, her hand lingered on the cool metal before she slowly turned the knob. A welcoming creak of the door opening made Astraia’s breath catch. He had not locked it.
Carefully, she slid the wooden door closed, tiptoeing over to the fireplace and her clothes that had been drying. This was her chance. She could slip out down the servants’ stairwell at the other end of the hall, completely unseen by Draven.
There was no time to get dressed. She shoved her clothes into her satchel, and as she reached for her dagger, something caughther eye in the fire. A small sliver of parchment remained from the letter Draven attempted to burn.
Astraia paused, stooping lower to see if she could make out any of the damning message. Most of the letter had already burned, but there, on the edge of the parchment were two words that had been underlined—bring her.
Those two words were all the motivation Astraia needed to stow her dagger in her satchel. Slinging her bow and quiver over her back, she shoved her feet down into her sodden boots. Quietly, she crept to the door once more, this time not an ounce of hesitation as she wrenched open the door and slipped down the servants’ stairs.
The cool night air barreled into her as she opened the side door of the inn. Draven’s shirt was not affording her much cover from the foreboding wind as she hurried down the alleyway toward the stables.
There were no lamps in the stables, making it difficult for Astraia to fumble in the darkness. The moon was only half full, providing barely a trickle of light through the open doorways of the stables.
“Orion,” she whispered, hoping her steed was as eager to leave this Stars-forsaken town as she was.
A whinny at the far end of the stable made her heart leap with real joy for the first time in weeks. Astraia set down her satchel and bow, pulling open the stall door. Orion nudged his head into her chest.
“Hey, boy, I missed you.” She pressed her hand to his head, stroking his black mane. “Let’s get out of here,” she said as she heaved his saddle over his back and began to fasten the buckle.
“Well, look who we have here.”
Astraia froze, dread pooling in her stomach as she turned toward the end of the stable.
There stood the drunkard from Skyforge Peaks, although definitely sober, a lantern in one hand and a bandage wrapped around his other hand.
