Master Bittern is a legend within the order. The story of his near capture in the North is the most popular tale whispered about in the safety of the shadows. Rumors say he faced off against a group of ten Arkhadian soldiers on his own, and during the skirmish, he received his vicious neck wound. While it had failed to take his life, the struggle had damaged his vocal cords beyond repair, and when he finally made it back to the Sorrows, he took up the mantle of training new recruits instead.
The spymaster strolls forward, leaning past me to gaze out the window. His brows rise as he looks down—so subtly I question whether I witnessed it—but his face remains otherwise impassive.
“One might think you have a death wish, Aella.” He says my name so softly, I doubt the others hear it. Still, my eyes flick nervously toward them.
Only a select few individuals within the Aviary know my true name. So few, in fact, I can count the number of people trusted with the truth on one hand.
Once I’m satisfied the other men haven’t overheard, I reply, “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, Master.”
I doubt it will be the last.
Master Bittern hums under his breath, and I don’t have a chance to consider the dimming glow in my chest before he swipes the pouch from my hand, upending the contents into his waiting palm.
Out falls a gold-tipped black quill, a heavy golden chain with a circular pendant, and a sharp throwing knife. Master Bittern selects the knife first, holding it up for everyone in the room to see. Somewhere behind me, a quill scratches against parchment, but I keep my eyes fixed on the man in front of me.
“One of Master Hawk’s throwing blades,” I say, tilting my head toward the serrated strokes carved into the steel handle.
M.H.
The weapons master values his blades above all else. I’d heard of at least three others who attempted to steal one during their final trials over the past few years. My success today was more thanks to Master Hawk being distracted by preparations for an assignment than a testament to my skill.
Master Bittern inclines his head, passing the knife to the white-robed man hovering behind him. When he turns back, he selects the pendant, letting the thick chain dangle from his fingertips.
The circular amulet twirls, catching the rays of sunlight streaming through the window and casting them around the room. It spins back toward me, revealing the four-pointed star sitting above a downward-pointing triangle etched into its surface.
“Thesýmvoloof the High Priest of Notos,” I offer, a hint of smugness staining my words.
I can’t help it. The man rarely takes it off, and it had taken weeksof observation to mark the times he did so. Yet another week to have a perfect replica of the amulet forged to replace it with.
Master Bittern raises a brow at me. The movement on his usually stoic face tells me he also knows the precise moments the High Priest removes hissýmvolo.I wince as images of the temple’s bathhouse crash through my mind—steam curling from the water failing to conceal miles of aging flesh.
My wince morphs into a shudder.
As he did with the throwing knife, the spymaster passes the pendant and chain to his offsider without a word, and then only one object remains.
The quill.
Master Bittern’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes, however, pierce mine with an intensity that makes my heart pound, and my palms grow slick with sweat. But at twenty-three, I’ve learned how to hold my nerve. To keep my hands steady, my voice even, my face unreadable—no matter how hard my heart beats.
“A quill,” I start, steeling myself before I go on, “from the Eagle’s office.”
Parchment tears, the sound stark against the now-thick silence of the room. On the edge of my vision, the other man’s eyes widen, followed by an owlish blink. In the distant recesses of my mind, I note how apt the small motion is.
The gold-tipped black quill gleams in Master Bittern’s hand as he turns it over, inspecting it under the glimmer of light. His face is stoic, but his dark eyes reveal flickers of something deeper—approval, perhaps, or intrigue.
“You made it elegant,” he says at last, his voice rough but contemplative. “Most would have grabbed the nearest artifact and scrambled back like frightened mice. But this”—he holds up the quill again, offering it for all to see—“this is a whisper, subtle and deliberate. It speaks volumes without shouting.”
I smother the swell of pride rising in my chest, keeping my face impassive. “It was the least guarded. The logical choice.”
Master Bittern’s lips curl, though the angle of his head remainscritical. “Logical, yes. But the risk you took to sneak through the Eagle’s study. Some might say that kind of boldness belongs in a more dangerous game.”
“And you, Master?” I lean against the stone wall but keep my gaze sharp. “Would you say the risk was unwise? Or proof I’m ready for more?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, sharp as talons as he steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint sharp scent of steel that always lingers around him. For the briefest moment, I wonder if I’ve miscalculated.
“No risk is unwise if it proves your value.” He pauses, his tone shifting into something softer—more dangerous. “The world is bigger than these walls. From what I see, you’d be better suited to the sky.”
I don’t miss the weight of his words. Nor the meaning dangling just beneath them.
