Ashen son fall part 1 of.., p.1
Ashen Son: Fall: Part 1 of the Ashen Son Serial, page 1
part #4 of The War of Lost Hearts Series
Ashen Son: Fall
Part 1 of the Ashen Son Serial
Carissa Broadbent
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Daughter of No Worlds
Prologue
When I would think back to that night, I would remember the way that the cool moonlight and searing candlelight warred across the prisoner’s face. He was young — even younger than me, perhaps in his late teens.
You’re a Farlione? he had asked me, eyeing the name sewn onto my label. One of the Farliones from Korvius?
I shouldn’t have stood, shouldn’t have walked to the bars, but I did. Still, there had been something about his tone that brought my hand to the hilt of my sword. Brought my magic thrumming to the tips of my fingers.
Yes, I told him.
Then you’re Ryvenai.
I had balked at that statement. I knew what he was really asking.
He was asking me whether I was a loyalist, committed to the Aran crown, or whether I supported the Ryvenai efforts for independence. The answer to that, of course, would always be:
No, I said, firmly.
The prisoner had looked at me with a twitch of disgust at his lip at that response. Still, he said, I wouldn’t tell anyone, you know. If you wanted to go join the festivities.
My brow had furrowed. My hand had closed around the hilt of my sword.
No one wants to spill Ryvenai blood today, he said. Go.
Of course, that was never even a consideration. I was a rising military star. I was a member of the Orders. And I was a loyal Aran, committed above all else to my station and to my country.
His warning raised nothing in me other than the sharp edge of singular, focused anticipation.
That was when the pounding began at the door.
Later, I would remember what happened next in vivid fragments. My sword sliding from its sheath, the echoing of fists on wood. Whirling around just in time to see the other Guard open the front door of the prison office, and a blade striking him in the gut before he or I or anyone else could react.
There were five of them, who walked into the room. One was a broad-shouldered man with a greying beard, another a middle-aged woman, but three of them were as young or younger than the prisoner. But I noticed their weapons first, counted them, sized them up. Two swords. Two axes. A spear.
We’ve come to claim our brother, who has been unfairly imprisoned by the Aran king, the woman said. Release him to us.
Stand down! I had commanded.
My partner was moving on the ground, but only barely, blood pooling between wooden floorboards.
It would only be me, I realized, and my other hand moved to my back, where my second sword awaited.
I could take them. I knew I could. I was outnumbered, yes, but the three younger ones were clearly ill-trained, clutching their weapons with limp-wristed uncertainty. And when I grabbed my second sword from my back — when I whispered to my magic and fire leapt down its edge — I saw their eyes widen.
Dimly, in the back of my mind, I recognized that I was not at all what they had anticipated. They’d been expecting a prison guard, not a soldier. They had not been thinking that the controversy around this one arrested protester — the strings of recent prison break-ins — would warrant an extra level of caution.
STAND DOWN! I ordered again.
And for just one moment, they hesitated. I saw the oldest woman reconsider, exchange a brief glance with the man beside her. Behind me, the prisoner stumbled against the bars.
But it had been one of the younger ones that broke the suspended silence. With a roar, a freckle-faced man leapt forward, axe raised, snarl stretched across his teeth.
My training snapped to my muscles. Magic flared.
They didn’t stand down.
And so, neither did I.
Chapter One
It was my birthday the day that the bloodiest war in Ara’s history began.
It was just two days after the prison break-in — attempted break-in — that I made it home for my annual leave. I had arrived just in time for the first night of the Illunia Feasts, which was quite possibly the most drunken and debauched week of the year.
Roughly forty-nine hours ago, I had been fighting for my life.
Forty-eight hours ago, I had been frantically packing the wounds of my comrade, who, thankfully, would survive.
Thirty-seven hours ago, I had been sitting in my Commander’s office, being informed that I was to be given a significant promotion.
Ten hours ago, I was greeting my family for the first time in eight months.
And now, here I was: leaning against a wall in the ballroom of the Farlione estate, holding a drink that was not nearly strong enough, doing a terrible job of making conversation with a man whose name I did not remember.
“Your father told me about your title!” the man said. “Very impressive, Maxantarius. To make Captain at twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” I said. Technically it was true. Barely.
The man looked slightly disappointed by this, then seemed to mentally re-evaluate and said, “Well, I suppose that’s good too. When your father was that age–”
I tried to take a step backwards only to discover two things: one, that I was, literally, cornered. And two, that my unnamed companion was the type of delightful human being who took such a movement as an invitation to crowd closer.
I flicked my eyes over the man’s shoulder and craned my neck, peering out into the crowd. I had to admit it: my family could plan one hell of a party. Every inch of the ballroom was packed with glittering activity – gold-clad bodies mingling with each other, manicured fingers holding sparkling drinks, perfectly rouged lips closing around the finest food Ara had to offer.
Our estate was far from the grandest in Ara – in fact, compared to many, it was downright quaint – but my father had brought enough Ryvenai charm to it to make it stand out nonetheless. All that tapestry and filigree and gold traditional scrollwork provided a perfect background for this sort of gathering, especially tonight, bathed in hundreds of tiny lights meant to mimic stars. Old friends, new friends, family, war comrades, political companions – hundreds of people gathering to celebrate the end of the lunar year, and the beginning of a new one.
It was beautiful.
It was also my personal nightmare.
My riveting conversational companion was now regaling me with tales of his own military years, which, judging by the look of him, were surely a very, very long time ago.
“You know,” he added, eying me up and down, “I have a daughter not too much older than–”
Ascended fucking above. I can’t.
I readied myself for a very rude and very abrupt departure. I didn’t care what kind of familial social contracts I had to sever if it meant–
“Lord Avniar! How are you? Ascended, it has been so long!”
My sister – who was, in that moment, the most wonderful human being I had ever met – breezed into our conversation with a cheerful elegance so potent it hung in the air like rose perfume.
I let out an audible sigh of relief as Lord Avniar’s attention immediately shifted to Marisca, fumbling a greeting that she pretended was delightfully charming. For a moment, I stood there and watched their interaction in amazement.
Sure, two days ago I had won a five-to-one fight for my life. But in that moment, I was utterly dumbfounded by her ability to do...that.
Incredible. Truly incredible.
Marisca pretended to adjust her hair, and as she ducked her face, shot me a pointed look and mouthed, Go!
I gave her a look that I hoped said something along the lines of, I owe you my life, and took my escape.
The party was so packed that I had to move along the outer limits of the room, careful not to make prolonged eye contact with anyone who might take that as some sort of social invitation.
That’s what was nice about the military. You were too busy working to worry about socializing, and even if you did have to tell someone where to go, you could do so with the comfortable confidence that it wouldn’t disrupt some precarious trade agreement.
I went for the doors. They were crafted of floor-to-ceiling glass, and they had been folded open along the entire wall, offering a cool breeze and stunning view of the mountains. On my way out, I caught glimpses of my other family members in the crowd – Atraclius, gesticulating wildly, making a very pretty girl laugh; my mother, looking deeply uncomfortable in a conversation with several other noble ladies; Variaslus, holding a glass of wine he probably shouldn’t have had and a glazed over look on his face that told me it wasn’t his first.
And then, of course, there was Brayan. Right there in the center of it all, as always, his fiancée on his arm, engaging quietly but politely and yet still managing to seem the picture of noble charm. This, of course, despite the sword he still had strapped across his back – a very decorative sword, to be fair, but a sword nonetheless. I couldn’t help but note this with some awe.
I wished I’d had the foresight to arm myself.
Brayan himself had also just returned from a deployment, though not from the Capital
, like me. He had sailed all the way to Besrith, across the sea, where he had led a series of tactical operations with a prestigious private army, the Roseteeth Company.
He, at least, referred to it as a “private army”. I referred to them as “overpriced mercenaries,” which was both rude and true. The Roseteeth Company was extremely well respected, yes, but that didn’t mean that the idea of fighting for money didn’t still leave a bad taste in my mouth, no matter how many golden crests and fancy titles you piled on top of it.
Uninvited, the image of the young man’s face from that night in the prison flashed through my mind. The spatter of blood. I had to fight back a shudder.
I’d killed before. I never liked to do it. I tried not to that night. They were all alive, if barely, by the time I’d left. No one had told me if they survived.
I think I preferred not to know.
At least I did it for Ara. Killing for whoever threw the most gold at me? No. Never.
Still, regardless of whatever I thought of his professional career, Brayan was genuinely excellent at what he did. And everyone – and I do mean everyone – knew it. Especially him.
For a moment, I paused. I hadn’t had the chance to talk to Brayan yet, since our arrivals skirted each other. His gaze flicked to me, one eyebrow twitching, and he looked as if he, too, was briefly considering whether it was worth crossing the room to speak to me.
I lifted my hand in a lazy wave. Brayan gave me the barest nod of his chin, then flicked a sheet of black hair over his shoulder and turned back to his fiancée.
I suppose that answered that.
I wandered outside and immediately shivered. It wasn’t cold, exactly – not yet – but autumn’s chill and the proximity of the mountains lent a certain cutting quality to the breezes out here. It had been eight months. I wasn’t used to this anymore.
I rubbed my fingers together at my sides, conjuring gentle flames that tingled at my skin, a sensation that crawled further up my arms. It was an effort to keep them small. I hadn’t Wielded in almost twenty-four hours. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone that long without sparring or drills, and all that pent-up energy felt like it was vibrating in my blood.
“Keep your friend there hidden, I don’t think he’d like the party much. But he is a pretty one, isn’t he?” The sound of a familiar voice nearby pulled my attention. I peered around the corner of some hedges to see two figures crouched in the grass.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Secret operations?”
My youngest sister, Kira, snapped her head up. When her gaze fell on me, her entire face brightened – and despite myself, her reaction echoed in my own, even though it was met with a pang of bittersweet sadness. She had been the first person to greet me when I returned home and had barely stopped talking to me since.
But still, every time I looked at her, all I could see was all the ways she had changed since I’d last been here, her face thinner, voice lower. Sarcasm sharper.
I could never, ever choose a favorite among my many oh-so-adored siblings. To even suggest it would be ridiculous.
But Kira was my favorite.
“Look,” she said, and opened her hands to show me a rust-colored, glistening.... creature. It looked like a giant worm with legs. It writhed ungracefully in her palms as she gazed down at it with unfettered adoration.
I wrinkled my nose. “Beautiful.”
Beside her, her companion stood, shaking out curls of wild, silver hair. “I was wondering when you’d come skulk out here.”
Nura gave me a little smile that barely brushed the edges of her eyes. They were just as silver as her hair and as colorless as her skin, all of which was especially dramatic against the midnight black of her gown. Swathes of dark silk gently encircled her shoulders, falling around sculpted arms, framing elegant breasts and the necklaces that encircled the column of her neck.
Beautiful. The world echoed in my head again, though with much less sarcasm this time.
“We’re impressed that you lasted so long,” Kira chirped, turning back to her newfound pet.
One of Nura’s eyebrows quirked, such a slight movement that it was almost invisible. “Oh yes,” she said, suppressing a smile. “very impressed.”
The extremely clever response in my head drowned beneath an onslaught of attractive but unwelcome mental images. Most were from just two nights ago — when I’d met her back in the barrack apartments after the prison ordeal, overflowing with adrenaline to burn off.
But before I could answer, I noticed Nura’s gaze shift, peering over my shoulder. A wrinkle deepened between her eyebrows.
“What?” I began to ask, but then I heard it for myself. The raised voices. Specifically, my father’s raised voice.
Now that was an unusual sound.
I made my way back towards the doors, where my father stood with an old friend of his that I had only met a couple of times – Siamere, I think his name was.
And both of them looked livid.
“Look around you, Ichtrayus,” Siamere spat, gesturing to the ballroom. “Look at them! Look at your guests! You’re surrounded by Ryvenai right now.” Then he flailed his arm out towards the mountains, looming over us to our left. “The Ryvenai mountains are at your Ascended-damned steps!”
I muttered a curse beneath my breath.
My father’s lips were drawn into a sneer, cheeks slightly ruddy in a way that told me he’d had several drinks tonight, and that he’d have no interest in mincing words. My father was a cheerful and friendly man, but when he was pushed – well, there was no coming back from beyond that ledge.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way in my own home. What you discuss is treason, and you know it.”
He spat the word treason, throwing it at Siamere’s feet like a challenge. As if to say, See? I’ll fucking say it, right here in front of these people.
It was so aggressive that even I found myself blinking back shock. But Siamere didn’t so much as flinch.
“Treason?” he shot back. “You and your Ryvenai blood speak of treason to me? Our kin are fighting and dying for our rights and you expect me to worry about appearances?”
Fighting and dying.
The image lurched through my head – a pale face drawn into a fear-tinged sneer, our weapons locked between us, breath panting and muscles straining as my sword inched closer and closer to my opponent’s flesh.
I forced the memory away.
More guests had been drawn from inside. Brayan was among them. He stopped beside me, and we exchanged a wary glance.
“I’m no supporter of the violent measures,” my father said, “but those were aggressive rebels that were–”
“No supporter?” Siamere let out a vicious, angry laugh, slurred with drunkenness. “If my son ever spilled Ryvenai blood, I’d throw him on the fucking pyre myself.”
I winced.
I felt several sets of eyes flick towards me, muttering amongst themselves.
I drew my own gaze up over their heads, towards the mountains, which were now silhouetted under the moonlight. My gaze traced the path that disappeared up into their cliffs, dotted with the light of outposts along its length. Then followed it back down towards the city of Korvius.
“This is ridiculous,” Brayan muttered beneath his breath.
My eyes followed the path back up. Lingered on those outpost lights.
“You must feel like you have some balls, don’t you? Speaking ill of my son in my own house?”
“Father, please, let’s just–”
Shailia’s voice now joined my father’s, trying desperately to smooth over the argument. I let their fight fade into the background.
I counted the lights. One, two, three–
“What is it?” Brayan’s voice was low, focused. In an instant, something in it had shifted. It was the voice of a soldier, not the one that I had heard mingling and socializing minutes ago.
“How many outposts are there on the path over the Ryvenai border?”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Seven.”
