Page 1 of Wings of Ash & Flame
One
Alaire was no stranger to death and suffering. She wore them as a cloak—a sobering reminder that survival in Starling Gate meant keeping your head down and your mouth shut. Not that she was particularly good at the latter.
Especially when grandiose ideas of revenge and bloodshed whispered their plans in her rounded ears.
The evening air bit at her cheeks as she pulled her coat collar higher, eyeing the fae guard patrolling the cobblestone street ahead. His index finger spun in a circle as the breeze around his feet kicked up.
Alaire navigated the streets with practiced precision. The library job she walked farther away from had been no easy feat to secure—had cost her shreds of her dignity she would never get back—but it was her ticket out of this wretched place.
Three more months then I’m gone.
A bridge of black moonstone separated the fae quarters from the human districts, its surface absorbing what little sunlight remained. The lone guard nodded as she passed, his eyes sliding over her, lingering on the velvet breaches that clung to her legs.
He arched an eyebrow when he noticed her staring.
Keep dreaming, buddy. Alaire shoved her hands deeper into her pockets to avoid flipping him off.
She picked up her pace. Attention was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Like many others, she flowed in and out of the city for her livelihood, anonymous and forgettable.
Tonight was different. The flow of traffic on the bridge was practically nonexistent.
It was the Night of Remembrance, the one human-observed holiday, when an ancient decree banned fae from the human districts. Once a solemn day of mourning for those who died in the humans’ final uprising, now it was nothing but an excuse for debauchery—drinking, fighting, gambling—anything to forget the reality waiting for them at sunrise.
Alaire moved swiftly, keeping to the shadows out of habit. Home was a few blocks away. A sparse room with a door that locked. Not much, but it was hers. Everything she owned had been earned through calculated risk and meticulous planning.
Burning heat prickled the nape of Alaire’s neck. She scanned the street and rooftops. Nothing apart from the stench of piss, shit, sewage, and ale. She clenched her hands into fists, pressing her thumbs against the top of her knuckles to try and steady the thrash of her staccato heartbeat.
Alaire had learned long ago that her gut was the only thing she could rely on in this world.
Something was wrong.
She was passing her favorite tea shop when acracklike thunder shattered the silence.
Alaire’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that sound. Was intimately familiar with it. Had the marks on her body to prove it.
The lash against bare skin. The copper scent of blood. The pleas for mercy that never came. She tried to swallow past the feeling of ash coating her tongue.
Alaire couldn’t afford trouble. Not when freedom from this hellhole was just within reach. Every piece of coin earned meant one step closer to a life beyond these walls.
A second, then a third consecutivecrack. Alaire faltered when she heard a whimper fracturing into a sob.
Damn it all.
A wall she’d carefully built between survival and compassion crumbled at the sound.
She was moving before she realized she’d made a decision, following the distraught sounds into the gathering darkness.
Alaire stood before a narrow alley. Anothercrackand muffled cry vibrated through her body. Her hand automatically went to the hidden knife tucked into her waistband. Squaring her shoulders, she rolled her neck and headed toward what was surely nothing good.
The darkness gave way to dim light. Mandallay’s Market’sfamiliar green-speckled sign came into view. Garbage spilled from containers that hadn’t been emptied in days. A sack of misshapen apples had toppled; one had rolled amongst the cobblestones to stop against a polished riding boot that cost more than she earned in months.
Alaire’s eyes traveled up the navy uniform of a Cielore fae guard. The polished gold buttons caught what little light filtered into the alley. A matching, gaudy belt buckle clinked against the handle of a whip. The air around him rippled subtly—magic.
His wrist flicked as the whip connected with someone.Achild. The sound that followed made her scars burn in recognition.
Alaire’s blood turned to ice. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve, his skin pale beneath dirt and blood, his back laid open by repeated lashes.
The boy clutched his stomach as his back arched, splitting open a wound that’d begun to clot. His crime was evident in the half-eaten apple by his feet.
