Succulent was the only word that did the slab of steak justice. It sat heavy and glistening on my plate, juices pooling beneath it in dark, wine-colored streaks as if the meat itself were still alive. I had already eaten more than half, tearing into it with a hunger I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. Each bite bled flavor—rich, iron-heavy, and unapologetically raw—grounding me in the present moment. This was my second night lodging in the tavern, and with my sea legs finally steady beneath me, the world felt less tilted, less uncertain. The island no longer seemed like a foreign thing shifting under my feet; instead, it invited exploration. I had heard the stories of Wintercrest's beauty all my life, whispered in admiration and reverence, but stories had failed to prepare me for the reality of it.
My wandering had begun unintentionally, my feet carrying me where curiosity tugged hardest. Before I knew it, I stood at the edge of sheer cliffs that loomed precariously over the whitecap-churned waters below. The ocean was still restless, scarred by the storm that had raged through the night and only just retreated hours earlier. Waves crashed and recoiled against jagged stone, their foam torn apart by lingering winds. Then, as if the world had decided it had had enough of chaos, the noise softened. Silence followed so suddenly it felt deliberate. In that quiet, something inside me loosened. I stood still, breathing in the damp, salt-heavy air, watching as the sky cleared and the clouds thinned, retreating as though chased away. Sunlight broke through, scattering across the mist rising from the sea, and a fragile rainbow shimmered into existence—its colors vivid and fleeting, made brighter by the way the light struck the water and stone alike.
It was then that a shadow swept across the surface of the sea.
At first, I thought it another cloud passing overhead, but the darkness moved with purpose. I looked up just as a massive golden dragon emerged into view, its form cutting through the air with effortless grace. Sunlight danced across its scales, each one catching the light and throwing it back in molten flashes of gold. Its wings moved in slow, powerful strokes, stirring the air as it soared above the island. A rider sat astride its back, small in comparison yet perfectly at ease, as though they belonged there—as though the sky itself had made room for them. On Wintercrest, such a sight was not uncommon, but familiarity did nothing to dull the impact. I stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat, utterly mesmerized. The beauty of it all—the dragon, the rider, the island beneath them—pressed into me until awe spilled over, leaving me almost lightheaded.
But admiration has a sharp edge.
Without warning, my wonder soured. The warmth I'd felt curdled into something bitter, something ugly. Jealousy coiled tight around my ribs, squeezing until it was all I could feel. My chest felt bound, my thoughts narrowing until resentment drowned out everything else. The dragon continued on, shrinking as it flew toward the horizon, unaware of the turmoil it left behind. I remained rooted to the cliff, my emotions turning against me, trapping me within myself. Hatred—quiet, simmering, directionless—took its place alongside longing. I was my own jailer in that moment.
As the beast vanished into the distance, I found myself wondering, helplessly, about the life that might have been mine. What if I had been accepted into the academy? What skills would I have mastered, what power might I have learned to wield if I had been trained to my full potential? Would I have earned the respect that had always seemed just out of reach? I imagined myself in the sky, not watching from the ground but soaring above it all, seen and acknowledged rather than overlooked. The thought lingered, heavy and aching. It would be nice, I told myself, just once, to be looked at with something other than doubt. Wouldn't it?
Deciding to retreat to my room in the hope of stealing a few precious hours of sleep before leaving the island felt like the wisest choice I'd made in days. My body ached with the slow, accumulated fatigue of travel, and my thoughts were frayed from too much reflection and too little rest. When I pushed the door open, the room greeted me exactly as I had left it—chaotic and carelessly lived in. Clothes lay strewn across the floor in a tangled heap, evidence of hurried changes and long nights. Against the wall rested my open pack, its straps splayed outward, with tools and supplies threatening to spill free as though eager to escape. The air carried the faint, familiar scent of leather, metal, and road dust. My map lay spread across the bed, its creases flattened by the weight of a pair of daggers placed deliberately at either side, their hilts glinting faintly in the low light. Even in disorder, everything had a purpose.
YOU ARE READING
Through Smoke and Ashes
Fantasy*Undergoing editing. Half of these chapters were written when I was a child.* Book One: There is no prophecy. There is no tell-tale legend. There is no scripture written down in a book or a hidden cave. There is only the spoken word of the Gods. Dar...
