Page 19 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Aelira smiled faintly. It was not a kind expression. “Careful. Names like that have a habit of getting people killed.”

He bowed his head immediately, too late, but sincerely. “Are you coming with me now?”

“No.” She almost admired his persistence. “I am going north. That is not the same as going with you.”

“Chancellor Maeven will expect—”

“Chancellor Maeven will continue enjoying the rich inner life of her expectations.” Baffled people asked fewer dangerous questions. Aelira crossed to the writing table in the main room and placed the sealed messages before him. “You will deliver these first.”

He looked from the letters to her. “And if I refuse?”

Aelira considered him for a moment longer, not unkindly. That seemed to unsettle him more than anger would have. “You rode alone to the tower of a dead princess because some of the most powerful officials in the republic asked you to summon a war criminal everyone pretends is a corpse. You are either brave, foolish, or deeply invested in your pension. I suspect all three.”

His mouth opened but no words escaped. She took that as a sign to continue. “You will not refuse because you understand something your superiors clearly hoped you would not have time to consider.”

“And what would that be?” He swallowed.

“That if I wished harm upon the Coalition, I would have begun me revenge years ago.”

Outside, thunder muttered over the mountains as the storm drew closer. Aelira moved toward the door, then stopped at the threshold and looked back at the room she had inhabited for nearly four years. Homes required belonging, and belonging had become a language she no longer spoke. Still, the room had held her. It had witnessed her survival. There was value in that.

Her gaze passed over the chair by the hearth, the shelves of borrowed books, the bed where she had woken each morning and decided, through stubbornness or spite, to remain alive. Something in her softened. Then she extinguished it. Tenderness was not weakness but it was rarely convenient.

She lifted one hand, meaning only to smother the hearth flame, and the magic answered too quickly. Not with the old reluctance of stone considering whether she deserved a reply, but with something eager and wrong beneath it, a rush of attention turning toward her all at once. The fire did not gutter; it folded inward, blue at the heart, as if drawn down through an unseen root. The walls gave a quiet shiver. Somewhere below, deep in the mountain, the earth seemed to recognize the ring on her hand and answer the blood beneath it. For ten years, magic had come to her like a wounded animal coaxed from darkness. Now it pressed close, listening before she asked, and the intimacy of that obedience chilled her more than silence ever had.

At the door, rain touched her face. The mountain path descended into darkness below, winding through pines and stone toward the lowlands beyond. Somewhere to the north, villages were vanishing. Somewhere beneath the earth, a prison was failing. Somewhere ahead, Seren Veyr waited with her sword, her righteous anger, and whatever remained of the world she had helped build from the ashes of Aelira’s.

Aelira stepped into the storm. For ten years, she had allowed the world to believe she was dead. For ten years, she had behaved. Now the earth itself had begun calling her north—and when the earth called an Ashwood heir, even monsters obey.

Chapter Five: Seren Veyr

They emerged from the temple shortly before noon, though time seemed to have lost its manners underground. Outside, gray daylight spread across the village, softening the lantern glow but not extinguishing it. Mist drifted through the empty streets. The square looked almost peaceful again. The roots continued spreading silently through stone. Seren stood at the temple threshold and looked out over the village. Every answer had created three more questions. The mystery was larger than one village. Larger than a province. Possibly larger than the revolution itself. That should have concerned her more than it did. Instead, beneath the fear and anger, Seren felt something colder and sharper settle into place.

Determination found its target. It was the kind of thing that had carried her through battlefields when retreat would have been wiser. Determination had brought down imperial gates and refused to leave questions unanswered simply because powerful people preferred them buried.

Roran followed her gaze. “That bad?”

Seren looked back toward the temple, toward the darkness beneath it, toward whatever waited below. “This is not working.”

His brow furrowed. “No more digging?”

“Keep the team here. Carefully. No one goes below without two others, ropes, and lamps checked twice. Anything found gets catalogued and sealed. If the roots move again, everyone exits immediately.”

“That is uninspiring.” Roran narrowed his eyes at Seren, curiosity, and suspicion mingling in his gaze.

“I am leaving,” she clarified, choosing to ignore how Roran then went still. It was a shift she had expected—he knew her too well. Experience had taught him that when Seren made decisions quickly, there was usually another decision hidden beneath the first one.

“No.” His response came fast; she had expected that as well.

For a moment longer she simply watched him before releasing a heavy breath. “No?”

His expression remained just as stubborn. “I know that tone.”

“What tone?” She had no tone.

“The one that means you are about to do something alone and reckless.”

Seren considered arguing then decided honesty would be more efficient. “I am about to do something alone, and maybe a bit reckless.”