Page 25 of The Ashborn

He threw another item. And then another. Kienna reacted to each item, her blood boiling. She just decided to help this fucking man, and he was throwing her kindness back at her like a sodden drunk. She wanted to throw things, too. Be the child. To tell him to get off his ass and prepare. Throw away the alcohol and be the man the town knew he used to be.

Too many things were flying in her direction. He collected a handful of items and thrust them at her. The anger burst. Kienna pushed her hand out and stopped the items midair, electricity sizzling through her branded thumb. “Enough!”

The room fell silent. Kienna’s hand trembled as everything fell to the ground. The heat swirled beneath her skin.

That was not smart, Ruva whimpered.

Master Calder stared at her. He didn’t have any words, and Kienna didn’t know what else she could do to make that public display better.

“Good night.” She turned toward the door.

“Meet me at the shipyard tomorrow,” Master Calder mumbled and shut it behind her.

Chapter 10

—Tristian—

Tristian pulled at his sleeves, brushing the last wrinkle from his loose dragon-scaled armor. The light fabric rested against his skin, shifting subtly as it caught the morning air, adapting to the elements around him.

He reached for his boots beside the door, already polished to a dull shine, pulling each leather cinch tight until they rested firmly against his calves—exactly where they belonged.

He rose from the bed. The frame, with its simple wooden carvings, had been built with care and extended further than most to fit his height. Tristian smoothed the blankets with the side of his hand, abolishing the creases until the covers lay flat and orderly across the mattress.

His home was small—no reason for more space when he was the only one living in it.

A narrow cooking counter stretched along the wall opposite his bed and housed a small iron stove beneath it. Above the counter, a wide window opened toward the forest of giant trees. Through the branches, soldiers crossed bridges that wound between the trunks of Trinity, their armor glinting as they moved from post to post.

Tristian took a slice of plain toast from the small plate he had left on the counter and took a bite.

A few crumbs fell to the floor.

He noticed immediately.

Setting the toast aside, he reached for the thin broom of bound twigs resting in the corner and swept the crumbs into a neat pile before brushing them into the hearth, then returned to his breakfast promptly.

His table sat beside a single sturdy chair and a carved shelf cut directly into the wall where a few books rested in careful order. Tristian drank from his mug of arrowroot tea, the steam warming his face as he looked once more through the window toward the bridges outside.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

Tristian tucked his sword into the scabbard at his hip and stepped outside, leaving the small home in perfect order behind him. He headed toward the bridges to the training islands, intending to visit all eleven before the end of the day. He would have Serenya from the Crystal Chorus send a crystal to Connak afterwards. Clutching his hands behind his back, he stared at the small bridge linking the villages to the first island—Duskveil.

Someone tugged on his arm from behind, tiny fingers clutching him for an audience. Tristian turned to see the two small children who stopped him every morning, smiling sweetly at him—a girl and a boy, both with pale skin and light, ashen hair.

“Malia. Premian.” He nodded to each of them. “Good morning.”

Malia tucked her hands behind her back, mimicking his stance. She was the eldest of the two at nine years old. Her deep blue eyes complemented her cascading curls, and each strand was tucked neatly in place where it belonged. She reminded Tristian of himself in that way as he spent a great deal of time ensuring each strand of his own hair remained carefully slicked to the side.

“I brought you a flower.” She pulled it from her back, revealing a large, star-shaped asterlily. The petals were long and soft, fading from lavender and pale blue into a gentle pink, and the tips were dusted with white. Sparkling specks clung to the petals. As Malia tilted it toward him, the center caught the light, glowing warm gold surrounded by delicate golden filaments rising like little sunrays.

“These were my mother’s favorites when I was a child,” Tristian said, kneeling to the children so he could see them more clearly. He took the flower from the little girl, brushing the petals against his nose. “She said it reminded her of my brother and me. A sun in the center for me, and moonlight spilling around the edges for him.”

“I like how you speak,” Malia giggled, digging her toe into the bridge and twisting herself from side to side.

Tristian hummed. “She used to recite a poem about them. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yeah!” they exclaimed together.

The High Commander smiled, staring into the flower as he recalled the words his mother used to speak before she died. They moved around often as children between Dove Port and Trinity. She was always sure to bring bouquets of them wherever she went, lining their windowsills at all times.