Ashes in the Snowfall

Snow fell like silent ash, soft as memory and twice as cold.

On the balcony of the old Mooncrest Hall, one of the oldest taverns in Muclast, the lanterns flared to life, glowing against the dusk.

Lucien leaned against the carved archway, idly teasing a caged songbird.

The golden bars of the birdcage shimmered as he spun it gently between his fingers, casting broken flecks of light across the marble floor.

Overhead, the wind stirred a row of silver bells under the eaves. They chimed like a warning no one cared to heed.

"I'm here to see the Second Heir, and I know he is here. Will I be needing a formal token?"

Lucien turned slightly, a sliver of green gleaming in his eyes under the firelight.

A woman's voice came from the shadows.

"If it's just for music and wine," she said, brushing the stitched silhouette of a twinfeather crane on her sleeve, "no token is required. But if you're here to disturb old ink..."

Her eyes narrowed, "...it depends if your pen still writes."

Her glass-chime bracelet knocked softly against the lacquered cabinet as she stepped forward. The scent of rouge scattered into the hall like mist.

Before Lucien could answer, the quiet was broken by the sound of beads tumbling against wood.

A shadowcat leapt onto the carved railing, back arched, tail high, its eyes glowing like twin shards of moonlight in the dark.

Its fur was ink-black, save for the silver collar around its neck, etched with a name half-faded: Ashvale.

The cat hissed, teeth bared—not at the woman, but at the man behind her.

A figure stepped down from the stairs, unhurried, like time moved differently beneath his feet. He reached out and gently gathered the cat into his arms.

A faint scent of scorched myrrh clung to his sleeves.

Lucien chuckled softly and, with a flick of his wrist, produced a smooth obsidian writing stone.

"Perhaps you can decide whether this will do," he said. "It's quite the relic. But a rare stone needs worthy ink."

Without warning, Lucien flicked open a bone-handled trickblade and used its slender tip to lift the jade pendant from the figure's waist. "Just like this twinfeather pendant should be strung with nightcord. Mixing it with pale thread? Tacky."

The pendant belonged to Kael Ashvale, second son of the late Lord Theron of House Ashvale.

The young nobleman held the cat in his arms, his brow faintly furrowed. Everyone in Muclast knew the woman hadn't been referring to literal ink or stone.

"If you're here to appraise relics," Kael said coldly, "try the Broken Vaults."

Lucien waved him off. "Oh come now, my lord. No need to be shy. At least take a look..."

He spun the writing stone three times in his palm, revealing the inscription etched on the base:

Year 27 of the Crown.

The madam's fingers tightened until her painted nails bit into her palm. Then, with theatrical grace, she clapped her hands three times.

"Rosemary! Bring draebrew for our guest and for Lord Kael."

The servant girl parted the curtain with a gust of winter wind. The tray in her hands trembled, the scent of freshly roasted draeleaves spilling into the room.

As her slippered foot touched the stone floor, something rolled beneath her. A pearl button.

She caught herself, but the tray tipped.

Amidst the sharp clatter of falling cups, Lucien leaned close to Kael's ear. "Did you know? Relics salvaged from fire often crack from within... and those cracks bloom rose-red."

He glanced at the red mark near Kael's collarbone. "Just like yours."

The shadowcat hissed and leapt from his arms, vanishing into the rafters.

The oil lamps flickered, then died.

For a moment, all Kael could smell was charred timber and bitter ink—the exact scent that had haunted his dreams for ten years.

In Lucien's hand, the writing stone glowed faintly, its edges stained with something dry and dark.

Blood.

Kael's throat tightened.

Ten years ago, they'd told him his family perished in a fire. He had clutched this very cat—then just a kitten—while the news was delivered.

Something in him had burned that day too.

"What do you want?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"The keeper of Shatterglass Vault in the East Quarter," Lucien said, slipping the writing stone into Kael's hand, "knows how to mend what others throw away."

Outside, hooves clattered over frostbitten cobblestones.

The cat's fur bristled, and a low growl rose in its throat.

Before Kael could react, Lucien tackled him to the floor.

Charred myrrh and ink filled Kael's lungs.

"What are you—"

The question died.

Arrows tore through the draped glass silk like lightning.

Eighteen of them.

Each one tipped with stormsilver and bluefire, fletched in white.

One sliced past Lucien's hair, embedding itself in the gilded pillar behind him.

Lucien stared into Kael's eyes, a grin flickering over his lips.

"Sharp eyes, Lord Kael. Sharper than these."

Outside, roof tiles shattered.

The second wave came.

Porcelain exploded.

Kael tried to rise, but Lucien shoved him back down.

"Don't move," Lucien growled. "On my mark, roll southeast. Count to three."

Warm breath brushed Kael's ear.

Then the door exploded inward.

"Now!"

Lucien pushed him off.

Kael rolled.

Behind the southeastern pillar, the woman grabbed his collar and pulled him down beside her.

As he landed, he saw Lucien rise, trickblade in hand, and walk into the storm.

"Close your eyes, my lord," the woman whispered.

She covered his face with her hands as the world broke around them.

When Kael next opened his eyes, white fog curled through the cracks in the carriage.

It sped over frost-covered stones, the shadowcat a shivering ball against his chest.

His fingers trembled as he lifted the curtain.

A single bootprint stained the snow behind them—

Marked with blood, etched with twin eagles.