Ashes in the Snowfall

Kael scooped a spoonful of crab custard into a porcelain cup. Steam curled around his ebony spoon, rising in delicate spirals.

"Frost crabs from Panryn City," said his brother, Cyrien Ashvale. "Only available this time of year. His Majesty was gracious enough to gift me a few. Try some."

Kael stared at the flickering reflection of candlelight dancing in his cup. The silver spoon rang lightly against the porcelain.

Cyrien's sleeves bore golden embroidery—twisting serpents that seemed to slither with every movement.

Cyrien could see it: something weighed on Kael's mind.

"What happened last night at the Mooncrest Hall—"

"The Justiciary has already opened an investigation," Cyrien cut in. His fingers traced the cracked glaze on the cup's rim. "You needn't worry. I'll get to the bottom of it."

Kael fell silent.

Suddenly, the black cat leapt onto the dining table, toppling a glass tray of pine sugar.

Cyrien chuckled. "He's grown, hasn't he."

Kael's gaze flicked to the back of his brother's hand. A scar, old and pale from flame, peeked out from beneath his sleeve.

Cyrien noticed, and without a word, withdrew his hand into his robe.

The wind shifted. The lamplight trembled.

Kael awoke in the dead of night, startled by the bitter scent of ink and sandalwood.

He stared up at the canopy of his bed, embroidered with silver-thread clouds. The sound of water dripping backward haunted his ears, like time reversing through a copper clepsydra.

Cold sweat clung to his back, his nightclothes soaked and sticky, as though a flame had tried and failed to consume him.

Outside, the bronze lamp burned low. Molten wax clung to the wick like coral.

Kael stepped barefoot onto the floor rug—and caught the scent of something scorched.

The moonlight coming through the lattice window was tinged with the color of rouge.

He opened the carved door. What met him wasn't wind.

It was the smell of burning feathers.

At the far end of the gallery, a red silk lantern—long thought destroyed—swayed gently in the dark. The painted bamboo on its shade was curling into ash.

"Father… Mother…"

His voice cracked like burning wood.

His silk boots sank into the heat-warped carpet. The golden embroidery on the fabric writhed like serpents alive.

Flames licked the walls. Shadows bloomed like wings.

"Wake up!"

But no matter how he shook them, no matter how loud he screamed, the two figures in bed never stirred.

The silk beneath the quilt suddenly blistered. Ash spilled out like black butterflies.

The jade pendant in his mother's hand cracked.

The carved bedframe began to collapse. The bedding turned to pale ashes, swirling in the heat.

He reached for his parents' falling sleeves, catching only a shred of scorched silk.

Kael's pupils ached.

He realized he was seeing through someone else's eyes—green as molten glass.

A bell rang.

The black cat's silver collar.

Kael jolted awake.

Dawnlight filtered in, casting his brother's red-trimmed sleeves in a blood-like hue.

Cyrien stood by the bed, a bowl of medicine in his hands.

He hesitated.

The dregs swirled in the bottom as he stepped forward. Steam curled from the cup.

"Another nightmare?"

Kael sat up, panting. He reached for the bowl.

"You were shaken yesterday. I suspected your sleep would be uneasy, so I had the servants prepare this decoction."

The warm liquid soothed his throat. Kael managed a soft, "Thank you."

"We're brothers," Cyrien said, dabbing Kael's forehead with a cloth. "No need for thanks. Or have you forgotten how many times I've looked after you over the years?"

Kael didn't reply.

Cyrien smiled, ruffled his hair, and stood.

"I've ordered pigeon stew with tuckahoe root for lunch. Rest today. Don't go wandering."

Only after hearing his brother's steps fade through seven moon gates did Kael set down the bowl and lie back.

Sunlight streamed through the shutters, casting tree shadows across the stone floor.

He shifted restlessly.

The attack still played behind his eyes.

Someone knew what he'd been doing last night—and clearly wanted him to stop.

A glint on the desk caught his eye.

The inkstone.

Kael left the bed, crossed to the desk, and stared down at it.

The scent of sandalwood and ink seemed to rise from the stone.

He remembered how Lucien's hand had seared through three layers of brocade just touching his waist.

"Those eyes of yours, Lord Kael," Lucien had whispered, "are sharper than any arrowhead."

Eighteen poisoned arrows, and the man had still laughed.

Kael reached for the inkstone. His fingers brushed its worn edge, red dust crumbling onto the desk.

Cracks showed through the glaze—twisting like the spine of a dragon.

It was a broken inkstone, pieced back together.

Kael turned it in his hands. The rough texture of the etched marks scraped beneath his fingers.

Then the inscription appeared:

Year 27 of the Crown.

Six words. Each as heavy as stone.

In that moment, all of Cyrien's cautions vanished.

Kael shouted:

"Ready my horse! We ride for the East Market!"