Page 157 of A Court of Wings and Shadows

“Then we take everything.”

Solei was gone, vanished like mist in the wind, but Riven’s expression had darkened beside me, and Naia’s jaw was clenched so tight I could hear her grinding her teeth.

The man turned and walked off, satisfied he’d delivered his message. But even as he melted into the crowd, I saw Remy’s eyes stay fixed on the smoke drifting from the ruined tavern.

And I knew what he was thinking.

The fire hadn’t finished anything.

It had only ignited hatred.

Ash smudged across my sleeves as I hefted another scorched beam into the debris cart. The oversized tunic hung loose over my armor, the hem frayed and damp from mud. My cap shadowed most of my face, and with my hair tucked away and dirt still on my cheeks, I didn’t look like a dragon rider.

I looked like one ofthem.

Exactly as I intended.

With the others occupied clearing the far end of the tavern ruins, I quietly drifted away, toward the line of townsfolk working closer to the market lane. None of them gave me a second look as I stepped in and began hauling debris beside them.

A wiry older man with deep creases around his eyes handed me a broken stool leg.

“Thanks,” I said, tossing it into the pile. “Was this your favorite watering hole?”

He nodded, brushing soot from his worn sleeves. “The Crooked Claw? Aye. My nephew played the lute here on weekends. They served the worst stew and the cheapest ale, but it felt like home.”

“I heard someone say the Crimson Sigil was rising,” I offered, voice casual. “What do you think of them?”

His expression darkened. “Been hearing their name more each week. Whispers in the alehouses, scrawls on back-alley walls. Some folk say they’re just talk. Others say they’ve already taken three villages and are training in the wilds.”

“And the Varnari?” I asked.

The man frowned. “Don’t know much about them. Heard the name. They’re newer, but there’s… fear when people mention them. Word is they have magic. Real magic. Not ward tricks, but trained users.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, a broad-shouldered woman with a burn scar along one arm. “The Sigil wants to burn it all down. Nobles, riders, castles, anyone who ever had power.”

I turned to her. “And the Varnari?”

“They want to claim the power,” she said with a grunt as she dragged a broken chair across the dirt. “Gather it. Use it. But they’re not recruiting the same kind of people. Sigil’s full of bitter blood. The Varnari… they pick carefully.”

“Do you think they’re working together?”

She laughed without humor. “They hate each other, but they share a goal. One wants the ashes. The other wants the throne.”

I helped her lift the chair onto the heap and nodded as if I were just another pair of tired hands trying to understand the chaos unraveling around us.

As we worked, I asked quiet questions. Nothing invasive. Just listening.

Some feared the Sigil—called them reckless, dangerous, filled with rage and resentment.

Others feared the Varnari more, not because they were louder, but because they were organized.

And magic always made things more dangerous.

As I moved among them, hauling shattered beams and gathering charred stone, one truth became clear?—

The kingdom was breaking.

And the people?