Blades of Ashes Ch 13

Azula finished crushing nuts for the children, then sat back, his gaze fixed on the ship approaching from the horizon. The mere thought of the clan council debating their stance on the Lyria Kingdom brought on the dull throb of a budding headache. He pressed his index finger to his temple, closed his eyes, and took several measured, calming breaths.

Who would dare sail for Sura Island? Most Lyrian citizens still blamed the Sura for the economic collapse five years ago, going so far as to boycott the ore from Sura Mountain, or so reports from their friend on the mainland claimed. Unless a particularly daring merchant from the outer lands was aboard, which seemed unlikely, no one from Lyria had visited their small island for trade in years.

Azula’s scowl deepened, and he opened his eyes. He watched the vessel crawl closer, his jaw tightening. He had been wondering how to engage the damn Lyria Kingdom, and now they were delivering themselves to his doorstep. He took a deep breath, stretching his arms high above his head with a soft sigh. As he lowered his hands, he smiled at Ruri, who was dutifully imitating him, hands resting firmly on his small thighs.

“Ruri, blow your whistle for your godfather,” Azula said.

“Okay!” Ruri reached for a silver chain tucked beneath the collar of his green tunic. At the end hung a small gold whistle that Azula had crafted himself. The guards assigned to Ruri were trained to respond to its piercing note regardless of distance or terrain.

Ruri blew a sharp blast and tucked the gold back into his tunic. Within two minutes, ten men clad in black tactical gear filled the clearing.

“Daiku greets Your Highness,” the leader said, stepping forward and nodding at Azula.

“Take Ruri to his mother,” Azula said. “Then, tell Wolfe and General Nuovis to meet me at the old docks, the ones we used back when we still traded with Lyria.”

“Godfather, I want to come with you!” Ruri protested. He stood tall, hands on his waist in a picture of innocent defiance.

Azula smiled, reaching out to stroke the boy’s cheek. Ruri’s face was a perfect replica of Yemin’s, softened by Alise’s features. His strawberry-blond hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and his tiny tunic and trousers made Azula wonder if the boy would ever hit his growth spurt.

“Ruri, I need you with Daiku. Your job is to protect your mother. Understand?”

“What about you?” Ruri asked, his brow furrowed. “Who will protect you?”

“I have Wolfe,” Azula reassured him. “Besides, I’m just going to greet our guests and see if they like macadamia nuts.”

Azula winked and kissed the boy’s cheeks before lifting him into Daiku’s arms. “Take the boys to their parents. And do not alert anyone outside the council about our newcomers.”

“As you command,” Daiku said, holding Ruri protectively as he led the team away.

Azula turned and moved deeper into the forest, taking the mountain slopes toward his workshop. He slipped inside, ignoring Heng, who was busy tutoring apprentices in the back room. At his worktable, Azula rummaged through blueprints and unfinished pieces until he found his latest project: a modified crossbow. It featured a sleek, foldable limb and a custom cartridge holding ten bolts for rapid reloading. He’d used it on rabbits, but never on men.

He glanced down at his simple tunic and sighed, his eyes falling on the long coat Alise had commissioned for him. She insisted it befitted his station, and though he hated the formality of daily wear, its utility was undeniable. He threw the heavy, midnight-blue coat over his shoulders. The high-quality wool fell to his mid-calf, structured and imposing. He cinched a wide leather belt over the coat, sliding the folded crossbow into a specialized holster at his hip and securing a bronze spyglass into a matching leather casing on his opposite side.

Now looking the part of a chieftain, Azula waved a silent dismissal at a curious Heng and left the workshop. He took an overgrown path toward the coast.
He reached the old docks first. While the clan had shifted its commerce toward the Nerasa Kingdom to the northeast, the village elders had kept these western docks in good repair. The wood was sturdy and free of rot, though the shifting rocks beneath the waves remained a nightmare for any captain unfamiliar with the approach.

The beach was eerily quiet. Normally, the white sands would be teeming with families, but with the children in school, the docks were deserted.

Azula climbed to a high stone vantage point and unfurled his spyglass. He ignored the snap of the white sails, searching instead for the colors. He hissed a curse. Flying in the wind was a black flag emblazoned with a gold crest. It was the mark of an Imperial official. He collapsed the spyglass with a sharp clack.

At the thought of the Lyria Kingdom, his mind flashed to the political entanglements that led to his father’s death and the face of Draeya Prince. The suppressed frustration of years of isolation bubbled up; he didn’t vent it with a cry, but with a sharp, violent kick to a loose stone. It skittered down the gentle slope to the white beach sands, a singular outlet for the anger he couldn’t show at will anymore. By the time Wolfe and Tanya arrived, his face was a mask of the Sura Prince who stood for every member of the Sura Clan.

Tanya leveled her own spyglass at the ship and sighed. “An Imperial ship. The Basileus has sent a messenger. I suppose I should have known he wouldn’t forget us.”

“Who do you think is on board?” Wolfe asked.

“Draeya Prince,” Tanya replied grimly. “He oversees the imperial commandery. He wouldn’t overlook this island; it’s the perfect defensive position for a war against Nerasa.”

Azula’s expression didn’t flicker. He had processed the irritation; now, there was only the mission. “We will receive them exactly as we would the Nerasa royalty.”

“If that is your wish,” Tanya said. “I’ll summon a troop to provide a proper escort.”

Wolfe looked at the approaching ship, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Azula said, his voice steady as he looked Wolfe in the eye. “The council wanted a solution to our standoff with Lyria. Here it is. At best, we negotiate a peace. At worst, Draeya Prince will make an excellent hostage.”

Wolfe grinned, the tension breaking at the prospect of a fight. He nodded to Azula and hurried off with Tanya to deploy the soldiers for their guests’ arrival.

*****

Raithion paced the length of his cabin, the walls feeling tighter with every league the ship gained on Sura Island. A cold knot of anxiety twisted in his gut, a sensation he hadn’t felt since his first border skirmish at seventeen. Back then, the battle-hardened men defending the Lyria Kingdom from invaders had been so brutal in their vengeance that the sight had made him retch. He never imagined he would one day wield a blade with the same grim precision. Now he was a Draeya Prince with thousands of men at his command, unafraid of combat, yet he felt as though he wanted to crawl into a dark closet rather than face the people on Sura Island.

He stopped at the window, took a jagged breath, and turned back toward the door.

“You’re making us all dizzy,” Haedor remarked from the table, casually biting into a meat-filled bun. Sharian and Dain sat beside him, eating with a calm that bordered on indifference. “You should eat something before we disembark. The Sura may not want to feed us.”

“I’m not hungry,” Raithion said, pivoting his path. He approached the table and retrieved the sealed envelope from Basileus Dio. For days, he had stared at it, trying to script a way to negotiate with the Sura Chief. Every draft failed. He tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his heavy black coat. The dark clothes served as a reminder of the three-month mourning period he was still observing.

He didn’t dare look at his face in the mirror. He had to keep his focus: he was here to beg and bargain for his son’s life, not to seek out Azula Doriel. As he turned away from the table, Raithion frowned as a thought filled his mind.

What if Azula had married? Five years was an eternity. The Sura were known for marrying young; the old chieftain used to host mass weddings at his manor in the capital every rest day. The image of Azula with a Sura spouse, a man or woman who shared his life, his bed, and his secrets, ignited a dizzying, suffocating, bitter wave of jealousy.

Why do you care? He scolded himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. You were married. You have two children. Azula owes you nothing.

Raithion sighed, resuming his restless march. He had lost Azula the moment they parted in Genad City. Every choice since that moment, from helping his father and Basileus Dio suppress the evidence Azula needed, the subsequent death of Azula’s kin, and the desperate race to the port as the Sura escaped, had been a betrayal. He had no right to expect anything but Azula’s unadulterated anger and disdain. And yet, a hopeful part of him whispered that Azula might still be single, that there might be a sliver of a chance to fight for that spark he had felt on the carriage while they played a game of chess. He hoped fiercely.

A sharp knock broke his reverie. A legion officer opened the door and saluted. “We’ve arrived, Draeya Prince. We’ll need a skiff to reach the shore. Who will be joining you?”

The anxiety didn’t vanish, but it settled into a heavy, resolute calm. The time for pacing was over.

“Dain, Yulin, Haedor, and Sharian,” Raithion commanded.

“You need a proper guard,” Haedor argued, standing up.

“Not here,” Raithion said firmly. “I must step onto Sura Island as a desperate father, not a conquering prince. No matter what happens, no one draws a weapon. We follow their lead until I can negotiate.”

Haedor muttered a curse, but the officer nodded. Sharian and Dain moved quickly to wrap young Yulin for the excursion, leaving the nanny on the main ship to care for little Skye.

As Haedor rowed the small boat toward the beach, Raithion held Yulin close. The docks were empty, but Raithion doubted the silence of the island. It felt more like a trap than a welcome.

“Do you think they’ll ambush us?” Haedor asked, his eyes scanning the treeline.

“Yes,” Raithion said with absolute certainty.

“You’re far too calm for a man about to face a losing battle,” Dain noted from the back of the boat.

“I lost everything that mattered a long time ago,” Raithion said softly, tightening his grip on his son. All he had left was a plea for mercy.

When the boat scraped the sand, Haedor leaped out into the surf. They had bypassed the wooden docks, opting for a stretch of pristine white beach. Haedor steadied Raithion as he stepped out, the weight of a feverish, sleeping Yulin heavy in his arms. Dain and Sharian followed, but they hadn’t taken five steps before a cloud of arrows hissed through the air, thudding into the sand just inches from their boots.

“Don’t move!” Raithion barked, his eyes darting to Haedor. “Do not draw your sword.”

Haedor’s fists were white-knuckled at his sides as he stepped in front of Raithion, shielding him with his body. They turned toward the slope overlooking the beach.

Raithion’s breath hitched. A formidable line of nearly a hundred soldiers stood along the ridge, dressed in uniforms he didn’t recognize. They wore sharp, double-breasted black overcoats with silver buttons and structured military collars accented in gold. Burgundy patches marked their shoulders, and their black trousers were tucked into polished combat boots. Each man carried a sword and a notched crossbow, their strawberry-blond hair pulled into identical, disciplined ponytails. They moved as one, a cohesive, lethal machine. They were well-trained.

Raithion took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He waited for the head of this army to arrive, and he wasn’t disappointed. On a sandy path to his right, four figures started a slow, leisurely descent to the beach.

The first was a massive, imposing man in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, with a wide leather belt around his hips. His hair was intricately braided and pinned back with a heavy leather clip. Beside him walked a woman in a white dress with a voluminous skirt embroidered with gold filigree. Her short sleeves revealed ancient Sanskrit-style prayer lines tattooed in dark ink along her upper arms. Her long hair was in a neat, tight braid down her back. She moved with a regal grace, gold bracelets clinking softly.

Behind them walked a lean man in a deep burgundy variation of the soldier’s uniform. His military jacket had three gold lines circling his wrists, a clear mark of high rank compared to the rank-and-file soldiers.

Next to him walked a fourth person whom Raithion could not see clearly. Still, Raithion’s heart skipped a beat at the possibility. It was strange, but he always remembered Azula’s hair decorated with two braids that held the long strands in place.

He was sure this was not Azula, as his hair was long and brushed straight with no braid in sight. Instead, his hair was brushed straight back to his shoulder blades, held by a simple clip to keep the long strands from his face. He wore a midnight-blue, high-collared greatcoat that looked both elegant and weathered. Its structured torso featured patterned bronze lapels and heavy, sealed pauldrons on the shoulders, while the long tails of the coat were split to allow for easy movement. A layered, embossed leather utility belt cinched his waist, housing metallic-accented holsters and scabbards that looked weathered from actual use. Raithion caught a glimpse of weathered black boots and dark trousers as they approached.

And then, the group of four people shifted, and Raithion’s breath caught as he recognized Azula as the man with no braids in his hair. He looked so handsome; Raithion forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Intense brown eyes stared at him. Raithion took in the stunning face that had grown only more so with time. Raithion took in every detail with devotion, from the perfect, slightly square chin and clean-shaven jaw to the defined nose, high cheekbones, and the perfect curve of his lips, even though they were now set in a grim line.
Suddenly, Raithion wished for the Azula who had laughed easily with his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Now, as Azula closed the distance between them, there was no sign of the playful young man he had first met in an inn five years ago. Instead, a hardened man stared at him with a challenge.

Raithion took in a jagged, rugged breath as Azula stopped an arm’s length away.

Azula’s right hand rose with terrifying fluidity. In a heartbeat, he was leveling a modified crossbow directly at Raithion’s chest, the bolt already notched.
Azula met Raithion’s surprised gaze.

“Master of the Blades of Ashes,” Azula greeted. “Unless your ship is sinking, I see no reason for you to be on my shore. State your business quickly so we can see you off. Sura Island is an independent territory. We no longer bow to the Lyria Kingdom.”

Raithion breathed out, grappling with the indifferent look in Azula’s eyes. He cleared his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs in a fine blend of tragic affection.

“Azula…”

“You are addressing the Chieftain of our clan,” the imposing man in the white shirt and dark trousers interrupted, stepping up to Azula’s left. “He is Prince Azula Doriel. You will address him as Prince Azula, Chief Azula, or His Highness. We are an independent nation. Show your respect to our leaders.”

Raithion didn’t look away from Azula. He simply nodded, acknowledging the title.

Raithion held Azula’s gaze, refusing to believe Azula would really shoot him with an arrow. Taking a slow, deliberate step past Haedor’s protective stance, Raithion adjusted his grip on the sick child and began to sink to the sand.

Azula’s expression didn’t flicker. His hand remained rock-steady, the tip of the crossbow tracking Raithion’s movement until it was pointed directly between Raithion’s eyes as Raithion knelt in the sand.

Haedor hissed a curse, but seeing Raithion on his knees, he, Dain, and Sharian followed suit.

“Prince Azula,” Raithion said, letting his raw desperation bleed into his voice. “Our ship is fine. I haven’t come for politics or war. I have come to beg. My son, Yulin, was poisoned with Silver Malice in the capital. I seek your clan’s legendary skill for an antidote. Without it, he will die.”

Azula stared at Raithion, unflinching and unmoving. His hand remained steady as he pointed the crossbow at Raithion’s head.

Raithion stared at the arrow notched in the crossbow.

If Azula pulled the trigger, the arrow would go straight between his eyes, and it would be over in a second. Raithion watched him, silent and vulnerable, trusting the ghost of the man he had known five years ago.

“Why should we show you mercy?” Azula asked after a long, suffocating silence.

“I have no answer that can heal what Lyria did to you,” Raithion admitted, looking up at him. “I am at your mercy. I can only offer a solemn promise: I will do anything you ask. I will pay any price. Just save my son.”

Azula scoffed, a bitter sound. “I’ve heard that promise before.”

“Please,” Raithion whispered. “The boy is innocent. You have the antidote. If you help him, I’ll do anything you want, Your Highness.”

Azula flinched almost imperceptibly at the title “Your Highness,” or perhaps at the weight of the plea.

Then, a hand adorned with gold bracelets reached out, resting gently on the frame of Azula’s crossbow.

“The child is innocent,” the woman said softly. She looked at Raithion with a flicker of pity. “We are not heartless people here. My name is Lasma Doriel, and I am a healer.” She turned to Azula. “We protect the innocent, regardless of the sins of their fathers.”

Azula’s jaw tightened. “If that is what you wish, then so be it.” He lowered the crossbow, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. “We will treat the child. But the moment he is stable, I want you and your people off this island.”

Azula looked at Raithion one last time, a gaze that felt like a door slamming shut, before turning on his heel.

“Leave fifty men on the beach!” Azula shouted to his generals as he walked away. “Monitor the Lyrians. Report any movement that isn’t strictly necessary for the boy’s care.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the soldiers barked in unison.

Raithion remained on his knees in the white sand, trembling with a mixture of crushing relief and the agonizing realization that while his son might live, the Azula he met so long ago was gone.

*****

Lasma was the one who stepped forward, her touch gentle but firm as she urged Raithion to his feet. She pressed a hand to Yulin’s forehead, her brow furrowing the moment she felt the heat radiating from his skin.

“Oh, he’s burning up,” she murmured. “Come. I’ll lead you to our nearest healing center; it’s a short walk from here. You will need to explain everything you’ve done to keep him alive since he ingested the poison.”

Raithion exhaled a jagged breath of relief. He followed Lasma as she veered onto a path that skirted the wooden docks. Two Sura soldiers trailed them closely, their hands never far from their weapons, while the hulking man who had corrected Raithion’s address of Azula shadowed their every move.

“Magnus, I’ll be fine,” Lasma said over her shoulder. “Go check on Azu.”

“I’m staying with you,” Magnus grunted, his pace unyielding. He shot Raithion a look of pure irritation as they reached the main thoroughfare.

Raithion, however, hardly noticed the scowl. He was too busy staring. Expecting a village crippled by five years of trade isolation, he was instead met with a picture of serene prosperity. A wide, well-maintained road led into a settlement of beautiful whitewashed houses, their porches framed by lush trees and vibrant, carefully tended gardens. He caught Haedor’s eye, seeing his own shock reflected there.

There was no sign of the destitution Lyria had expected to inflict upon the Sura Clan. Instead, the people they passed appeared healthy and content, moving with a purposeful ease that spoke of a thriving society. The air itself felt different, cleaner, lighter, and wholly carefree.

Lasma led them toward a modest three-story building nestled within a small grove. A hand-painted sign out front read Healer’s Cove. Lasma didn’t hesitate, pushing through the open doors with the air of someone who owned the space.

A young woman in a crisp white dress, accented by a single gold stripe running from shoulder to hem, hurried to meet them. A modest scarf covered her hair, and her movements were quick and efficient.

“Lady Lasma, what brings you to the Cove?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Are you injured?”

“Not me, Hana,” Lasma said, taking the girl’s hand briefly to calm her. “There is a boy in need of urgent care. They claim it’s Silver Malice. I need you to fetch Alvas from the Prince’s Manor immediately.”

“Right away,” Hana said, casting a wary, lingering glance at Raithion and his people before vanishing down a hallway.

Lasma turned back to Raithion. “This way. You may lay the boy down in a private ward. Only one of you may stay with him; the rest will wait here.”

She pointed to a sun-drenched sitting area by the windows. Magnus stepped into the center of the room, crossing his arms to ensure Haedor, Sharian, and Dain didn’t move an inch further.

“Wait,” Raithion said, adjusting Yulin’s weight in his arms. He gestured toward Dain. “This is Dain. He has been managing Yulin’s treatment since the beginning.”
Lasma glanced at Magnus, who looked ready to protest, then sighed. “Fine. He may come. The rest of you, stay put.”

Raithion gave Haedor and Sharian a sharp, reassuring nod and followed Lasma down a quiet, sterile corridor. She swung open a white door, ushering them into a room bathed in natural light. Whimsical red and white flowers were painted across the walls, lending the space a warmth that masked its clinical purpose. The bed was draped in bleached linens that looked incredibly soft.

Lasma pulled back the sheets and signaled Raithion to settle Yulin. She adjusted a flat pillow beneath the boy’s head with practiced tenderness, then sat on the edge of the bed. Taking Yulin’s left wrist, she went silent, her index finger pressed to his pulse point as she timed his heartbeats. After a tense minute, she looked up at Dain.

“You’ve worked tirelessly,” she noted, her voice softening. “His pulse is stable, but he is teetering on the edge of a total system failure. Are you certain it was Silver Malice?”

“I am,” Raithion answered for him, gesturing to the sealed leather bag Dain carried. The bag held the teapot Rasa had used and its contents, along with the two cups Naeri and Yulin had used.

Lasma rose and led them to a large workstation against the far wall. It was a table equipped with various medical instruments.

Raithion’s eyes widened at the sight of a porcelain sink fitted with a polished brass tap. When Lasma turned the handle, clear, pressurized water flowed freely. It was a level of advanced plumbing rare even in the Lyrian capital.

Lasma washed her hands, pulled a pair of white cloth gloves from a shelf, and set a silver tray on the table. Taking the bag from Dain, she retrieved the teapot and emptied its contents on the tray with clinical precision. Then, she studied the dregs of the teapot and the stained leaves within. Her examination was silent and agonizingly thorough. Finally, she let out a long, heavy sigh.

“It is indeed Silver Malice,” she confirmed, glancing back at Yulin. Raithion had already returned to his son’s side, clutching the boy’s small, clammy hand. “It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. How much did he take?”

Dain produced a small ceramic cup from the bag. “His mother filled this, but he only took a single sip before he collapsed.”

“He’s lucky,” Lasma said grimly. “A second swallow would have been fatal. The concentration in this tea was intended to kill instantly. Now, tell me exactly what you’ve administered.”

“I’ve kept him on a strict regimen of activated charcoal for the last three days during our voyage from Lyria,” Dain explained. “The two weeks before that, I also used aloe and ginger for the gastric pain, and brewed turmeric and cotton plant to stave off the nerve-related tremors. I’ve been soothing the transitions with goat’s milk.”

Lasma nodded approvingly. “You focused on the datura base of the poison.”

“It was the only component I could identify before we understood the full scope of the toxin,” Dain admitted.

“You did well,” Lasma said. She filled the cup with a sample of the poisoned tea, then emptied the rest of the pot into the sink and rinsed the tray with soap and water. “This teapot is contaminated beyond repair. I’ll have it incinerated. Anything brewed in it from now on would be lethal.”

“I trust your judgment,” Dain said, his eyes fixed on the lone cup of tea she had set aside.

“I’ll go fetch the antidote,” Lasma said, stripping off her gloves and tossing them into a laundry basket. She washed her hands, then crossed the room for one final check of Yulin’s pupils and temperature. “We don’t have much time left, but we have enough. Stay here. Rest.”

“Don’t you need the tea for the cure?” Dain asked as he moved toward Raithion.

Lasma offered a small, knowing smile. “We do. Watch over it until I return.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Raithion felt a wave of profound gratitude wash over him, so thick it nearly choked him. He didn’t care why the Sura had a cure ready for such a deadly poison or how they had become so much more advanced than his own kingdom. He could not bring himself to ask too many questions. All that mattered was that Lasma had spoken with the certainty of a woman who could snatch his son back from the grave. He wiped a hand over his tired face, watching Yulin’s fluttering eyelids.

“Prince Azula,” Dain said quietly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “He seems to harbor quite a bit of hatred for you. Why did he call you the ‘Master of the Blades of Ashes’?”

Raithion closed his eyes, the memory of Azula’s face years ago, bright and hopeful, flashing through his mind. “Because I broke a promise to him. I was meant to protect what he held dear. Instead, I let it burn.”

“Must have been a hell of a promise,” Dain sighed. “The Sura have clearly flourished without us. That crossbow he was carrying? I’ve never seen a mechanism like that. Our engineers are decades behind.”

“He was always innovative,” Raithion whispered.

“So, how do you plan on befriending a man who wants to put a bolt through your head?” Dain asked. “They’ve got us bottled up in a healer’s center so close to shore. They could toss us back into the sea in five minutes.”

Raithion let out a short, dry chuckle. “Azula was always petty when he felt slighted. He once told me off at an inn for pushing him too far. I’m not taking his anger lightly, especially considering what Lyria did to his people. We’ll take it moment by moment. First, we save Yulin. The rest…the rest I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for.”

“If you say so,” Dain said, pushing off the wall. He headed back to the sink and started fiddling with the brass tap. “Do you think they’d let me see the drainage schematics for this place? I’ve been trying to overhaul the palace morgue, and the budget just got approved.”

Raithion shot him a look of pure annoyance. “Could you please not discuss your morgue budget while my son is fighting for his life?”

“It’s not my fault you brought a coroner to do a healer’s job,” Dain shot back with a smirk. “Besides, Lady Lasma liked my work. I can claim credit for keeping Yulin alive. That gives me leverage to ask you for more gold denaris for my morgue budget.”

“Shut up, Dain,” Raithion grumbled, though the familiar bickering took some of the sting out of the room’s tension.

“But, Lord Raithion, the ventilation alone…”

****

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