69 Wingsteeds and the Map

69 Wingsteeds and the Map
(Ella's POV)

Mary stood behind the counter, still clutching the rag she'd been using to wipe the same spot for half the day. Her eyes darted between Kyle and me twice.

"Herb supplier?" She set the rag on the counter's edge and crossed her arms. "Since when do you travel outside Thornport to stock inventory? Haven't the goblins been delivering to you all these years?"

I'd anticipated this question and ran through my prepared explanation once more, trying to keep my tone as casual as usual. "It's a new channel I found. They have a batch of high-quality Moonmoss and Silverscale at prices well below market rate. I need to see for myself and negotiate terms before having them deliver here. The shop will be closed for a few days."

Mary studied me for a moment, then glanced at Kyle standing by the doorway. He didn't interject, just leaned quietly against the doorframe with his hood pulled low, arms crossed over his chest, looking as relaxed as if he were simply waiting for me to finish packing so we could head out together.

"You're taking him?" Mary asked.

"He's helping me carry the herbs," I replied matter-of-factly.

Mary's mouth twitched as if she wanted to say something but swallowed it back. She picked up the rag and wiped the already gleaming counter again, not looking up as she waved us off. "Fine, fine, go ahead. I'll watch the shop for you—just don't keep me waiting too long."

I smiled, gave my belongings one final check, and packed potion bottles and bandages into a small leather bag. I stuffed in two packets of dried food and a water skin, then cinched the bag shut. Kyle took the bag from my hands and slung it over his shoulder without a word.

We met Colin at the waystation outside town. He'd arrived before us and was speaking with a stable hand. Seeing us approach, he nodded to me, glanced at Kyle, then turned and motioned for us to follow.

In the clearing behind the waystation stood two Wingsteeds. They were slightly smaller than ordinary horses, with longer limbs and sleek backs. At their shoulder blades, a pair of folded wings caught the moonlight with a deep gray luster. One turned its head toward us—it had large eyes with pupils rimmed in pale gold, studying us with unhurried curiosity. I stood there for several seconds, unsure which way to step. Colin had already mounted one of the flying horses with fluid movements, as if he did this daily. Kyle didn't hesitate. He approached the other Wingsteed, which tossed its head but didn't shy away. When he swung into the saddle, his movements were even more graceful than Colin's, suggesting he was well-accustomed to this mode of travel.

Colin tugged the reins and looked down at me, his gaze lingering as if waiting for me to make my choice. Kyle sat on the other horse, also looking down at me. The wind had blown back a corner of his hood, revealing a small section of his profile, quiet in the moonlight. He didn't rush me, just waited.

I stepped into the stirrup and climbed onto the horse's back behind Kyle. His broad, steady shoulders blocked half my view, leaving me able to see Colin turning back toward us.

As the Wingsteed took flight, my body tilted backward, and I instinctively gripped the fabric at Kyle's waist. Wind surged up from below, pouring into my sleeves and collar, cold as autumn creek water. The ground shrank beneath us—the waystation became a pinpoint of light, the town's lamps scattered like fallen crumbs, then even the clustered buildings were swallowed by darkness. The wind's roar grew steady, as if the sky itself were breathing. We flew toward Ethelburg with me leaning against Kyle's back as the wind split around his shoulders, sparing my face from the direct blast.

Ethelburg's walls appeared in our view long before we landed. The city was much larger than Thornport, its walls built from gray-white stone blocks without ivy or moss—everything precise and orderly, as if someone had measured each brick's placement with a ruler. Light posts stood at regular intervals along the battlements, each crowned with cold white flames that illuminated every detail of the wall's upper edge, leaving no shadow unchallenged. The moat reflected the light with a dull gleam, showing no ripples or current—like a frozen mirror.

We landed at a waystation outside the city walls. Colin was already checking his equipment, his sword hanging at his waist with the scabbard's tip brushing his boot as he walked. He led us to an inn whose lobby was more spacious than any building in Thornton. The floor was laid with dark marble in tight, symmetrical patterns, edges perfectly smooth as if carved from a single stone block and fitted into place. He booked two adjoining rooms, handed us the keys, then pushed open a door at the corridor's end and gestured us inside.

A map lay spread across the room's table. Not ordinary paper, but thin, supple hide with uneven, slightly frayed edges. Colin approached the table, weighted down the map's corners, then bent over and pointed to several locations.

"Dorian's estate is here." His finger landed on a marking northeast of the city walls, surrounded by dark boundary lines. "Large grounds, high walls, patrol teams on all sides with short intervals between shifts. A direct assault would be impossible."

He moved slowly along the estate's perimeter, stopping where it backed against a small hill. "There's a side gate here—an old one, rarely used. From there, a passage connects to the old stables behind the manor. About three hundred paces north of the old stables stands an isolated two-story building."

His finger stopped there.

"Maris might be held in that building."

Kyle stood on the table's opposite side, studying the map silently. His gaze traced the route Colin had outlined, as if committing those lines to memory.

Colin continued with Dorian's background.

"Dorian is the nephew of Cardinal Cassian, a wastrel known for collecting rare magical beasts."

Among Ethelburg's nobility, Dorian's reputation was poor, but his uncle's position and influence meant no one dared oppose him openly.

Speaking of Cardinal Cassian—now there was a legendary figure. Though the kingdom nominally remained under royal rule, the Church held the real power. The Church commanded knight legions and maintained its own armies of mages and clerics. Cardinal Cassian was the Church's second most powerful figure. Unmarried and childless, he doted excessively on his nephew Dorian. This nephew could be called the only stain on the otherwise impeccable Cardinal's record.

Yet the Cardinal himself seemed to find nothing wrong, claiming young men should be "free and bold."

Good heavens, Dorian was thirty-five—hardly someone who should be associated with "young man." Though if calculated by elven lifespans... my thoughts were wandering again.

"I couldn't determine who Dorian brought his collection to trade with this time," Colin said, shaking his head regretfully.

"Though Dorian is always flashy and high-profile, he's no fool. Quite the opposite—he's cunning, and we must be careful. He'll attend tomorrow's banquet." Colin straightened, lifting his finger from the map. "I've obtained an invitation. I'll remain at the banquet to monitor his movements and find a way to relay any developments to you."

His gaze shifted from Kyle to me, pausing briefly.

"Ella, you won't draw much attention, so you'll need to relay messages between Kyle and me. If Kyle needs backup, you must be able to reach him quickly. This building's entrance is here—after entering through the side gate, you'll need to cross a short open passage with no cover. Midnight patrols have roughly twelve-minute intervals."

Kyle's attention remained fixed on the map throughout.

I nodded seriously. "I understand, Colin. I'll memorize the map."

Colin's expression grew grave. "I'm not certain my guesses are correct. We'll need to scout the specific locations on-site."

"Everyone get good rest tonight. We'll meet tomorrow."