Chapter 8 The Tunnel Beneath the Trunks
Serafina
The carriage bucked violently over the cobblestones, throwing me from side to side as Jarek—Darrick’s baby brother—glared over the reins. He hated this assignment. Not because it was dangerous, but because it was beneath him. And yet, as the leader’s kin, he couldn’t refuse it.
Jarek, who didn't even look old enough to shave, was the newest Collector—unproven and overeager. He wore his dark coat with its stitched insignia like armor, even though Darrick had warned him it made him look foolish. Pride gleamed in his eyes all the same.
I gripped the edges of the seat, knuckles white. My heart still hadn’t slowed from earlier. Lio was alive, but the cost of that mercy had already begun to carve itself into me, slow and irreversible.
As Jarek drove haphazardly, the Dust District faded behind us—the only home I had known since the Empire took everything.
My stomach twisted at the thought of Aetheria—the Imperial Kingdom. My virginity. An Imperial Mage. I had been naïve to believe a miracle came without a price. Perhaps to the Warden a thousand gold coins meant nothing, but I had never seen such a sum—not once in my life.
I forced my thoughts back to my brother. Lio was free of fever and cough. The Mistress’s magic held. And as if that were not enough, she had left provisions to last him a full month, enough to see him through until my return.
I weighed the choices in silence: serve as a Collector for the Warden, or surrender my virtue to an old mage. The Mistress’s arrangement was the lesser cruelty. It was a single night, a single debt.
Besides, I couldn't risk the miracle being undone.
“Four days by carriage, Dust-girl,” Jarek said, his voice a rough rasp. “If you survive my driving, that is. Embers and Sparks can teleport straight to the gates. Coal, when summoned. But Dust?" He laughed once. "You crawl like the beggar you are.”
I nodded, swallowing my pride. I had no right to protest.
The first three days passed in silence—unbroken even when night fell.
When we stopped to rest, Jarek left the horses to graze and ate from his provisions without a word. Dried meat. Stale bread. He tore off what scraps he deemed enough and tossed them my way, never looking at me. Then he turned onto his side, back rigid, grunted a rough goodnight, and slept.
But from dawn to dusk, Jarek drove on relentlessly.
Every stumble of the horses earned a curse. Every jolt of the road slammed me harder into the seat. I said nothing. I learned the rhythm of endurance, the ache of swallowing hunger quietly.
The districts slid past in bands of color—Dust’s high red walls fading into Coal’s burnt orange, orange bleeding into Spark’s yellow glow. And ahead, inevitable, the white fences of Ember rose into view.
Once, Ember had been a distant shimmer in my imagination—untouchable, radiant.
Now it stretched toward me in stark, unforgiving reality.
As we neared the border of Ember, the road narrowed, trees pressing close until the sunlight thinned to a greenish haze. The forest felt alive, shadows stretching across the carriage like grasping fingers. A chill crawled down my spine, heavy with the sense of being watched, but Jarek didn’t slow. He drove straight into the tunnel of trunks without hesitation.
“Just one more night,” Jarek said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “By noon tomorrow, you’ll be in Aetheria, and I can teleport back to Dust.” He leaned in close, his breath foul. “You see, I’ve got meself an orb. A gift from the Mistress.”
The dread that had clutched at my chest eased slightly, replaced by a fragile hope. Tomorrow, after the mage collected what he’d paid for, the deal would be done.
My brother would live. And I would return to Dust, content in the knowledge that I had saved him.
We were nearly at the heart of the forest tunnel when chaos descended on us.
Rogue mages erupted from the underbrush, hands crackling with raw magic. The world exploded around us in sparks of light and flying gravel. Jarek swore and snapped the reins. The horses screamed, skidding and kicking, but there were too many attackers.
I opened my mouth to scream—but froze at Jarek’s glare.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “You want to keep your head? Then hush.”
Searing bolts of light tore into the road beside us, sending stones and dirt spraying in every direction. The carriage lurched violently as the horses twisted to avoid the blasts.
Then, from the trees above, a figure dropped like a shadow onto the roof. Boots slammed the wood with such force the entire carriage shuddered. Dust and splinters rained down, and the frame groaned, metal joints straining. A dark, taunting laugh spilled from the rogue mage’s lips, sharp and pleased.
“Fuck this,” Jarek spat, letting the reins fall. His dark eyes snapped to me, hard and cold. “I don’t care if the Imperial Mage offers ten thousand gold. All the coin in the world isn’t worth dying for a dust mite like you. Goodbye, Dust-girl.”
He reached beneath his coat and drew out a thin chain. A small pendant hung from it, a pearl-like orb glinting in the muted light. His fingers clenched around it as he muttered under his breath, words rushed and frantic.
“Not so fast, coin vulture,” a voice drawled from above. Calm. Amused. Dangerous. “Restricta.”
The spell hit like iron.
Jarek froze mid-motion, his body locked in place, chest heaving, breath trapped. His eyes darted wildly, lips twitching, but no sound came—only raw panic flickering in his gaze.
“Easy now, horses. Woah,” the mage said lightly, almost casually. “Retardus.”
The world seemed to slow. The horses’ hooves sank into the road as if wading through thick syrup, their panic strangled into helpless stillness. Every muscle tensed, yet nothing moved. Dust swirled around the frozen carriage, sparkling in the fragmented sunlight, and time itself felt suspended.
Cloaked figures poured from the trees, black fabric swallowing the dim light. Shadows writhed around them as they surged forward. One lunged at Jarek, seizing him by the throat and flinging him into the brush. He hit the ground hard, coughing and groaning, tangled in roots and leaves.
Above, the mage dropped from the roof, landing with a soft thud that barely disturbed the road. Every movement was precise, controlled, unhurried—as if the chaos around him was already decided.
His light blue eyes locked on mine, sharp and piercing.
He couldn’t have been much older than me. Light brown hair fell over sharp features, calm etched into every line of his face. He lowered his hood slowly, scanning the scene with the certainty of someone who already knew the outcome.
“Finally,” he murmured, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. “One of Warden Voss’ Dust-hounds.” His gaze flicked to Jarek, then back to me, disappointment lacing the look. “I was hoping for the Mistress.”
“The Mistress doesn’t need roads. She teleports,” someone muttered, dragging Jarek to his feet. “Her carriage is used mostly to transport provisions."
The mage’s attention snapped back to me, blue eyes narrowing. “Then who are you?”