The Road of Bones (The Ashen #1)

by Demi Winters

She craved something. She craved more. Friendship. To fall in love. To live.

It was always nothing. But one of these times, it might be something. A grimwolf or a bear or a vampire deer or, worse, a man.

Rey unexpected as the leader of the infamous Bloodaxe Crew; with his immaculately trimmed black beard and his lébrynja armor always flawlessly oiled, he was far more clean-cut than most warriors. Jonas knew better than to think this man anything but fierce—lethal on the battlefield and terrifying once angered, Rey could throw a look so cutting, he’d earned the name Axe Eyes.

Only one of the great Volsik line had survived the sacking of Sunnavík—five-year-old Princess Saga, raised as Ivar’s ward and future bride for his son Bjorn.

She locked eyes with the giant of a man she’d followed to the stables, and her voice died in her throat. Peeking from beneath his collar, tattoos swirled, inky black against coppery-brown skin. His black hair was shorn short on the sides, and it pushed out from his crown in thick, tight curls that caught the last light of the day, while his beard had been trimmed so neatly it had to have been done this morning. But most striking of all were his eyes—mahogany and so sharp with anger, she could feel the scrape of them along her skin. Ashes, she thought. Were all these people beautiful? This man’s handsomeness, however,

It is a man’s world in which we live, Skraeda, her queen had told her, in that calming voice of hers. Let them think us lambs, when truly, we are wolves.

The golden gleam of his hair drew her attention—sides shorn short, the top drawn back and knotted at his crown. Though not as tall as Rey, he was still half a head taller than her. Combined with the large arms crossed over his chest and the scowl on

Up close, she could see thousands of tiny black leather scales on his armored jacket, highly unlike the

“Because it takes a small man to be ruled by fear and a large one to show mercy. And anyone can see you are no small man.”

This girl might not be able to swing a blade, but she had the spirit of a warrior.

I wanted to see the moment he realized that everything he had done to me—every slap, every punch, every kick—was kindling. It built me up into a raging wildfire, and now it was time for him to burn.”

What is it they say? Without rain, there would not be flowers?” “I’ve had plenty of rain lately,” murmured Silla. “That means the sun must be on the horizon.” Sun on the horizon. Silla liked the idea. Hope bloomed in her chest, and she didn’t push it down. She let it sit there and let herself feel it.

“And I wonder if the dowdy dresses and act of innocence are a trick, because good, sweet girls do not have a tongue as sharp and wicked as yours. And merciful gods, Silla. I am no good man, because all I can think of is drawing you into my furs and discovering what else that tongue is capable of.”

“Why do you feel like this?” he heard himself rasp against her neck, hips rolling against hers. He scarcely recognized his own voice, did not seem to be in control of it.

Silla stepped into the lavender dress, tying the lacings down the front. It was a simple design made of fine wool in a herringbone weave; long-sleeved and cinched in at the waist, it fell to her feet, the skirts full but not voluminous. The details were what drew her attention: beautiful off-white embroidery around the cuffs and along the neckline, which plunged well below her collarbones.

Twisting the sides of her hair back into neat braids, Silla left the rest in a tangle of curls that fell midway down her spine.

Though she hadn’t seen flíta since her childhood, she recognized them at once. Similar to butterflies, their membranous wings were transparent and thin as silk. And with each flap, orange light flared from the wispy veins.

The past few weeks had been both terrifying and exhilarating, the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. But it was as if she’d woken, as if she was truly living for the first time.

Perhaps she was a lot like the flíta. Emerging from the ashes, vulnerable and hungry.

“You’ve broken me…bewitched me…I know nothing except that I am miserable. All I can think of are your lips, the smell of your hair. How you felt in my arms, the way you made me feel so alive.”

But she wanted it—she craved the current of energy that seemed to run between them, the way his touch livened her blood and heated her skin. “I want you to take me to your quarters and distract me.”

“Gods, woman. You feel like you were made for me.” He rolled his hips with a groan, the burn intensifying as he retreated, then filled her once more.

Blockage of source prevents users from priming.

When she woke, Silla was certain of two things. One—the girl was her sister. And two—her sister was alive, somewhere in the Kingdom of Íseldur.

“I’m not a good man, Curls.” He drew a lock of hair from her face and pushed it back. “But you make me feel as though I could be one.”

Sunnvald on His steed of fire, Malla with Her sword of frostfire, Marra riding Her winged horse, Stjarna pouring a pitcher of stars from above, Hábrók in hawk form, soaring over a battle with His hammer clutched in His beak,

and Myrkur peering up from His dark cavern, the eternal fires burning from braziers on either side of Him.

“Not killing you when I discovered you in our wagon will be a thing I regret until my last breath.”

The Wolf smiled at her, his eyes nearly black.

Tendrils of shadowy smoke enveloped her, surrounding her completely. The dragon’s power pressed against her, steam hissing where it prodded her skin, triggering a faint prickle of pain. There was something familiar about the dragon—frightening, yet protective, and she relaxed into its exploratory touch.

A smile curved Rey’s lips as he lifted his hands, drawing his galdur and priming himself in seconds. Rolling his neck, he caught sight of the black veins on the back of his hand. It had been days, and his galdur strained so hard to be freed, he scarcely had to think to express it. “What’s the matter with him?” asked one of the King’s Claws, eyes wide as he stared at Rey’s palms.

But as Silla tore down the road, she failed to see the black hawk soaring overhead.

“You truly are filled with sunshine, aren’t you?” he said at last, an almost-smile twitching his lips.

all this time, she’d been searching for a place to

feel safe, but what if she’d been looking at it all wrong? What if safety was not a place, but a person? People? Without her father, she needed to find others like her, allies who could teach her how to be safe in this world.

Her future was clouded with uncertainty. There was bound to be more danger. And yet Silla found herself humming.

Sometimes, strength is a thousand-mile journey in a world of warbands and monsters, and sometimes strength is in the little things we do each day.