Excerpt
Fear the Flames
Chapter One Rain and wind whip against my cheeks as I urge my horse to run faster into the dark forest with only moonlight and lightning to aid my vision. Thunder rumbles throughout the sky in tandem with horse hooves pounding the dirt. There are many reasons for a mission that requires riding through dangerous conditions—secrecy, desperation, curiosity, revenge, and haste, to name a few. I stopped trying to dissect my intermingling emotions years ago but can’t deny the overwhelming sense of curiosity that courses through me tonight.
The steep mountainside resembles a maze of fallen trees, uneven paths, and slick rocks. My cloak does little to keep the chill from seeping into my bones, and several strands have ripped free from the braid that falls down my back, sticking to my face as if they’re coated in syrup. But I’ll never pass up an opportunity to gain information about the tension brewing between Vareveth and Imirath.
Hatred coils through me and a grimace contorts my face when I think of my imprisoned dragons. King Garrick will pay for what he’s done in blood, and even that won’t be enough. The patrol I sent out informed me of a sighting of soldiers from my father’s enemy kingdom, and I want to know what they’re doing so far from home and traveling in one of the most dangerous parts of the continent.
The Terrwyn Forest is filled with beasts, bandits, and several poisonous plants, and the mist that leaks down from the mountains is enough to send even the most seasoned explorer plummeting off a sharp cliff. If you keep your wits about you and follow the faint sound of trickling river water, you’ll find my kingdom, Aestilian, hidden in a valley beside the Syssa Falls.
Finnian’s horse increases its pace and strides beside mine. His ginger curls lie flat against his forehead, and his porcelain skin almost glows through the darkness. “Are you going to tell me why you ran into the house and dragged me out like a deranged goblin?” he shouts over the storm.
Technically I never told Finnian why we left, but we stopped clarifying details with each other years ago.
Wherever I go, he goes.
Wherever he goes, I go.
“A deranged goblin?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat, and I already know he’s about to imitate my voice. “Finnian, make haste! Get your ass on a horse! A corpse moves faster than you!” His voice cracks on the last word, which only increases my laughter.
“Vareveth soldiers were spotted at a tavern here, and it’s a bit of a hike for a pint.”
We slow our horses while passing through the weather-worn gate, their hooves sloshing in the muddy road. The scent of salt lingers in the air that wafts off the sea. I’ve been to this village before, but the dark wood houses, shops, and taverns look even drearier while shrouded in gloom.
I follow Finnian toward the rowdy establishment packed with soldiers, and we tie our horses off on a post. It’s best to keep them close in case anything goes wrong. We’re lined with weapons but no armor, for the sake of blending in as travelers. Knives adorn my waist corset and down my legs until they reach my boots; the only hint to my identity is the two dragon daggers I never go without.
Lantern light dances across Finnian’s freckle-dusted cheeks. “What’s the plan?”
“You stick to the lower levels and see what you can find out from the soldiers who are too deep in their pints. I’ll spy through the floorboards on those of higher ranks.”
He nods, straightening out his red tunic before disappearing into the tavern.
A few minutes later, I’m encompassed in a sea of off-key musicians as the creaky door falls shut behind me. I’ve never been a fan of noisy places, but Finnian thrives in them. It’s what makes us a good pair. I peer through the crowd and spot him sitting at the bar, surrounded by several dark green cloaks. He throws his head back in a boisterous laugh, and even though I can’t hear him, the song of his laughter is a melody that’s stitched into my brain.
I steady my footing on the uneven floor while making my way to the dark staircase in the corner, keeping my head down as I weave through the mismatched tables filled with soldiers playing cards or shouting for another round of drinks. Nobody turns toward me. They’re all too absorbed in whatever is in front of them.
The tavern is as plain on the inside as it is on the outside. There’s no point in fuss and frills when everyone comes here for a single purpose—to get drunk while passing through. Wooden beams shoot up toward the ceiling to support the second floor, and the walls are completely bare aside from the rusting lanterns with hardened puddles of candle wax beneath them.
My eyes water as I walk through thick clouds of pipe smoke that waft through the small space. I stick to the shadows along the wall and take my first step up the rickety staircase. It creaks so loudly that if I hadn’t done this ascent countless times, I would think the wood isn’t strong enough to hold any weight. But I continue my journey without a second thought, dodging cobwebs along the way.
I pause at the top of the stairs, straining my ears for any signs of movement or breathing, but nothing reaches me. The open attic is filled with bags of grain, barrels of wine and ale, dust-filled furniture, and anything else the tavern may need. It’s the perfect place to escape for dalliances in the dark. The only light infiltrating the space comes from moonlight trickling through holes in the roof and lantern light rising from cracks in the floorboards.
My steps are light even though nobody will be able to hear them over the noise. The last thing I want is dust raining down on one of their drinks, giving me away before I’ve even had the chance to acquire any information. I navigate the floor while picturing the layout of the tavern in my mind—maneuvering to the section where I know the generals sit, hoping they’ll reveal something worthy of squatting in an attic. I cringe while looking down at the dirt- and dust-covered floorboard I always press my ear to. It’s far dirtier than usual.
I take a knife from my thigh and rest my head against the small crack after wiping it with my cloak. The familiar steel is a welcome presence in my palm. Ever since I escaped Imirath, I’ve never gone a single day without a knife—even before I knew how to use them. I close my eyes and let all other noises disappear, zoning in on the conversation that drifts into my ears as smoke rises through the air.
“King Eagor may be a pushover sometimes, but he won’t give up on this,” a deep male voice rumbles.
“He knows this is in Vareveth’s best interest, and Cayden won’t let him,” a sharp feminine voice answers.
Cayden.
Cayden Veles, Commander of Vareveth, is both the most feared and youngest warlord on the continent at only twenty-nine. He’s as rich as a greedy god paired with the morals of a demon. Many even refer to him as the demon commander, or demon of Ravaryn.
“He’s tired of losing soldiers at the border in pointless skirmishes. Tension’s nearly at a boiling point already.” The same male voice cuts through the music.
“Yes, but this war will be over before it even begins if King Garrick finds a way to control the dragons.” My eyes snap open, and shock surges through my body. My heart pounds so rapidly that I worry it’s knocking like a fist against the floor. Garrick doesn’t let anything slip about the dragons. The only reason I know they’re alive is that I would have felt their death. The bond I share with them would have broken, and it would be excruciating. The mere threat of the dragons keeps all of Ravaryn from his borders.
When I was born, my parents threw a ball in celebration of the Atarah heir, and all kingdoms were invited, including Galakin. Queen Cordelia brought her court seer to offer my parents a piece of good fortune in honor of their baby princess. Dragon eggs that should’ve been no more than stones were laid at the foot of my cradle, and five dragons sprang free.
The prophecy stated that my soul is forged in flames and bonds me to five dragons, and that I would either destroy Imirath or bring it immeasurable glory.
I was four when my dragons were ripped away from me and I went from being a princess to a prisoner overnight.
Shaking my head, I refocus on the conversation below me.
“Cayden has a plan for that. You know he’s always scheming or plotting,” the male voice says.
“Well, let’s see what happens. Maybe Princess Elowen truly is out here.” A chill creeps up my spine, and I inhale a breath so sharp that my face mask clogs my airways. One of my hands tightens around the hilt of my knife while the other pulls the mask below my chin.
Vareveth soldiers are here . . . because they’re looking for me.
“Hear anything interesting, little shadow?” a deep voice drawls from the top of the stairs.
