Page 7 of King of Fire and Flames

Azarn chuckled. “Yes, I see the gap. By all reports, it fascinated the Storm Idiot unduly.”

Storm Idiot? I approved of this new nickname and planned to adopt it for my own use. That is, if I lived through the night.

The king’s hand slid over the Aldara mark on my throat, but he pulled away with a hiss as the glyph activated, causing him pain.

“Curse Arrowyn Ramiel,” he snarled, then turned to Melaya. “Can you remove the mate mark?”

The mage, a fae of few words, shook his head, unbothered by his king’s growing fury.

“For your sake, Melaya, you had better find a way.”

Not blinking once, the mage stared him down, and the king looked away first.

Helpless frustration rippled through me. I wanted to scream, spit, bite, and curse, but I gritted my teeth instead and focused on the Fire King’s vivid gaze.

Those green eyes flashed bright against his dark jacket—padded shoulders tapering to a tight waist, embroidered with flames and tiny roosters of all things, all outlined in shiny red thread.

My first impression of Azarn was of a bitter sorcerer with low self-esteem, rather than the warrior king that Arrow had told me tales of. The fae who stood before me was a ghoulish crow. A gaunt raven king with the beginnings of a slight stoop weighing down his shoulders.

A smile spread over his face, the warm-toned skin stretching over sharp bones, creating cruel hollows below his cheeks. Two long streaks of gray framed his face, and a soft curve of flesh flopped over the silver belt at his hips, aging him beyond the youthful fae I’d pictured in my imagination.

Stroking the point of his short beard, he studied me intently. “You have no gift of tears for me, Zali Omala? No pleading and begging for your life?”

I spat on his boot, my teeth clacking as his swift backhand crashed my skull against the pole.

The king laughed and waved his hand at Esen. “The girl is exactly as Arrowyn described. Take her away before I lose my dinner. The stench of the human sickens me.”

Raiden emerged from the shadows and unfastened my chain from the pole before locking my wrists in front of my body.

“Here we are again, king’s guard,” I said. “You mishandling me at a corrupt ruler’s bidding. Demeaning duties for a fae warrior, don’t you think?”

Avoiding my gaze, he said nothing.

Esen seized my arm and tugged me toward an overgrowth of ivy creeping its way over an arched wooden door. “And you,” she grumbled, “still can’t keep your foolish mouth shut to save your life.”

I opened my foolish mouth to lash out a response, but the king’s voice boomed behind me, thankfully interrupting my reply.

“Wait,” he said. One more thing, Princess of Dirt and Bones—”

“Dust and Stones,” I said, “if you wish to be correct. But you can call me whatever you like. Unkind words don’t trouble me.”

“May I suggest you consider how to use your words more wisely, human, because tomorrow, you will meet my son, Prince Bakhur. And if you wish to live, he had better like you.”

Shit. That didn’t sound good. And why in the realms should I care what his son thought of me?

As Esen creaked the door open and tugged me through it, laughter tittered behind me. Female laughter.

“Who were the ladies? Azarn’s queen and her servant?” I asked.

“No, the king’s sisters—Marcella and Ruhh,” she replied.

Esen shoved me along a dim hallway lit by flames flickering in a bank of mirrors that lined the walls. Strange, but there were no sconces opposite them, and the flames seemed to burn from inside the mirrors themselves.

“Esen, I know Azarn had two sisters, and in the carriage, you told me one of them was dead.”

“Yes, I did. Ruhh is deceased.”

I stumbled on the first step of a wide staircase. “If she’s dead, how can she be cackling in the shadows of a courtyard with her sister?”

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