Page 16 of The Kingdom of Flames

It was an afternoon of slow riding. Encarmine’s powerful arms never faltered as the reins flowed through his hands..

“Your lands are strong, my Lord.” Celestine gazed upon his realm. Many stopped their work of leather, brass, and steel shaping to salute Encarmine. He would always return it smartly, showing honor to any farmhand the same as any soldier.

It was hard to look at him and hard not to. His eyes glowed red, the circlet on his head was a visage of twisted black metal, a haze-like mist made of blood surrounded it. When she glanced too long, she heard the clash of metal and screams.

“My lady, forgive me,” Encarmine said and removed his circlet. “I was gone in my thoughts. My circlet offends.”

His face transformed from an immortal being of battle and beauty to one of the most handsome men Celestine could have ever imagined. The sense of menace receded, but it did not disappear. Encarmine looked like a man of thirty in his mortal form, the stubble on his cheek was gruff along a jawline tanned by the sun. His hair was dark and close cropped, and his eyes were red irises flecked with brown. They seemed to swirl in their ring over his pupil.

Like a great storm fixated on me.

Any place not armored on his body was muscled and scarred. But as Celestine glanced, the scars seemed to change. Like the engravings on his armor. A strange magic trick.

“Is your circlet that which gives you power?” Celestine asked.

“All men are their own power. Circlet’s show the Seasons what we truly are. But my domain and persona is not fit to look upon—for most.”

They rode longer. He seemed content with the silence. This was his realm, his world, his people. And when she watched them, she realized they enjoyed something her own world didn’t—the stability he brought.

Yet as fascinating as walking into another world might be, and be carried on horseback by a demigod of war, the fear of what waited at the ride’s end turned her stomach.

I am afraid, in a way, every bride must know.

It was only the fact that

They passed great towns and cities, all fiercely defended against some enemy. His banner flapped in blood red defiance, both a mark of honor and a challenge to anyone looking upon it. Every man and woman, and even some children, were armed.

“What thoughts were you lost in?” Celestine asked, breaking the silence of this distant demigod.

“Of your crest and body. You are the Final Bride, and I could not help but issue a challenge for your touch.”

Celestine turned away, his frankness spoke to his lust as well as a being that ruled whatever he looked upon. She watching the approaching horizon, the sun beginning to dip towards distant hills, signaling the darkness to come.

“I am the exertion of war, Lady Celestine. I am not the courtly knight but the dutiful soldier. I am the march and the erosion of an enemy’s will. That is how I took you from Cedarheart.” Encarmine touched her now, his hand ungloved and so strong, gentle but prudent upon her back, turning her back to him. “But I am also the darkness within men after the siege, Lady Celestine. You are my prize and plunder. War is not wanton savagery but controlled force. Order. Castles are not stolen. They are won. As were you. It is this control that keeps me from plundering you here and now because the soft flesh of your thighs is heaven to the man who has seen war. A heaven he wants to possess, and in that possession… he usually destroys.”

Celestine shuddered at such words. Maybe this was his way? The Red Lord stared at her.

He is summer’s heat made manifest. Or perhaps, summer is his heat made manifest…

“But, I am also the honorable challenge of men. Of contest. Of life itself. My name is screamed in the clash of battle. In the groans of childbirth. In the breaking of a castle wall.”

“I have won the right to your first touch, but I have not won that itself. Do not fear my savagery, for everything is earned in my realm. When you die in the red bannered realm of summer, it is the hand that slays you that becomes your heir.”

A great fortress came into view, in a lightly wooded valley. Red stone and banners, square stout spires greeted her.

“This is my home, called Scalehall.”

“It is lovely,” Celestine said. Even as the word escaped her lips she knew it was the wrong one. The castle was strong. Defiant. Dominant. It cut into the veil of reality, daring for it to be opposed.

“We will march the rest of the way,” Encarmine declared, pulling his reins. Celestine hopped down, seeing into the valley a small village that bore his banners and another great town further away.

Where am I?

“Your people are industrious.”

“They prepare.” Encarmine swung from the horse, his circlet tied to a sash on his belt. His mount sped away without a command. He threw a pack of plain cloth around his shoulders, carrying his shield and sword there as well. The speared banner became his walking stick.

Celestine felt the warmth of the sun and shut her eyes. If she was to die, or fall to his touch, earned or not, she would at least enjoy the steadiness of a sun. It had been so long since there had been a season she could depend upon. It was relentless. Bountiful.

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