Page 1 of Kingdom of Shadows and Wings

Chapter One

The night before fate sets fire to my life begins with more chaos than usual.

Skulking in a corner, I nibble a flaky pastry stuffed with seasoned meat and wonder if it’s too soon to make my escape. A small crowd of female guests mills about Castle Axton’s great hall, chatting and laughing in gowns that sparkle like gemstones beneath the crystal chandeliers. Wine and mead perfume the air with fruity sweetness, and a string quartet strums a lively tune.

I press my back against the stone wall, relishing the chill that cools my overheated skin. Despite the vaulted ceilings, it’s hotter than hells in here. Louder too. Mother’s either losing her hearing or she’s a closet masochist, because the nobles she invites to these things always seem dead set on testing the upper limits of their vocal capacities.

With Leesa off at Flighthaven learning to fly alicorns—and eventually dragons—to protect Aclaris, I’m more starved for companionship than ever. I swear, though, some of these people make my hermit’s life sound appealing.

Cramming the last bite of pastry into my mouth, I drop my empty plate on a table and slip past colorful tapestries of dragons, paintings of the four elemental gods and goddesses—Ziva, Gallora, Terro, and Rivlan—and portraits of stuffy ancestors who don’t look a thing like me.

A few more steps to the staircase and then I can make a break for it.

“Lark, dear! Please come over here.”

Well, fuck. There goes that idea.

I swallow a sigh and switch directions. I dodge the tipsy woman who’s brandishing a full cup of mead like a sword, reaching my mother and her friends unscathed. In her emerald silk gown with her golden curls piled atop her head, Lady Lynnea Axton creates a striking picture. Familiar concern shadows her brown eyes as she subjects me to a head-to-toe inspection.

I try to smother the burn of resentment in my chest.

I love my mother. I just wishherlove wasn’t so godsdamned suffocating.

On the one hand, I get it. Losing a husband and almost losing a child in a Tirenese attack would be enough to destroy anyone’s world. But Ziva save us, that happened fifteen years ago, when I was four. I’m nineteen now. Surely, enough time has lapsed span for her fear to subside.

Although, I have to admit, certain aspects of my current life add to her stress too.

I’m not proud of what I’m about to do next, but I have somewhere to be, and the party will only keep her attention diverted for so long. Mother would lose her ever-loving mind if she learned about my unsanctioned rides to the village.

Pinning a grimace on my face, I clutch my head, adding a little moan for good measure.

As predicted, my mother’s brow creases. “Lark, darling, are you dizzy again?”

“Afraid so.” I ignore the guilt gnawing at my gut and massage my temples. “May I be excused? I thought I might feel better, but the noise?—”

“Of course. Have Hilda prepare you a bath.”

“Maybe later. I just need to rest.”

She engulfs me in a rose-scented hug. “You do that.”

I duck my head and flee the great hall, doing my best to avoid the pitying looks that follow. My mother’s friends must wonder how two sisters could be so different. Leesa is strong, healthy, and plans to use her affinity for fire to defend Aclaris and become a dragonrider. Basically, she’s a badass. Meanwhile, I’m the weakling sister who suffers from frequent dizzy spells and possesses the magical ability of a potato.

At least, that’s what everyone believes. Only Mother and I know about the daily remedy I take to suppress my magic. The concoction worked like a charm too…up until last week, when the king’s representative arrived at our gate to administer an unscheduled retest. The amount of fire I summoned was pitiful, barely enough to fill a thimble. Still, that one tiny spark was enough to send my worrywart mother into meltdown mode.

Upstairs, I dart into my bedchamber and sag against the door. I know my mother has good intentions, but that means fuck all during those times when my existence behind the castle walls feels like a slow death in a luxury prison.

A few years ago, one of the gardener’s little boys caught a pretty yellow bird. He caged the bird and carried it everywhere, singing to it, providing a steady supply of worms and beetles dug fresh from the garden, and keeping the cage by his bed when he slept. But despite his tender care, the bird started bashing her head against the bars. The gardener’s boy sobbed, asking why his treasured pet hurt herself.

To me, the answer was obvious. All the love and pampering in the world couldn’t compensate for the thing the bird desired most.

Freedom.

Sometimes, I relate to the bird a little too much. Only, in my story, the cage is partly of my own making. For good reason.

I never want to hurt anyone again.

Shying away from the troubling direction of my thoughts, I strip off the blue gown and stuff the garment in the armoire, where it’s swallowed by a rainbow of other dresses. In the last drawer, buried at the bottom, I find my sole pair of trousers. Next, I fish out a roomy, hand-me-down tunic and tug it over my head.

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