Page 6 of King of Flames and Shadows

The wagon picks up speed, jostling me roughly as it rolls away from the village. I twist around, straining against the ropes to catch one last glimpse of the only place I’ve ever known.

Essenborn is burning. For all the times I had wished for it, I didn’t ever imagine it would feel this way.

The fire rages unchecked, consuming everything in its path. The baker’s shop, the tavern, the little cottages with their sagging roofs and flower-filled windows. All of it—gone, swallowed by the inferno. The flames rise higher and higher, casting a blood-like glow against the storm-black sky.

And as the wagon carries me away, I watch it all disappear: the village that hated me, that feared me, that was still mine in some twisted, painful way. I watch it burn, reduced to nothing but ash and smoke.

“Why?” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

The soldier at the reins doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead, expression blank and unfeeling.

A hot tear slides down my cheek. I bury my face against my knees, my entire body trembling with shock and fear and helpless, aching grief.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, curled up in the corner of the wagon as the world around me fades into darkness. But when I finally lift my head, the village is gone. The smoke and flames are nothing but a distant smear on the horizon.

Essenborn is no more.

And I … I am alone.

The wagon creaks and groans as it rumbles southward, the road stretching endlessly before us, the dark, hulking shape of the king not far ahead. I close my eyes, the bitter taste of ash still clinging to my tongue.

This is just the beginning, I know. Whatever awaits me in Millrath—whatever the king has planned for me—it will be worse than anything I could have imagined.

But I have no choice but to fight until my dying breath.Survive,my grandmother’s voice whispers in my head, in my soul. She is one of a chorus of voices, women who I have never known, those who came before.

Survive. Survive. Survive.

Chapter 3 - Arvoren

We return to Millrath in the late afternoon. My courtiers bring her to me at dusk for presentation.

It has been a long week. My sword hungers for blood, and despite myself, my body hungers for a mate, a woman I have awaited acquainting myself with since first I saw her.

I considered bedding her on the long journey south, on long nights spent listening to her weep like a child in her wagon, bound at the wrists and feet. But she was filthy, and I knew, somehow, that the continued suspense would cow her, unsettle her.

I don’t want a feisty mate.

My courtiers show no sign of exhaustion as they enter my underchamber. Their shadows are long and twisted, stretching across the marble floor of the throne room like grasping hands. The air hums with a tangible tension, the echo of work boots on stone and the murmur of aristocrats and servants around me gone silent.

I sit in the shadows, half-hidden by the ornate, blackened ironwork that forms the crest of my throne, and watch as the handservants drag her forward.

She’s smaller than I remembered. Slim, almost frail-looking, with her head bowed and dark hair tumbling in a tangled curtain around her scarred face. They have changed her clothes and cleaned the blood from her face, but she still looks exhausted and unkempt. But even like this—half-broken, wrists bound with rough rope that bites into pale skin—there’s something about her. She has an aura I cannot describe.

I have met lords, sorcerers, criminals, murderers, kings and thieves. None have had the energy she has.

“Majesty.” The captain of my guard steps forward, bowing low, his voice reverberating through the still air. “We’ve brought the witch, as you commanded.”

I lean forward slightly, my gaze narrowing. The scent of smoke and sweat still clings to her, mingling with the faint, coppery tang of blood. Her dress, little more than a peasant’s shift, torn and muddied, is stained with the ash of a place that no longer exists. It has been a long journey for her.

“Lift your head,” I command, my voice echoing through the chamber. There’s no kindness in it, no softness. I am a conqueror. She must know this. I do not coddle or coax. I command.

She doesn’t obey.

A ripple of shock travels through the gathered courtiers, a faint rustle of disbelief. I feel a slow smile curl at the edges of my lips.

“Lift. Your.Head,” I say again, each word laced with steel.

And this time, she does.

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