Page 7 of King of Flames and Shadows

Slowly, painfully slowly, she raises her head and looks up at me.

Her eyes—Gods, those eyes—are like storm clouds in a winter sky: a tumultuous, seething gray that seems to shift and deepen the longer I look at them. They flash with defiance, with a raw, undiluted rage that catches me off guard.

There’s no fear there. No pleading. Just fury.

And beauty, too, though it’s a strange, almost otherworldly kind of beauty. She has the look of somethingwild and untamed, with her high, delicate cheekbones and lips stained the color of rose petals. Two long, pale scars lance down the side of her face, faded but deep. Her skin is so pale it seems to glow in the dim light, and a faint flush blooms across her cheeks, making her appear fragile and fierce all at once.

She’s a creature of contradictions. A thorned rose.

For a moment, our eyes lock, and I feel a strange, unwelcome something stirring deep in my chest. I’ve looked down on countless women over the years, nobles and peasants alike, some weeping, some trembling, all of them afraid. I’ve seen the terror in their eyes, the desperate hope that I’ll spare them.

But not this one.

This girl—this witch—is different.

She lifts her chin, the faintest quirk of a smile ghosting across her lips, as if daring me to do my worst.

“I am no witch,” she murmurs.

And then, before anyone can react, she spits at my feet.

The hall erupts. Gasps of shock. Murmurs of disbelief. Someone cries out. My guards step forward, hands on their swords, but I raise a hand, and they halt, eyes flickering uncertainly between me and the girl.

“Leave us,” I say softly.

Silence falls. The courtiers hesitate, glancing at one another in confusion. But then, one by one, they begin to file out, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

The guards follow, casting wary looks over their shoulders. I feel my soldiers’ stares on my back. But they will not dare interject.

Within moments, the throne room is empty, save for me, the girl, and the flickering shadows.

I rise slowly from my throne, the cold metal of my crown a weight on my brow. My boots ring sharply against the stone as I descend the steps, each stride measured and deliberate. She watches me approach, her eyes still locked on mine, unblinking.

I’m twice her size. That alone should terrify her. But of course, it does not.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous.

“Arvoren the Tyrant,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse but steady. “Where I’m from, people say you’re afraid of your own shadow.”

I move my hand. It’s hardly an inch—the faintest flicker of my fingers, like casting a spell. A flex of my potential power, but no real threat in it, just the barest movement.

Despite herself, despite all her bravado, the girl flinches so hard she topples to one side, skittering back from me.

It takes only a single moment for the flush of shame on her face to deepen. It takes all my willpower not to laugh at the display, at her bare weakness.

She takes a slow, deep breath. Then, gingerly, she pushes herself back up onto her knees, raising her gaze to meet mine once more.

Something tightens in my chest. The fear is gone from her face like it was never there. There is not a trace of it now. Only that same defiance, the simmering fury that makes her eyes blaze like twin coals.

“I should kill you for that,” I murmur, my voice silk-soft.

“Then do it,” she whispers back, chin tilting upward. “Go on. Prove that you’re as much of a coward as they say you are.”

My jaw clenches. Rage stretches its tendrils up inside me, hot and unwieldy. My fingers twitch for my weapon. I could rend her to pieces.

And then in her eyes, I see the truth of her desire.

She wants me to kill her. She’sdaringme to. And yet … there’s no trace of resignation in her face. No acceptance of death. It’s as if she knows—somehow—that I won’t.

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