Page 16 of Of Flames and Fallacies

She waits. Watching me expectantly with a tilted head. Her gaze shifts back and forth between me and the mouse.

I shake my head with a muffled laugh as I realize what she’s asking. “No...thank you. I umm...you have it.”

She slurps up the mouse, taking two quick chomps before she swallows it whole and slides herself into my lap. I absent-mindedly run a few fingertips between the horns crowning her head down to where her shoulders meet her spine. In the amount of time we’ve been together, she is already nearly the size of a kitten.

I trace interlocking circles over her back, lulling her into a slumber as I flip open my father’s journal.

The first few weeks at the castle have been quiet. I was reassigned from my post at the library to deliveries, due to the previous guard breaking his ankle. I was thankful for the slow pace of the early weeks—it gave me enough time to settle my nerves. To get into the routine. I learned the only way to write in private is if I excuse myself for the bathroom. Any other moment is full of watching eyes or fading footsteps in the hallways.

During my first shift on deliveries, a batch of crates arrived with ‘FRAGILE’ written in large letters across the wood. As Itook the deliveries into the castle, a liquid sloshed inside the crates with each footstep.

My lead directed me to a new hallway and down a spiraling staircase. Halfway down the staircase the temperature dropped, and the humidity rose.

The castle sits atop a mountain, built into a towering cliff side. And with how many steps it took to get to the bottom of the stairs, I guessed I was in the basement, if there was such a thing.

No windows lined the walls. No doors. The only light to chase away the shadows came from the torch my lead held. We walked in darkness and silence until he came to a stop.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a thick, electric tension hung in the air. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He opened a large door, having me place the crates inside the dark room behind it. Collections of empty bottles and vials lined the walls and shelves.

It dawned on me, slowly. Wine. They were storing imported wine and beer. It all made sense—the King liked to throw extravagant balls and parties. Or so I had been told. But a party of this size would only indicate a large event…like a victory.

Like if you had won a war.

Today I asked another guard if it was only the King we guarded here. Or if anyone was assigned to guarding the royal family. He shushed me, his eyes wild as he looked around to make sure no one else was listening.

He gripped my elbow, his fingers sinking into my flesh as he pulled me into him. “You must never speak of them around the King.”

The guard admitted the King fathered many bastards and hadn’t married since his first wife. Apparently, our voiceswere hushed to protect the shame of the King’s children out of wedlock. Nobody knew of the King’s first wife, who she was, or what happened to her.

I learned the King had been alive for a long time when I was apprenticing in the Dragon Lands. He had ruled for almost one hundred and fifty years. The King’s lifespan was unheard of across the entire realm, and those in the kingdom had been spoon-fed a story that he was appointed by the gods to rule them. But few of us knew the truth of it.

I squint to read in the fading daylight, until I finally give up and close the journal. Fighting a yawn, I gather my belongings, place Daeja on my shoulders, and walk east. As I near Hornwood for the second time, the lights of homes flicker off for the night as people turn in for bed. I keep to the outskirts, slinking slowly between the trees as I watch the town’s perimeter.

As I pass the northern side of town, a shuffle breaks the silence of the night. I squint through the dim starlit forest, making out a group of men gathered near the town’s border.

I drop into a crouch behind a bush, and Daeja stirs against my neck with the sudden movement. Holding out a finger to silence her protest, I strain to listen.

From this distance, I should at least be able to pick up indistinct chatter. Slowly, I peek up over the top of the bush. Men slink through the shadows without a word among them, exchanging cryptic hand gestures and nods.

They’re speaking to each other in...sign language?

Their torches cast wicked shadows across their dark leathers. They break into smaller groups and spread out around the surrounding homes. Using rope, they tie double knots around the door handles, securing the other end to a wagon stacked heavy with boulders in the center of the road.

Horror grips me as several of the men drag their torches around the perimeters of the homes. When they finish, they throw their torches onto the roofs and disappear into the night.

Rebels. They’re trapping them!

I scramble for a plan and begin to weigh my options. When the last of the men disappear into the night, my moment of opportunity presents itself.I have to help them.Smoke snakes in the sky, and distant shouts pierce through the quiet. I run for the nearest house, my satchel slamming against my hip, and Daeja’s talons sinking into my shoulders. I pause once I reach the front door. I’m instantly brought back to that night at my home. To how helpless I felt.

I push through the overwhelming emotions.

Using my dagger, I try to shear the rope, pushing the blade hard and fast against the thick cord. But it doesn’t budge.

Fuck! This isn’t working.

Sweat begins to coat my hands, my neck, everything. The blade is far too slippery in my hands, and I’m not strong enough to cut the cord.

The door shudders and stills. Shudders and stills. I spot a small window to the top right of the door and push onto my toes to look in.

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