Page 104 of A Rising Hope

“No, my love.” I smiled softly. “For a moment like this.” I tilted her chin up, ignoring my shaking hands, as my body felt ready to plummet away from consciousness.

My lips met hers. At first a gentle stroke, then stronger.

There was a chance she’d slap me across the face for stealing a kiss so selfishly. I’d deserve it too.

And yet she kissed me back. My heart and my body trembled at the feeling.

An eerie chill filled the room as our lips connected. Our longing souls ignited flames brighter than all the glowing stars of the universe.

“I’d die a thousand more deaths for a moment like this,” I murmured against her lips, stealing a breath from her.

“I’ll kill you myself twice as many times should you ever dare to abandon me again,” Finnleah murmured against my chest. “Now”—She weaseled herself out of my arms, a heartbeat too soon for my liking—“you’ve got your kiss, start talking.”

“I’d hardly call that a kiss. It was barely a peck.” I gave her a smug look, sitting down on the edge of the bed as the last remnants of energy abandoned me. “But perhaps if we try again, you could find my tongue more useful.”

She shook her head, desire and annoyance mixed in a very fiery concoction.

“You forget that I am the Goddess of Justice not of patience. So, better start talking.”

“As you wish,my Goddess,” I drawled out slowly. My back rested against one of the posts and I patted a spot near me inviting for her to sit. She thought about it, craved it too. There was no denying it, and yet she theatrically took a seat across from me near a mismatched array of pillows.

“Did you know I was a goddess, or appointed to be one?” she asked.

“No,” I took another look at her, marveling at her divinity, at her beauty, at her sheer power. “But I had my theories after I found out about your powers,” I answered honestly, setting aside all jokes and my taunting tone.

The occasional trembling of the ground stopped, and quiet serenity filled the air.

“Why didn’t you tell me that was a possibility?”

“I did.” I groaned from shooting pain as I reached for her legs, resting her feet atop my thighs. “I recall you thinking I was insane for that.”

“How did you know that you were a god?”

My hands massaged her tight calves, my heart soothed that she’d allow me closer, pleased to see her shoulders eased as she settled further into the pillows.

“Well, for half of my life, I didn’t. The circumstances of my birth were quite peculiar, as you are aware. Destroyers don’t have children with Magic Wielders. Besides, traditionally and culturally, even in the very rare cases they did have relationships, the magic didn’t usually mix well to begin with not allowing such a result. Until my father, of course. The Great Betrayal was bad enough on its own. But the result—my existence—was much worse. Not only was there a child out of wedlock, a bastard, but I was the first with mixed-blood, a hybrid, a cursed child wielding raw fire. Diamara and my uncle spent their entire lives squashing any rumors of my birth mother’s true origins.”

“But what they didn’t quite prepare for is that to many Destroyers, being a bastard son of the Destroyer Emperor was big enough cause to be sentenced to death, regardless of me having mixed magic. So, even before I knew my own name, the most skilled assassins hunted me.”

Her curious look was on me. I adjusted my back, still keeping her legs atop of mine.

“My uncle tried to keep me safe, but when I was barely six years of age, they succeeded. He found me dead with a dagger in my heart on my bed that night. Two days later, they were embalming my body when I woke up. I don’t remember much about what happened then. But I know my uncle hid me away and invited every person that knew of my death to a sham funeral. At the mourning feast, he locked them all in the dining hall and burned them. But he knew that would not be enough to hide the truth. So he spread rumors that there was an attempt on my life and my raw fire had killed the attackers. But since as a child I was still working on properly controlling of it, my fire killed the rest of the attendees as well. So he declared that it was a freak accident in the name of survival.”

I slowly worked on unlacing her boots, taking them off, massaging down from her calves to her feet.

“My uncle was the one who gave me the nickname. ‘Little Lord of Death,’ he called me. A worthy nickname for a child that had survived an assassination attempt and committed a mass murder all in the same afternoon. I must say such a reputation did wonders for my popularity.” My lips stretched with a crooked grin, reminiscent of the memory. “As a child, I didn’t question it much, neither did my uncle, writing off our secret as some odd miracle.”

My hands froze on her toes, frowning at number of blisters, skin bloodied almost to the bone in some spots.

“Finnleah . . . ” This time it was my scornful look thrown in her direction. “Why are you torturing yourself? What happened to the boots I got for you?”

“Lost. And I didn’t quite have the time for shopping, so I found ones that fit.” She dismissed me, pulling her feet away, but I held her ankles, not letting go.

“Except they don’t fit.” The muscle in my jaw twitched, and like a dull knife, frustration nudged me in my heart at the sight of her torn feet.

“They serve their purpose as boots and my feet fit into them, so they are good enough,” she argued. “Now continue the story or I will wear the too small of a pair of shoes forever.” She narrowed her eyes on me. I matched her daring look. She waited, and I caved to her gaze. Submitting to her demand, I continued talking, though in the back of my mind I wondered how many shoemakers would have to die by sunrise, should I not find the perfect pair of boots for her.

“The second time I died when I was ten. That time it was an accident a during sparring session, though looking back, I am not so sure it was entirely an accident. Severed neck, bled out within minutes. But three days later, I woke up alive, no rhyme or reason as to why. So my uncle did what he had done before, and executed every single witness of the incident. At that point as a kid I understood something was off, but I had little knowledge as to why or what exactly was different about me causing such bizarreness. The third time was when I was fourteen, my uncle killed me.”

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