Page 8 of The Phoenix Inheritance

Dane

As of today, I no longer bear the mark of our encounter. My wrist has healed, Isobel’s bandage stripped off.

Now that the memento is gone, the hour or two I spent by the Solenz lake feels like a dream. A strange stretch of my life spent in a whitewashed land, in the company of a slip of a woman who looked sunbleached as well. A quiet, timeless moment that doesn’t fit in the pattern my existence has followed up until now.

Especially when my father is hollering something from the other end of the table.

“Dane, do you think Warwick was woolgathering when he captured that vile Hunter?”

I shake my head and focus on my surroundings. Dark stone walls, lush crimson tapestries and the burnished glint of precious metals everywhere. Nothing like Isobel’s pale, simple cottage.

“No,” I mutter with downcast eyes. “Warwick excelled as ever.”

Father grunts in approval. “You should take after your brother, instead of trying to do foolhardy things your own way. It’s what lands you into futile situations where you sprain your wrist. As our son, you’ve got it in you to be great.”

I nod, still fixing my plate. Father is in a good mood today. Surely because of Warwick’s exploits. Last night my perfect sibling succeeded in abducting Ehren, a notorious member from the group of humans who call themselves Hunters. They’re enemies of the state, as they rebel against the rule of phoenixes in Sowilo.

A supremacy that is perfectly justified and that all other subjects of the Kingdom agree to. Superior strength makes our kind nearly undefeatable, but if that fails, the ability to be reborn from ashes assures any state ruled by a phoenix stability and power no other leader can rival.

“A letter came from Oþala,” my father rumbles, pulling me away from my thoughts. “The King’s eldest daughter, Thyra, has reached twenty-five and still hasn’t become a Phoenix. He was inquiring about an engagement.”

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I keep my eyes downcast – or else the fiery resentment within may show.

“I would rather wait.”

A few seconds of heavy silence. “So be it.”

I sag in relief. As the conversation veers away from me, my brother pokes me in the ribs. I scowl as soon as I catch sight of his sprightly face. If he was a cute kid, Warwick matured into an annoyingly good-looking man.

“You should know that I don’t believe your story about practicing sword fighting in the woods one minute,” he mutters with a mirthful blue gaze. “I think you were with a woman, and that you sprained your wrist because you got a bit too adventurous with positions.”

I roll my eyes despite the heat rising in my face. “You always think I’m with a woman,” I point out dryly. “Just because you tend to think you're in love quite easily, doesn’t mean we’re all like you.”

It so happens Warwick isn’t that far off this time – Isobel is a woman, after all. Perhaps not the prettiest one in all of Sowilo, and perhaps the moment we spent together wasn’t quite along the lines Warwick is thinking. But there’s no denying that she’s, well, not a man.

He lifts a jaunty brow. “Maybe it would wipe off that permanent scowl from your face,” he taunts. “Listen to your big brother’s advice. There’s nothing more incredible than feeling a woman’s beautiful, bare –”

Before I can turn a redder shade of puce over the mere idea of doing that with Isobel, my mother’s shrill voice interrupts our conversation:

“You’re purposefully avoiding your duties, as ever! The Hunter needs to be executed, and you know it!”

Warwick’s teasing grin drops as our attention turns to our parents.

“Elisende dear,” our father says in an uncharastically sheepish voice. “Ehren can give us the names of other rebels in his group. Better loosen his tongue a bit, and trust that with my methods, he will be begging for the axe by the time we–”

“Excuses!” the Queen, my father’s mate cries so piercingly my glass rattles. “He’s human. He deserves to be killed, no less!”

Isobel is human too.

For the first time my mother’s antics cause me more than vague discomfort. My heart seizes uncontrollably, and something like panic breaks into my veins.

I don’t have much of a soft spot for humans myself. They’re weak, they’re pitiful and their lives are so short they’re meaningless. I’ve spent the better part of my life praying I’m not mortal myself. Death would be a better plight.

That is, until I fell from a cliff straight into a mousy-haired mortal’s fishing nets.

Isobel looks like a strong breeze would blow her off her feet. Her isolated existence by the shores of a dead lake is worlds away from the glory I yearn for, the kind that’s recorded in history books and battle chronicles.

Yet somehow, I can’t say that she’s weak. Neither pitiful, nor meaningless.

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