Page 2 of Fear the Flames
My fingers tuck the mask on one of my ears and reach down to make sure all my knives are secure on my legs. My black fighting leathers cling to me on a normal day, but the rain has practically turned them into a second skin. I straighten myself out and brush my knuckles over the two knives secured on my corset before tucking the strands that have fallen from my braid behind my ears. Finnian is also dressed in his black leathers. A sword hangs low on his hips, but the weapon he favors is secured around his chest—a brown bow and a quiver filled with arrows made by his own hands. He brushes his fingers through their feathers and turns to face me.
“Feeling bloodthirsty tonight?” His blue eyes dance with mischief as the lantern light dances across his round, freckle-dusted face.
“Always.” I shrug a shoulder as a smirk lifts the corner of my lips.
He laughs softly, but his humor disappears almost as quickly as it appeared. “Do you think Vareveth will cross the Terrwyn?”
I drum my fingers on the top of my thighs and shake my head. “It’s not as if the risks of the forest are kept a secret.”
Some people, clans and cults included, take their worship farther than others that inhabit our continent, Erebos, and worship the gods on godly land. The places where it’s rumored our lost gods sleep. God land is scattered throughout our world, Ravaryn, and I imagine it’s just as dangerous on any other continent as it is on ours. Temple ruins are scattered throughout the Terrwyn, which has come in handy for a shelter on more than one occasion, but that’s as far as my relationship with the gods goes. Maybe I’ll mutter a prayer or two when my menstrual cramps are obscenely awful, but I’ve learned to make my own fate rather than leave it in the hands of something I can’t see.
“Fair point,” Finnian shrugs his shoulders. “What’s the plan? That is if you have one.”
“Of course, I have a plan.” He brings a hand to his chest and sucks in a dramatic gasp that makes me want to reach up and twist his ear. I level him with a glare and continue, “You stick to the lower levels and see what you can find out from the soldiers that are too deep in their pints. I’ll spy through the floorboards on the higher-ranking soldiers. I fear that if Vareveth is conquered, Garrick will continue pushing north until he controls all of Erebos.”
Finnian nods, unphased by my proclamation. I’ve spoken my fears to him on numerous occasions. I’ve been a queen from the first moment we decided to open up Aestilian to refugees. I must always prioritize my citizens’ safety and wellbeing, even when it puts my own in danger.
“Keep your eyes sharp; I won’t hear the end of it from Ailliard if I bring you back all bloodied up again,” Finnian remarks.
“Me? Reckless? I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I feign confusion.
“Very funny, Elowen.” He crosses his leather-clad arms over his chest. “Mask up,” he winks while walking past me toward the tavern entrance.
ChapterTwo
Ienter the tavern a few minutes after Finnian. We never stay together on these missions, so it’s best if we don’t enter anywhere at the same time. Our strategy has always been to divide and conquer but find our way back to each other if something goes wrong.
The creaky door falls shut behind me, and I’m encompassed in a sea of off-key musicians and raised voices. I’ve never been a fan of noisy places, but Finnian thrives in them. It’s what makes us a good pair. I peer through the crowd and spot him already sitting at the bar, surrounded by several dark green cloaks. His damp ginger hair catches in the lantern light as he throws his head back in a boisterous laugh. I can’t hear him from here, but the song of his laughter is a melody that’s stitched into my brain.
I steady my footing on the uneven floor while making my way to the dark staircase in the corner of the tavern. Keeping my head down while I weave through the mismatched tables filled with soldiers playing cards or shouting for another round of drinks. Nobody turns toward me; they’re all too absorbed in whatever is in front of them. There’s a back section to this tavern, a quieter one, where the generals usually gravitate toward. At least, that’s how it’s always been whenever I’ve come here to spy on Feynadra or Urasos whenever they’ve made their way across the Fintan—neither kingdom is as powerful as Vareveth, and usually end their border patrols here.
The tavern is as plain on the inside as it is on the outside. There’s no point for fuss and frills when everyone here just comes for a single purpose—to get drunk while passing through. Wooden beams shoot up toward the ceiling to support the second floor. The walls are completely bare, save for the rusting lanterns nailed in place. Puddles of candle wax have hardened on the floor and only grow larger as time passes. The crowds here often get rowdy and would most likely ruin any form of art after shoving someone into the walls.
Aside from the soldiers Finnian has weaved his way into, the tavern is filled with locals, travelers, merchants, and people who seem far too interested in the table in front of them for me to think they’re here to do anything in accordance with godly law. Not that I care, but if you’re going to dabble in deviance then at least make an effort to hide it.
My eyes water as I walk through thick clouds of pipe smoke that waft through the small tavern. I stick to the shadows along the wall and take my first step up the rickety staircase. It creaks so loudly that if I hadn’t done this ascent countless times, I would think the wood isn’t strong enough to hold any kind of weight. But I continue my journey without a second thought, dodging cobwebs along the way.
I pause at the top of the stairs, straining my ears to tune into any signs of movement or breathing, but nothing reaches me. It’s an open attic, but it’s filled with bags of grain, barrels of wine and ale, dust-filled furniture, and anything else the tavern may need. It’s the perfect place to escape to for dalliances in the dark. No candles line the walls. The only light infiltrating the space comes from moonlight trickling through holes in the roof and lantern light rising from cracks in the floorboards.
My steps are light even though nobody in the tavern will be able to hear them over the noise. The last thing I want is some dust raining down into one of their drinks, giving me away before I’ve even had the chance to acquire any information. I navigate the floor while picturing the layout of the tavern in my mind—traveling to the section where I know the generals sit, furthest away from the fiddles and flutes. The people that sit there are the ones who have the information worthy of squatting in an attic. I cringe while looking down at the dirt and dust-covered floorboard that I’ll be pressing my ear to. It’s the usual crack I press my ear on, but it’s far dirtier than usual. I sigh while sinking to my knees and wipe my cloak over the spot to clean it as best as I can.
I take a knife from my thigh before lying on my stomach and pressing my ear to the small crack. The familiar steel is a welcome presence in my palm. Ever since I escaped Imirath, I’ve never gone a single day without a knife—even before I knew how to use them. My stomach sours in the familiar way it does whenever I think of Imirath, but I shake my thoughts to the back of my mind. I close my eyes and let all other noises fall away, zoning in on the conversation that ignorantly drifts into my ears as smoke rises through air.
“Eagor may be a pushover sometimes, but he won’t give up on this,” a deep male voice rumbles.
“He doesn’t have a choice. Cayden won’t let him,” a sharp feminine voice answers.
Cayden.
I’ve heard of him.
They’re talking about their commander, Cayden Veles. He’s both the youngest and most feared warlord on the continent. I don’t know much about him other than the fact he’s the only person with enough guts to take on Imirath. Every other commander before him bargained with the threat to appease Garrick. Cayden Veles is the first and only commander to bring war back to Imirath rather than beg for a bandage on an already bleeding wound.
Whether his decision stems from confidence or arrogance, I don’t care.
“He’s tired of losing soldiers at the border in pointless skirmishes. He needs to make a big move and he knows that. The tension is nearly at a boiling point as is,” the same male voice cuts through the music.
“Yes, but this war will be over before it even begins if Garrick finds a way to control the dragons.” My eyes snap open and shock surges through my body. My heart pounds so rapidly that I worry it’s knocking like a fist against the floor. Garrick doesn’t let anything slip about the dragons. The only reason I know they’re alive is because I would have felt their death. The bond I share with them would have broken, and any text I’ve scoured reassured me that I would feel it—an excruciating pain, many of them said. He would be a fool to kill them. The mere threat of the dragons keeps all of Ravaryn from his borders.
