Page 3 of Fear the Flames
My dragons.
The secret my father wishes he could’ve kept but never stood a chance. When I was born, my parents threw a ball in celebration of their heir. All the kingdoms were invited, including Galakin. The queen at the time didn’t think she was doing anything wrong by bringing her court seer. It’s custom for the courts that still utilize magic to bring their seers and offer a piece of good fortune for the guest of honor.
The seer laid five dragon eggs at the foot of my cradle and began tapping into her magic. The prophecy foretold that my soul is forged in flames, which gives me a link to five dragons. She called mea firestorm made flesh. The eggs hatched in the ballroom and out sprung five baby dragonsthat perched around my cradle. Instead of my parents seeing this as leverage for Imirath, my father only saw it as mutiny. He feared I would overthrow him once I grew up, and my link and dragons grew stronger.
I went from being a princess to a prisoner overnight.
Shaking my head, I force myself to refocus on the conversation below me. Now isn’t the time to get myself worked up and miss out on information. Ignorance will get me nowhere, and I’ll be damned before I let my emotions get in the way of gaining leverage.
“Cayden has a plan for that—you know he’s always scheming or plotting,” the male voice says.
“Well, let’s see if this scheme follows through. Maybe the Atarah heir will be living in a tent somewhere in the forest.” A chill creeps up my spine, and I inhale a breath so sharp that my facemask clogs my airways. One of my hands tightens around the hilt of my knife while the other pulls the mask below my chin. The laughter that’s shared below me doesn’t infiltrate my emotions; my mind and body are buzzing in a mixture of surprise and adrenalin.
Vareveth soldiers are here...because they’re looking for me.
“Hear anything interesting, little shadow?” a deep voice drawls from the top of the stairs. My fingers pull my mask up, and I snap my head from the floor before pushing myself to my feet. My eyes peer across the space and take in a large, male figure leaning against the entrance. He kicks off the door frame and slowly walks in my direction, the wood creaking under his heavy footsteps.
“Not really.” I shrug while twirling the knife in my hand, letting the silver blade catch moonlight along the edge.
“Do you often gasp at idle gossip?” he asks while coming to a stop a few feet in front of me. His eyes dance over my body, taking in my leathers and knives before flickering back to my face. A shard of moonlight filters through a crack in the roof and dances across one of his angular cheekbones as if it longs to reach out and touch him. A jagged white scar stretches from the corner of his right eye, across his cheek, and ends close to the corner of his lip.
“I saw a spider,” I answer while I continue to take him in. Black armor rests on his broad shoulders and hugs his muscular torso and arms. The same black metallic material hugs his thighs and travels down his calves. His tall frame is clad with weapons; several knives line his legs, two short swords are strapped around his waist, and I spy the handle of a broadsword peaking over his shoulder.
It makes sense for the soldier to be wearing armor. It’s stronger than leathers, and he’s a far distance from Vareveth. He doesn’t need to open his mouth for me to be able to tell where he’s from—the condition of his armor gives his station away.
“Hm,” he muses, the rest of his face still coated in darkness aside from his cheek. “It’s too bad that I know you’re lying, considering I know exactly who you were listening to.”
Damn it.
Maybe he’s more than an infantry soldier.
“Perhaps you should go back to them. Surely, they’re missing you much more than I will,” I suggest in an aloof tone.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you?” he asks, ignoring my previous suggestion.
Nobody ever noticed me before.
Even Finnian has commended my ability to move like a ghost through a crowd.
He’s standing in between me and the only exit from the attic. My only other option is to jump from the window. I’ve jumped from higher, but Finnian is still downstairs, and there are too many soldiers between him and the tavern exit. I assess his size, still twirling my knife…I’ve taken down larger.
My hand tightens around the hilt of my knife, and I advance on the man a split second before he advances on me. I slam my fist into his jaw and ignore the throbbing sensation in my knuckles that follows. He hardly even flinches back and grips my wrist before I have the chance to draw my hand back. I shove my leg forward to knee him between his legs, but he senses my move before I make it and shifts away from the hit. He takes advantage of my off-balanced stance and pries the knife from my hand. He tosses it to the side and yanks me toward him, taking my other wrist in his other hand, and slams my back into the wall.
“Now that we got that out of the way, what did you hear?” The light is just strong enough for me to make out an arrogant smirk and the intensity that laces his gaze.
“I think you should have pinned me to a wall in a bigger room. I don’t think it’s large enough to accommodate your ego.” I strain against his hold.
He quirks a dark brow, and his smirk grows. “Knives, spying, and a sharp tongue. You’re playing a dangerous game,” he tsks, “because I’m intrigued.” His eyes dance over my face again but snag on my mask, “May I take that off?”
My heart skips a beat, but I don’t let it show through my eyes, which I narrow into slits. I already know the game he’s playing—if I say no, he’ll know I’m a person that doesn’t want to be found. Which isn’t entirely true. I just want to enter the game on my own terms, and I know he’s part of the soldiers looking for me.
I roll my eyes, “You have me pinned to a wall, and yet you’re asking permission to remove my mask?”
“Chivalry’s not entirely dead.” He presses me further into the wall and angles his head closer to mine. If he thinks I’ll crumble, he’ll find himself mistaken. I’ve faced larger threats than a soldier in an attic. An idea sparks in the back of my mind—he’ll have to hold my wrists in one hand to take my mask off. He’s underestimating me. Probably because of our size difference.
I nod my head and keep still as he slides my left hand against the wall, bringing it closer to my right. His grip on my left wrist loosens, and his index finger brushes against the column of my wrist. I yank forward and rip my left hand free, punching him in the chest. He stumbles back and I take advantage of the situation. My leg flies forward, and Ifinallyknee him where the sun doesn’t shine. He lets out a groan of pain as I drop to a squat in front of him and swipe my leg under him. His back slams into the floor with a loud bang.
I really hope nobody heard that.
