Page 20 of Fear the Flames
“Which guard?” I ask through the premature feeling of homesickness.
“They’re all in my debt.” The corner of her mouth tilts up, looking very much like a spider watching flies getting tangled in her web. “You should be calling in the favors too. They can be such babies when getting stitched up.”
“Maybe I’ll start when I get back.” There’s no missing the way her smile and eyes dull at my words. She presses her lips together, suddenly looking serious.
“Remember what I said about not trusting their healers. You know more than them,” she states.
I smooth my palms over my thighs, “I don’t think trust is something I’ll find in Vareveth.”
She huffs, “That’s a good mentality to have, keep it. I imagine all courts are the same—they smile at your face and stab you in the back.”
“Well, at least I have new bandages.” I knock my knee into hers, but her eyes have a glossy sheen over them when I glance back at her face. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ll take care of yourself, right? The world,” she cuts herself off to clear her throat, “it’s not a kind place.” Her hardened eyes stare into the distance, but I know she’s not looking at the lake. She’s recalling the events of her past.
“I will, I always do,” I assure her.
She blinks, and her vulnerability disappears just as quickly as it came, “No, you stick out your neck for everyone else and say you’re fine until you’re bleeding puddles on my floor—puddles I’ve had to cover with rugs.”
“I’ll be far away from your pretty floors,” I jest. She reaches over and smacks her palm against the back of my head.
“Don’t get sassy with me. I didn’t train you just for you to bleed out in some foreign kingdom,” she declares while getting to her feet. “Come on, you’ll have to get going soon.” Her throat works on a swallow.
I follow her into the shop, taking one last look around and soaking in every detail I can. The chips in the paint, the tonics in glass vials on top of the fireplace, the half-finished cups of tea on her counter. She halts her footsteps by the front door and slowly turns to face me. I stay quiet, I know this is hard for her, and I want to give her whatever time she needs to formulate whatever she needs to say.
“Never let anyone make you feel guilty for letting yourself choose how you want to live your life,” she blinks her eyes rapidly, “and give those bastards the hell they deserve.” She reaches behind her to open the door, and I step forward to squeeze her hand, offering as much comfort as I can.
“I will.” She takes her hand from the brass knob to vigorously swipe tears away from her cheeks, hardening her features once again, with much more effort than earlier. “For both of us,” I promise.
She gives me a confident nod as I turn away from her, leaving her shop. The door shuts behind me, but I keep my eyes focused ahead of me. I don’t stray from the path my eyes have on my house; I don’t want to see any more afflicted faces. If I look at them, I’ll try to fix them. I’m sure everyone will be much happier when they see a cart filled with food rolling into Aestilian. I keep that image burned in my mind as I enter my house. I don’t think of anything else while I finish packing my trunk with everything I need. I only remove my satchel when I strip off my sweater and put on my black fighting gear.
I glance around my room, and a knot forms in my throat while I take in the horrendously painted flowers, mountains, moon, and stars I painted when I was bored. My eyes dance toward my reading chair and book wall, which has slightly fewer books because some books are undoubtedly essential. My knuckles graze over the handles of my silver knives that line my thighs, which always bring me a sense of comfort.
“You ready?” Finnian asks in a thick voice behind me. Inhaling a hard breath and lifting my chin, I turn on my heels to face him. He’s wearing his black fighting gear, a bow already strapped across his chest and a sword at his waist. His eyes are misty but filled with strength.
“Always,” I reply, shutting the door to my room behind me. My confidence builds with every step I take toward the front door. “You?”
“Absolutely,” he answers.
I take in all the details of our home while making my way to the door. Our height chart, the playing cards on the coffee table, the various blankets we covered ourselves in when we pulled all-nighters. On the wall beside each other hangs the first knife I ever threw and the first arrow Finnian ever fired that hit the center of a target.
Drawing my eyes away from everything, I whip the front door open and am greeted by the sound of cheers, hundreds of them. The people of Aestilian line the road, clapping and hollering. Some even wave from the upper windows of shops along the main road. A drum sounds in the distance, and my heart beats in tandem with the loud booms. Finnian and I stand side by side on the porch of our home. He holds his arm out to me, and I loop mine through his.
He leans down to speak over the cheers. “You were the first face I saw when I woke up in Aestilian; let me be the last face you see before you leave,” his voice wavers with emotion.
The knot in my throat grows tighter when I remember Finnian first arriving here. I don’t know who I would be without him. The first time I ever laughed in my entire life was with Finnian. My home isn’t the place we stand in front of; my home is standing beside me with his arm looped through mine.
“Together,” I say, giving his bicep a loving squeeze before he guides us down the center of the crowd.
For once in my life, I know I’m doing exactly what I need to do. I’m going exactly where I need to go. I can feel it in my soul. Yes, I want revenge, and I want my dragons; I’ll never deny that. The wicked side of me is not a side I can easily suppress. My blades call for payment in blood. But I’m not only doing this for me. I’m doing this for the people that had their worth stripped away from them. The people who have only received hatred at the hand of someone that should have loved them. The people that have been shoved into darkness and clawed their way out with the sheer willpower to survive. Imirath wants me dead, but I still stand. Only now, I stand with knives drawn and a crown on my head.
I wave to my people, reaching my hand out to anyone I pass, and brand this memory into my brain. I keep my hand tight on Finnian’s arm until we make our way through the cheering crowd. A few tears slip from my eyes when I mount my horse, but I wipe them away before anyone can see. My horse leads me into the mist, and I don’t look back to Aestilian as the cheers fade behind me.
ChapterTen
Atwig snaps next to me and I jolt awake, knife in hand. Finnian is beside me with an arrow locked in his bow. Both of us immediately prepared for the threat. But my body sags and my hand falls in my lap as soon as my vision clears, registering the sight of Ailliard standing in front of us with his palms raised.
“Knock next time,” Finnian grumbles before falling onto his back again. He drags me down with him, and the back of my head lands on his chest. It’s where I spent the night. I jolted awake every time I dozed off, thinking bugs were crawling in my hair, ears, nose, and mouth. Eventually, he got tired of watching me flop around like a fish out of water and told me to lay on him.
