Page 2 of A Chill in the Flame
Those who manifested possessed creation itself in their very fingertips, and with that ability came an immortality beyond the simplistic understanding of an undying life.
Manifestation could be beautiful, incredible, powerful, and good.
Manifestation could be destructive, wicked, and terrible.
Manifesters were the end of the world.
Manifesters were its beginning.
Part I
Seasons of Flame & Flower
One
Now
She’d never enjoyed being cold and would prefer not to die shivering.
Sea spray had flecked Ophir’s face for so many years. She gazed across the salty water, paying special attention to the silver moon rippling on its surface, as she wondered if there was someone on the shores of the Etal Isles staring back at her. She’d always wanted to visit the Isles. It was one of the many things she’d hoped to do. There were so many foods and drinks she’d wanted to taste. Mouths she’d wanted to kiss. Lives she’d wanted to live. They didn’t matter now.
She abandoned the shore and stepped into the blood-dark waters. The warm, night-black liquid sent her spiraling into visions of gore once more. She flinched against the onslaught of clanging metal, of lifeless eyes, of pushing and screams and the horrors that led her to this moment. Her hands were clean now, but she looked upon her thin, pale fingers in the moonlight and was only able to see the crimson-stained memories of her failure.
She wouldn’t have to withstand it much longer.
The goddess must have approved of Ophir’s plan, for no one stopped her that night. She eyed the diamond-brightstars and guessed the time at just past the four o’clock bell, which explained why Aubade was so quiet. It was too late for drunkards and too early for bakers. This was the only hour when even a princess could wander barefoot in a flimsy, cotton shift through the castle.
It was time.
Ophir waded into the waves and frowned as water saturated the dress’s thin material. The clinging fabric was unpleasant. She balled the shift in her fists and pulled it over her head to stand bare beneath the crescent moon. Her nakedness felt appropriate, as if it were the last thing to declare that she had nothing to live for, and nothing to lose.
Another step and the waves licked her calves. One more and they were at her knees. Ophir wondered how far the sand would stretch before it fell off into the ocean below. Perhaps it was an answer she should have known, but the king and queen had never allowed her to wander more than a few arms’ lengths into the sea. Fae could live splendidly long lives if they weren’t cut short by a riptide, or something as stupid as trusting a man.
Men. Ophir’s lip twitched in a thinly controlled sneer as the poisonous word touched her.
Her sister, Caris, had known how to swim but knew little of men. Ophir, on the other hand, considered herself an expert in the rougher sex, but when it came to the water, she’d managed a few basic lessons before deciding the sea was best left for merfolk and sailors. If the sisters wanted to see the ocean, they could sit on a pleasure boat with other members of high society and sip mulled wine while an aged captain told tales of the high seas. It was the safest way to dabble with either danger.
Such caution was useless to either of them now.
Caris, delicate and fair, was a flower snipped before it could fully blossom. Where Caris was soft, Ophir was rough. Where Caris was the selfless humanitarian, Ophir took life for a ride. Caris’s eyes sparkled blue like springtime rain, hercheeks bloomed rosy, her voice was a sweet song, her hair glimmered like sunlight. Ophir had inherited the hardness of her father’s crown-gilded eyes, the subdued plainness of her mother’s gold-brown hair, and a face that felt common in comparison with her sister’s angelic features.
Caris was the people’s princess. Their beacon. The hope of a kingdom.
She was Ophir’s better in every way, though she would have rebuked Ophir for thinking such.
Sorrow and rage turned sour in the pit of her belly as she pushed aside her final view of Caris—the sister who should have lived.
A piece of sea kelp brushed against Ophir’s leg, though she paid it no mind. Whether it be weeds or eels or fabled water wraiths, it didn’t matter. Warm, rhythmic saltwater swallowed her thighs, then her hips, then her navel, then her breasts. She kicked off the sandy bottom and relaxed onto her back. The steady pounding of waves against the cliffs became a dull thrum as she submerged her ears and looked up at the stars. The moon was traveling across the sky faster than she liked. In an hour or so, the castle would stir. By the time the attendants found her empty bed, it would be too late.
Ophir closed her eyes and let the current carry her. The waves’ nostalgic rocking returned her to infancy, as if in her final moments she might find comfort in her life ending just as it had begun. This was the last bassinet.
A blast of cold water enveloped her, and she knew she’d finally left the safety of the sandy bottom and drifted into open ocean. She frowned against the unpleasant chill. The waves became less like a cradle and more like an assault as they broke over her. Ophir sputtered out the water, gagging on the brine as she tried to remain on her back. Her eyes stung from the salt, but any attempt to rub them offset her balance. Another wave shoved her to the side, pushing her under the water.
“Fuck.” Ophir emerged from the black water and chokedon the curse. Instinct took over as she struggled to tread the dark water, if only to keep her head above the waves.
Her panic tied itself to the cold. She didn’t want to die in discomfort. She was supposed to float off in peace.
Another briny wave attacked her eyes, ears, nose, and throat. It was a struggle to find her way to the surface as her hands and legs fought to call upon the muscle memory required of treading water, creating tired circles with her arms and legs.
