Page 14 of A Chill in the Flame
The fire within Ophir flashed with anger. Her question became a demand as she repeated, “Why are you here, Dwyn?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I came south for the Isles.”
“No,” she said firmly, “why are you here on this cliff? Why bother to return after all of this time? You came into my life and then you left me. I felt like I was crazy—like it had never happened. Why did you leave? Furthermore, why did you bother coming back?”
The Sulgrave fae hummed while she considered. Her breath was a thoughtful, low note scarcely discernible above the sound of the birds and waves. She cocked her chin to the side, allowing the yellow-orange bars of sunset to light her profile.
“Maybe after all of these failed attempts to get to the Etal Isles, I’ve run out of things to do in the south and needed a new project.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Maybe our bath together was just so ravishing that I can’t get your body out of my mind.”
Ophir’s eyes became slits. “I don’t believe that, either.”
Dwyn feigned offense. “Why? You don’t think you have a nice body? Your self-esteem should be higher than that, Princess.”
Ophir motioned as if to get up and leave the cliff when Dwyn waved her down.
“Fine,” she sighed. “I saw you last week standing in the water. You just stood there for nearly an hour, seeing nothing, not moving, just standing knee-deep in the sea. I kept waiting for you to so much as blink, but you didn’t.” Dwyn repositioned her posture so that she turned to fully face the princess. “Of course, I’ve thought about you from time to time—this drowned royal rat of a hopeless princess I’d fished out of the ocean—but I’d assumed things had gotten better. When I saw you… I’ve known suffering, Firi. I’m back because I know what it is to suffer.”
“I asked you not to call me that.”
“Well, too bad. When we first met, you told me it’s what your friends call you. Like it or not, I’m your friend.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Now it’s my turn not to believeyou.” Dwyn cocked her head to the side.
Ophir raised her chin and met the woman’s gaze. She didn’t wear the pitying look of the citizens of Farehold, nor the concealed blame that her parents tried to keep from casting on her. It wasn’t the look of helplessness she saw in Harland’s eyes, nor the heartbreak in the faces of the servants. The Sulgrave fae did not pity her.
Dwyn wrapped her fingers around Ophir’s and squeezed them. Her eyes went dark as she whispered, “Tell me what you want.”
“I want the goddess to be real. I want her to be someone who answers prayers. I want to believe she’s doing something about injustice.”
“Liar.”
Anger flashed through Ophir. “How dare you.”
Dwyn met her glare with a challenge. “No one wants prayer. Cut out the middleman, Ophir. Tell me what you truly want.”
She held the challenging stare, but Dwyn did not backdown. Thoughts of the night that would not leave her, even now. She still heard the screams. She saw Caris’s blank, unseeing sapphire eyes. She felt the slick sensation of gore between her fingers and the ashes that covered her night after night as the flame consumed her. “I want everyone who hurt my sister to experience ten times over every bit of pain that they caused her. Death is too good for them. I want them afraid. I want them to suffer.”
“Perfect.”
Six
That Night
August’s eyes bulged like those of a fish. Ophir’s hope for rescue had been struck down the moment it arrived. His hands relinquished his weapon and it clanged to the polished floor with a sinking, metallic sound. His large, calloused hands went to meet the shape that protruded from his chest. Ophir stared in horror at the blood-soaked steel that pierced his armor and severed lungs, vital meats, and bones in one sickening puncture. The blood hadn’t blotted on his front as it might have if he had been wearing a tunic, but instead a small, horrible waterfall of sticky crimson began to pour from the base of his breastplate as his life dripped out to his feet.
Ophir cried his name in anguish. She reached for him through the deep well of shock and horror. The man who’d stuck him yanked his sword out with a swift jerk, sending August to his knees. The wet, garbled sound of death muted his words as he looked at Ophir.
“Save her,” he said before he collapsed to the ground.
She winced as she braced herself for the assailant to attack, but the gruff cries of new bodies stole his attention. Ophir whipped her head to see if anyone was advancing on her, but the tangle of limbs and swords and masks paid her no mind.
August must have been right on her heels, as he’d burst into the room moments after Ophir’s arrival. She hadn’t seen him at the party. She scarcely saw him now, even as he stood before her. She struggled to understand wave after wave of horror as they crested and broke, drowning her in one impossible horror after the next.
