Page 22 of War Of Fire and Fortune
Luana reached for me. “Ace felt the same way when you were in the hands of Valla, and when he went to try and save you, there were consequences for acting too soon, for thinking with his heart. Emelyn, please, I’m begging you to think this through—”
I jerked away from her touch. “I have. It’s all I’ve been thinking about from the moment I made it out of the catacombs in Ember. I’m going.”
Luana's face fell, but I was beyond caring. I strode away from her, giving her one last, fleeting glance as I went to my tent. I'd leave before dawn, before the rebellion stirred awake. I'd call for Baetos and together, we'd fly to Ember. I'd either rescue Ace or burn the world trying.
Chapter Eleven
Valla
Flashback…
My father had been . . . silent.
Which was odd because over the years, I’d seen him lash out more often than not. But this anger was different. It was cold, calculated, and focused.
A few days ago, Kade had left to go to the Western Wyverns, which was good for him. I was sure being anywhere but here was better for him after the years of torment Father had put him through. And it would have only gotten worse after the news Father had received yesterday. Willow and Mother had escaped, and apparently the Peacebringer wasn’t Kade. It was a Sky Elf based on what Marlena had told him.
A small part of me was happy about it. I'd seen the way my father treated my mother, and because of that, I strived to be everything he wanted. Strong, capable, loyal to a fault. Especially since being born thirty-two years prior to Kade meant for a long while, my father hadn’t known if he would have an heir to his throne. So I worked twice as hard. I trained and trained and trained, learned to wield beyond my fire, and bent over backwards to be everything my father would have wanted in a son. And I’d done it all just to see the slightest twinkle of recognition in his eyes when he approved, even if it broke me. I would break, as long as it meant he was proud.
I moved through the palace. My nerves were raw today. The courtiers and servants who once slithered in droves and busied themselves now remained scarce. They understood, as I did, that today was not for eavesdropping, idle banter, or hope for favor. Today, all energies funneled toward the throne room, where my father was waiting for me.
The high corridor outside stretched before me, empty but for two silent guards. Neither met my eye. Every stride felt heavier than the last, as if I dragged not just myself, but the entire future behind me.
When I reached the doors, the guards did not speak, did not even nod. They simply moved over as the double doors opened. I stepped through, and the cavernous hush swallowed me whole.
There he sat. The man himself was the only living thing worthy of such a throne. My father. Hair as dark as the night sky, eyesthe same amber all of his children shared, skin drawn taut over a face that always seemed to be thinking. His hands rested on the armrests like he was completely at ease right now.
There were guards in the room, six in total, arrayed like chess pieces along my periphery. I recognized none of them. Either his paranoia had multiplied overnight or he’d replaced the old detail with men even more loyal or more easily disposed of. I didn’t let my gaze linger. A flicker of interest could be mistaken for weakness or worse, affection.
My father did not speak. He did not need to. He simply looked at me, drinking in every gesture, every twitch of muscle, every move I made just like he had my entire life.
I took three steps forward and stopped at the bottom of the dais. My hands curled at my sides. He rose from his throne. Even after all these years, the simple motion of his body set the room on edge. His robes fell perfectly, untouched by dust or blood or remorse. The crown on his head was subtle, only a gleam of obsidian above his brow.
He stood there, considering me. The guards tensed as one, as if bracing for a command. I kept my gaze locked on him, refusing to look away from the man everyone feared.
There was something different today, some subtle disturbance in the dark water of his soul. I had expected rage, the icy chill of it. Instead, I found him . . . serene.
I waited, just as I’d been taught: absolute stillness, absolute obedience, absolute readiness to be destroyed or spared as the moment required.
“Valla.” His voice was almost gentle.
I nearly shivered at the sound of it. Instead, I straightened my spine and braced for the storm I knew had to be coming.
“Yes, Father,” I replied.
He smiled, just a flash of one. The guards shifted. The world seemed to tilt, just a little. I kept my eyes locked on his andwaited for him to speak again . . . or to strike me down where I stood.
He folded his hands before him, fingers laced. “You know what I value most, Valla. Above power, above knowledge, above victory itself. Loyalty. Tell me”—he leaned forward—“do you think you have been loyal to me?”
I answered before I could think better of it. “I put my life on the line every time we execute a plan, Daddy. I always have. Of course I’m loyal.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging the answer. “So you say. But why, Valla? Why do you have such unthinking devotion?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. The question caught me off-guard. Why? Because it was expected of me. Because to be anything less than perfect was to invite ruin. Because love, in this house, was not a birthright, but a prize to be won through obedience and pain. Because the alternative was to be like my mother—disregarded, discarded, despised.
I wanted his attention, and not the beatings, but those moments when he would tell me how proud he was of me. I craved it. I needed it to keep me going.
I gave him the answer he wanted. “Because you are my father and I am your firstborn, your legacy. I want to carry your will on with me.”
