Kingdom of Fire and Fae, page 6
“There is no dragon king. Solstice City is run by the Fae Council. We are not a monarchy like we once were centuries ago.” Her voice held a quiet strength, unwavering despite the tension crackling in the room like a taut bowstring.
“Well, that will certainly change once I am through with it.” He speared his son with a glare as cold and unrelenting as a winter’s night. “Her pretty head on a pike will make a gory statement at the head of our army, don’t you think?”
Spric’s face drained of color, the blood visibly retreating, leaving him pale and wide-eyed. “Uh, sure?” His grip on her face loosened with a minor tremble.
It seemed like her captor might love to use his fists, but the idea of killing didn’t seem to sit well with the young shapeshifter. The scent of sweat and fear permeated the room, mingling with the aroma of the stone walls.
“Once I awaken the army, we will deal with the murderess. Let her rot in the dungeon until it’s time for her to meet her maker.” The words were accompanied by a dismissive wave, his back already turned to them as he gazed out of the window at the twilight sky, lost in his own grim thoughts. The distant laments and howls of the wind outside seemed to echo the cold finality of his decree.
LANAE’S FOOTSTEPS ECHOED SOFTLY in the narrow stone stairwell, the air thick with the indication of earth. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the ancient walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. The silence stretched between them until they descended.
“You’re not a killer, are you?” Her voice was audible over the creak of each wooden step.
“Shut up,” he snarled, his tone dark and cutting like the blade he always kept by his side.
“Have you ever fought in a war?” She pressed on, her eyes narrowing as she sought the chinks in his armor. She could sense his unease, his reluctance to relive those memories. The scent of sweat and leather mingled with the cold air surrounding them.
“If you don’t shut up, I will throw you down the staircase,” he threatened, his eyes burning with a fierce determination, though his hands trembled just the slightest bit.
She fell silent, allowing the tension to build. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of their boots on the wooden steps. “Taking a life is not easy,” she finally said in the confined space.
He halted, his breath hot and ragged against her face as he slammed her back into the rough stone wall, the impact resonating through her bones. He loomed over her, his body a wall of seething anger and muscle.
“I have never been a soldier during wartime. I’ve never had to kill,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that reverberated in the pit of her stomach, but his words confirmed her suspicion.
She met his gaze with a calm, soft understanding instead of defiance. “I never took it lightly.” Her voice was soft and steady despite the closeness of his threatening presence. The sincerity in her eyes seemed to reach him, and he hesitated, the hard lines of his face softening for a fleeting moment.
“Then you will understand why I will have to do what I am ordered to when the time comes,” he muttered, the fire in his eyes dimming into a smoldering ember.
“I’ve only killed when my life was on the line. I never sought to deliver death. And I’ve chosen not to kill someone I viewed as an enemy.” Her words hung in the cold, damp air between them, filled with the sincerity of her conviction. The chill nipped at her skin, a pronounced difference to the heat of the confrontation.
He stared at her, his gaze piercing, as if her words were chipping away at his will. His breath was a mix of frustration and uncertainty swirling in the limited space they shared. He stepped back, giving her a few inches of breathing room, but the tension remained intense. “How was your life on the line with my uncle?”
“He had a sword to my throat,” she replied, the memory causing a slight tremor in her voice.
His gaze dropped to her throat, inspecting it for any signs of injury. The torchlight flickered, throwing shadows that danced across her skin. He scoffed and crossed his arms, his skepticism clear. The aroma of leather and iron saturated the air, blending with a subtle hint of fear.
Lanae gulped down a steadying breath, her chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm. She closed her eyes and summoned an illusion of her bolting down the stairs, the echoes of phantom footsteps and the imagined swish of her hair trailing behind her. The sound was convincing, reverberating through the stairwell.
Spric’s eyes widened, and he immediately ran after the illusion, his heavy boots pounding on the wooden steps.
Lanae opened her eyes and took another breath, creeping up the stairs to the landing they had passed moments before. Each step was deliberate, the wood creaking softly under her weight. Her heart clanged in her chest, but she maintained her calm.
She turned the knob with a slow, careful twist and cringed at the slight creak it made. The illusion below held strong. The echoes of Spric’s ranting about what he would do if he caught her filled the air, masking her movements. The door opened, revealing a dark hallway. She stepped into the shadows, her movements as silent as the night itself, and shut the door with the same stealth.
Leaning against the cold stone wall, she allowed herself a moment of respite, her breathing shallow and controlled. She then squatted as low to the ground as she could, her muscles tensing and protesting the position. Slowly, she threaded one ankle through her bound wrists and then the other. The iron cuffs bit into her skin, but she ignored the pain.
She stood and let out a breath, her hands now in front of her. She flexed her fingers and the warmth of returning circulation tingled through each appendage. With her hands freed, a surge of confidence filled her. She was ready to defend herself if needed. She silently thanked the gods above for twilight, this near to a full moon, knowing this was the time her powers were close to their strongest. Even these iron cuffs couldn’t douse her power of illusion. If he had gotten her back in that cell, it would have been another story entirely.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the murky shadows that cloaked the hallway. The air was cool and musty, carrying the scent of aged wood and long-forgotten secrets. She crept toward the first door, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Testing the knob, the smooth, cold metal pressed against her skin. It turned easily, and she slid into the room, her breath shallow with anticipation. She hoped to find a weapon or something to pick the lock on her shackles.
The candles flickered, casting jittery, elongated shadows that danced on the walls. She paused, her eyes widening at the expansive laboratory before her. The space was eerily still, the silence almost deafening. Figures stood motionless at each workstation, lifeless yet ominously poised for reanimation. The flickering candlelight gave them a ghostly appearance, their shadows stretching grotesquely across the room.
Lanae moved cautiously through the labyrinth of tables, her footsteps a whisper on the cold stone floor. The air filled with burning wax and faint chemical scents. She glanced at the carvings etched into the side of each table, deciphering the intricate inscriptions that explained each workstation. Her eyes flitted from one word to another until they landed on “portals.”
Her gaze shifted to the capped vials lining the table. There had to be a hundred neat green vials, arranged meticulously in rows of ten. The glass gleamed faintly, the liquid inside shimmering with a mysterious allure.
She reached for them, her fingers brushing against the cool glass. The room suddenly came alive with the sound of rustling fabric and the creak of ancient joints. As if on cue, the figures in the room started to move all at once.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Parental Struggles
TWILIGHT PAINTED THE SKY the color of the pink highlights in Lanae’s hair, the hues blending with the soft lavender and deepening indigo of the evening. Draven took a breath, calming his jumbled nerves, the crisp night air filling his lungs and grounding him in the present.
“Focus,” he whispered, his breath forming a misty cloud in the cooling air. The key to opening portals was homing in on where you wanted it to drop you before you cast the spell. He did not want to be dropped right in the middle of the throne room. If Alestain was there and had reanimated the army, that would be a dangerous place to appear. Same with showing up where they destroyed the mind machine.
His thoughts jumped to the room where he found Caelum in a compromising position. The memory brought a slight flush to his cheeks, but it was a safer place to materialize than either of the other rooms that held disturbing memories.
He uttered the spell in the guttural language of his kin, the ancient words rumbling through his chest, and the air churned like a rising storm. The draconian words took no time to open a vortex between worlds before him. He stepped through it without the usual tug and tumble of a normal portal. This was more like stepping from one room to another, or over a threshold of a house, the transition smooth and seamless.
The minute both his feet touched down on the cool obsidian floor, the portal hissed out of existence behind him. He stared at the ashes at the foot of the bed, the remnants of what once was a figure now a scattered, fragile dust. Time had knocked the ash-formed figure into a delicate pile. Nothing in the room had changed, not even the discarded clothing on the floor. The air was stale, carrying a faint scent of decay and old fabric.
He picked up the shirt and the skirt, the fabric rough and brittle in his hands, and tossed them over the conspicuous pile, covering it from view. He chewed on his lip, the motion mingling with his thoughts, and glanced at the bedroom door, wondering whether the halls were safe.
He stepped toward the door, his boots barely making a sound on the hard floor. The sudden noise in the hall had him backing up quickly. His heart whirred in pace with a galloping horse’s hoofbeats. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to every shadow. When his gaze landed on the wardrobe, he moved, slipping inside as stealthy as a ghost, the wood creaking under his weight. The bedroom door opened, and then someone yelled, “Clear!” before slamming it shut again.
Draven let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the tension draining from his body. He sagged on the back wall, which shifted with a soft click, revealing a hidden path through the walls. He nearly laughed, remembering the secret passages in their castle long ago. The memory brought a brief smile to his lips.
He slid inside the narrow passage, the walls pressing close against his shoulders. He sucked in his stomach and shuffled through the tight space, the stone walls cool and rough against his skin.
A familiar voice boomed, stopping him in his tracks. The sound reverberated through the cold stone walls, sending a quiver tripping up his back.
“I am Alestain Firetwill. You now bow to me.” The voice was deep and authoritative, filling the cavernous space with its oppressive weight.
Cold fury gripped Draven, his muscles tensing like coiled springs. He squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his hands, the rough texture of the worn leather gloves biting into his palms. He couldn’t light this place on fire with the possibility of Lanae being here. As much as he wanted to raze this castle and reclaim the Dragon’s Heart, he had to find her first.
After a moment, a chorus of voices replied, “Yes, master.” Their unified response echoed eerily, like a dissonant symphony in the vast chamber.
“I want this castle cleaned and polished until it shines.”
“Yes, master.”
“Find my son and bring the prisoner up from the dungeon. It’s time to enact justice for my brother’s death.” The command was filled with icy determination, each word cutting and precise.
The patter of running feet leaving the throne room echoed through the tight space, bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Draven moved with purpose, his footsteps light and swift. A cool draft filtered through the narrow corridor, carrying with it a bouquet of mildew and decay.
He moved until he found a staircase, the worn steps descending into darkness. The flickering torchlight cast elongated shadows that danced eerily on the walls. The air grew colder as he descended; the chill seeped through his clothes and bit at his skin. He had to get to Lanae before the minions did.
LANAE’S FINGERS TREMBLED AS she grabbed a handful of the green vials, their glass surfaces cool and smooth against her skin. With a sweeping motion, she knocked the remaining vials to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed around the room, a chaotic symphony as dozens of portals tore open, distorting the air with a shimmering iridescence.
She staggered back, her vision momentarily obscured by the swirling vortexes that blocked her view of the people reanimating in the room. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, each beat a drum of urgency as she darted toward a door at the back. The vials clinked together as she slid them into her shirt, keeping one gripped tightly in her hand.
The hallway buzzed around her, the faint hum of arcane energy vibrating through the walls. She thought of home, the image of safety and warmth flickering in her mind as she tossed the vial to the ground. A brilliant flash of light erupted as the portal opened.
Spric’s thunderous footsteps echoed as he barreled down the hall after her.
She dove through the gateway, tasting the sweetness of freedom as the sensation of space bending gripped her. She plopped on the hardwood floor of her home’s entryway in Solstice City. Her relief was cut short as Spric crashed down on top of her, his eyes wild with fury.
“Oh, no you don’t.” His breath hissed in her ear.
One vial freed from her shirt and rolled on the hardwood as she scrambled to get away, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Nero’s squawking roar tore through the air, jerking both their heads up. A bolt of lightning split the room, its bright light momentarily blinding.
Spric threw himself off her, narrowly avoiding the electrifying strike. He swiped the vial off the ground and bolted out of the house, leaving Lanae heaving on the floor, her limbs trembling with adrenaline.
Nero turned and disappeared into the open door of her parents’ bedroom with the same urgency as he had chased Spric with.
Lanae’s chest cramped with the triple overdrive her heart jumped into. Alestain had reanimated his minions. Which meant her parents were awake. She jumped to her feet and slid into the room, her breath hitching at the scene before her.
Her father had his hands around Caelum’s throat, his grip merciless. Her mother, frantic, was throwing belongings into a bag as if packing for a long trip.
“Let him go!” Lanae’s cry rang through the room, mingling with the sharp, crackling sounds of lightning from Nero.
One bolt connected with her mother, causing her to stiffen; a small wisp of black smoke escaped her lips. Desperation surged through Lanae as she grabbed her father, trying to wrench him off Caelum. Caelum’s face was turning an alarming shade of blue from lack of oxygen.
“Lanae?” Her mother met her gaze, a plea etched into her features.
“Tell Dad to stop choking Caelum!” Lanae cried, her voice breaking.
Her mother moved quickly, snatching a vase from the table and smashing it against her father’s head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The vacant look of those under mind control returned to her mother’s eyes. But before she could retaliate against them, Lanae grabbed Caelum, his limp body heavy against her, and with Nero by her side, she dragged him into the hall and locked the door behind them.
Caelum gasped for breath, his chest heaving as he curled into a ball, tears streaming down his face.
I’m here. Lanae sent the thought, her heart aching with a deep, resonating pain. He moved closer, hugging her with a tight grip, his form trembling violently with sobs that racked his entire body. She brought her chained hands over his head, the cold metal links pressing against the back of his tunic, and held him close as the severity of the chaos that had just unfolded settled heavily on her shoulders.
“They didn’t even recognize me,” he sobbed, his voice breaking, each word a dagger to her heart.
“You were seven when they were taken. You’ve grown quite a bit since then.” Her voice was gentle yet tinged with an underlying sorrow.
He nodded, but kept his arms around her, his grip tightening as if she were the only thing anchoring him to reality, keeping him from shattering into pieces.
“Where’s Draven?” she asked when her breathing returned to normal and Caelum’s sobs had subsided into soft, hiccupping breaths. The warmth of his tears soaked into her shirt.
Caelum pulled away slowly, and she moved her arms from around him, the chains clinking softly. He stared at the iron bindings on her wrists, his brow furrowing in concern, and wiped his face free of tear tracks. “He went to find you.”
Caelum lifted his hand and touched her face, his fingers gentle and warm against her bruised skin. She winced at the contact and instinctively recoiled, the pain flaring sharply. She could only imagine what she looked like after the brutal beating Spric had given her—the swelling, the darkening bruises, the cuts that still oozed blood.
His words were slow to register, her mind foggy now that the last remnants of adrenaline had been exhausted. But when they finally sank in, her stomach plummeted, a heavy, nauseating drop. “What do you mean he went to find me?” she asked with a voice tinged with dread.
AS CAELUM STUDIED HIS SISTER, his eyes tracing over her bruised and weary features, an immense gratitude filled him...Lanae had come back in time to save his ass. The rumblings in the bedroom had been impossible to ignore, and the desperate need to see their parents had overridden every logical reason for not opening that door. He closed his eyes, seeking solace, and pressed his forehead to hers. Her skin was cool, a stark contrast to his own heated flesh.
“Draven went to Xoltan’s castle to find you.” His whisper was heavy with worry.
She let out a squeak of despair, her breath catching in her throat, and reached inside her shirt.
