Flames of Green and Gold: Book I in The Final Prophecy Series, page 35
Flames of Green and Gold
The Final Prophecy Series , Book I
Claire Anne
Copyright © 2025 Claire Anne
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design and illustrations by: @mgsdessigns
Developmental edits by: @thebluecouchedits
Copy edits by: @sparkseditorial
Author portrait by: @cecilinee
To those who enjoy a thrilling mystery, a woman who tells men to shut the fuck up, and a sassy dark-haired man that grovels, this one is for you.
Happy reading.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Gods and Goddesses of The Council
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Gods and Goddesses of The Council
I. Minoa, Goddess of Life and Death
II. Laldir, God of Fire
III. Eus, God of Hel
IV. Iana, Goddess of Prophets
V. Qhaena, Goddess of Battle
VI. Bortis, Goddess of Birth and New Beginnings
VII. Gennos, God of Music and Poetry
VIII. Elois, God of the Sea
IX. Atia, Goddess of Logic
X. Odenar, God of Animals
Additional Members:
I. Hecate, Goddess of The Afterlife
II. Zothos, God of Trickery and Deception
1
SILIA
I am utterly soaked.
Training has been extra taxing today, and the only common denominator as to why, was Lars. I wonder what stick he has up his ass this time.
We’ve spent countless months working on defensive maneuvering, a skill I picked up almost immediately when he began training me. Yet here we are, still tirelessly rerunning the same techniques.
Lars is circling me, trying everything in his power to distract me from the second man sneaking up behind me. This may have worked on me a few months ago, but it’s almost insulting that Lars would underestimate me at this point. We’ve been training together for over a year now—of course I’ve memorized all his tricks.
I extend my right hand and shoot out a black cloud of smoke behind me, smothering and blinding my not-so-sly assailant. Lars stops circling me, and I take the opportunity to grab the wooden dagger secured to the belt across my chest and throw it at his right foot. Once it connects and bounces off his boot, I launch myself at him, tackling him to the ground.
I straddle his waist with my forearm pressed hard against his throat as the man I previously shrouded in shadows begins to make his way over to us. Large and powerful footsteps sound as I press down harder onto Lars’s windpipe.
Without releasing him, I turn to face Rein, “Sorry, Rein. I had to show Lars here that he needs to get some new material.” I fix my gaze back to Lars. His lips twitch into a teasing smirk that I know all too well.
“Apology not accepted.” Rein stalks over and glares down at us, now speaking to Lars. “She’s not supposed to do that,” he grumbles as he runs a hand through his chestnut brown hair.
I cannot help but notice how rapidly Rein has aged since we began training. This past year has been exhausting, and I cannot imagine the amount of stress this whole predicament has put on him. His hair has begun to grey at the age of twenty-seven, and his frown lines have become more pronounced. It’s the unfortunate product of a heavily overworked man.
He has been in my father's ranks for most of his life. He had been taken in by the palace when he was just eleven and I was ten. One of the guards had found him wandering our property hungry, tired, and parentless. We became fast friends, and we’ve been inseparable since. We always find company in one another, even fifteen years later. When my father had become increasingly strict as I grew up, Rein had been a safe place for me to talk about the death of my mother and for him to grieve his own. He’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and the only person in the palace who truly knows me.
“Silia, I know you love to show off,” Lars chokes out, my arm still pressing deep into the muscles in his neck, “but we talked about this. Your physical abilities must be exhausted first before you begin to reveal your gift.”
I mumble a profanity and release my hold on him, then stand next to Rein and bump my hip into his.
“Maybe when you come up with a new tactic, I'll follow your guidance.” I step over Lars, still sprawled on the ground, and stride to the water cooler. One of the palace groundsmen finishes filling the receptacle and bows to me before making himself scarce. I wonder what it must look like to an outsider, to watch their princess wrestle these men twice her size day after day. Hopefully impressive on my part, and less like a fish out of water.
I watch from across the ring as Lars rises to his feet, brushes the dirt from his uniform, and begins to debrief Rein on how this session had gone.
I fill my cup with water as I take in the sight of them standing next to each other. Lars towers over everyone, even me, and I’m taller than an average woman. Even though Rein is just an inch or two shorter than Lars, he’s still at least a foot taller than me. It’s a rare day when I feel like the smallest person in the room.
They are both wearing their fighting gear, tight brown leather pants and an even tighter black tunic that hugs every sculpted muscle. It still catches me off guard to see Rein without his full armor on. He is the Captain of the Guard, so he’s usually decked out in his full kingdom ensemble, but today, he wears simple brown padded armor. The scuffs and raised leather of his boots make me wonder just how long he’s had them. He’s captain, he could surely get a new pair without question from the palace staff. But growing up with him, I had come to realize he’s a deeply sentimental person. If Rein is wearing a pair of boots beyond repair, he has good reason for it.
As for Lars, he’s usually dressed in black, padded armor with an accompanying black cloak laced with gold vine embroidery or the fighting leathers he has on now. For the past year, I have only ever seen him in these two outfits, mostly because training takes up all our days, and I rarely get the opportunity to see him in anything else.
Either he has multiple pairs of these outfits, or he enjoys spending his free time knee-deep in the tub, scrubbing one of the two pairs of clothes he owns.
Out of boredom, I try to read their lips. I suppose there are worse things to stare at, Lars being the least harmful to the eye. His wavy black hair is usually well-kept, but always hanging in front of his face. It is a miracle if I see more than just the center of his forehead and the left side of his jaw. And even then, I find myself blushing when his hair moves even a fraction out of place and one more square inch of his face becomes exposed.
I have never had a childhood crush, but when I see Lars, I catch myself making sure my hair is perfectly in place or pinching my cheeks so they’re always rosy and plump for training days.
He was hired by my father, who insisted I needed someone to help me train and control my gift, since my coming-of-age ceremony had ended up in flames.
Green flames, to be exact.
When a Fae turns twenty-five, their gift manifests itself, and thus begins the centuries-old existence. During the ceremony, we receive a brand on the back of our neck from a God or Goddess that has chosen to bless us. Then, we put on a brief display of our gift for the attendees.
My ceremony had looked a little different compared to the average Fae’s, because when my gift manifested, it was entirely too much to control, and I may or may not have set our entire dining room on fire. I had to be knocked unconscious for the flames to stop. The rest of that evening had been spent in my chambers, in and out of sleep while everyone downstairs kept the party alive and well. Rein and my sister, Diana, were the only ones who had come to check on me periodically through the night.
My brand is two flaming green torches that cross in the middle. Unfortunately, I never learned who the God or Goddess was that blessed me, thanks to the poor teaching I had from tutors growing up and the abrupt ending of my ceremony. But the look on the faces of some of the attendees as my brand had appeared told me I didn’t want to know anyway. After the fire incident, my had father banned me from using my gift for months, until I broke him down with endless questions and t
And that is how Lars had come to be here.
When Rein had his ceremony, he had been branded by the Goddess of Battle, Qhaena. His symbol is a long sword pierced through a shield—much more impressive than torches. His blessing came as no surprise, since his fighting skills were unlike any my father had ever seen, even at an early age.
I have no knowledge of Lars’s gift, or if he even possesses one. I have never asked him, although it has piqued my interest before. His hair is long enough to cover his neck, and he never wears it up. Every now and then, I swear I can see a faint glow coming from underneath his hair where a brand would be, but I chalk that up to delirium, since I have felt nothing but exhaustion for the past year.
I watch as Lars runs a hand through his hair and furrows his brows. It seems Rein has stopped paying attention to Lars’s debrief and decided to stare directly at me. When I shift my gaze to Rein, he drops his eyes to the ground, and a slight blush appears on his cheeks. He scratches the back of his neck and then responds to whatever comment Lars had just made. Lars flicks his eyes to me, and it’s my turn to blush. Why does everything I do feel so embarrassing in front of him?
As my cheeks burn with a vengeance, he flashes me a half-smirk before turning back to Rein and continuing their conversation.
I press the condensation-coated cup against my neck to bring my temperature back down to normal and banish the red-tinted giveaway that Lars had left me flustered. But even as he looks away, I can still feel his attention on me.
After a few minutes of kicking around rubble and stretching out the tight muscles in my shoulders, they wrap up their conversation, and I empty my cup.
“Are we done here? I’m starving,” I yell over to them. They walk to where I’m standing on the other side of the ring.
“Don't throw a fit, Your Highness, we’re done.” A hint of impatience coats Lars’s voice as he stops just a few feet in front of me.
“Lars and I were thinking about going into town to grab a few pints, if you wanted to join?” Rein chimes in, grabbing a cup and guzzling down the full thing.
I open my mouth to answer, but Lars cuts me off. “No—" We both focus our attention on him as I raise an eyebrow. “I mean, I think Silia should rest and prepare for tomorrow's meeting with the king. Your father would not care for a hungover daughter in the morning.” Rein let out a small chuckle.
I roll my eyes at Lars’s reasoning and grace him with the appearance of my middle finger. Rein laughs even harder.
I’d love to join you both! When are we leaving?” I give Lars a sadistic smile as I skip over to Rein and link my arm with his. “I’m ready to start our adventure!” I feel him stiffen at my touch and hear him clear his throat.
“Silia, this is a firm no. Go to the kitchen and eat some dinner. You need a full meal to recover from training and a clear head for the morning.” Lars challenges my request, narrowing his eyes at me.
I give Rein a small pinch on his arm, hoping he will speak up and sway Lars into letting me go out.
“C’mon, Lars. Silia did well today, the cloud of smoke aside. We all deserve a night off.” Rein tries his best to sound confident, but I can tell he feels uncomfortable being put in the middle of this.
Lars crosses his arms as he darts his gaze between us. “Seriously, Rein? She got to you that easy?”
Well, of course. He’s my best friend, I want to say, but I want Rein to be the one to stand up for me. I’m tired of doing it for myself.
Rein looks down at me with an apologetic smile, sensing he is not going to win this argument. “Sorry, Silia. You know what that look means.” I look back to Lars and find him glaring so hard at Rein, he could burn a hole right between his eyes.
Hoping to avoid a petty argument with him, I huff and cross my arms. "Fine, your loss.” I make my way to the palace entrance, making sure to sway my hips and flick my hair over my shoulder.
Just as I arrive at the door, I hear a loud “Ow,” from behind me. I turn my head back to the ring and see Lars rubbing his shoulder like he had just been struck, while Rein stands with his chest puffed and arms crossed in triumph.
Thanks, Rein.
As much as I am loathe to admit it, Lars is right. I need to eat something to make up for the training we did today. A dull ache has begun pulsing in my lower back, and my wrists feel like I’ve broken them twice over. But the last thing I want to do is sit at a family dinner with a fake smile plastered on my face as my muscles groan in pain or I pass out from exhaustion. Instead, I stop by the kitchen and grab a loaf of bread with a small plate of whatever meat is being served tonight, then make my way to the secluded paradise that is my room.
A large part of me wants to sneak out to see what Lars and Rein are getting up to tonight, if only to see what kind of drunks they are. Imagining Rein standing on the bar singing off-key to some obnoxious song and Lars falling all over the place from one too many drinks has me laughing so hard that I miss a step on the stairs and slam my elbow on the railing. I silently curse them both and continue my ascent, careful to avoid any other mishaps.
As I reach the top of the stairs, I look down the hall to Diana’s door. Guilt runs through me for a moment as I think about how little time I have been spending with my sister over the past year. Training has taken up most of my days, and when it doesn’t, I am either resting or trying to make myself useful for our father.
Diana is only twenty-three, so she has not had her coming-of-age ceremony yet, but I can guarantee that green flames won't burn down the dining room on her birthday. She has a touch of elegance about her that I do not possess. It’s a shame she isn’t next in line for the throne—she would make a dashing queen.
Diana is about three inches shorter than me and has perfectly curled red hair and soul-piercing blue eyes, a spitting image of our mother. On days I need reminders of what my mother looked like, I’ll spend a little extra time with her.
I envy Diana for her grace. I’ve picked up some less-than-poised traits since working with Lars and Rein. No more balancing books on my head—I instead spend my days covered in dirt and sweat, cursing at the smallest inconveniences. If I were to tell my younger self this is how my life would panned out, she would have clutched her pearls and probably fainted.
Shame on past me for judging how I spend my working hours!
Gods, I need sleep. I’ve now resorted to arguing with myself in my head.
I take one last glance at her door and decide against stopping by her room. As much as I enjoy hearing about her day in the gardens or about how one of her farm animals learned to walk, my bones feel as if they’ll turn to dust at any moment. I turn left at the top of the stairs and head straight for mine instead.
Hila, my lady’s maid, is already waiting for me when I enter my bedroom. She takes one look at me and not-so-subtly rolls her eyes. “Skipping dinner again? I’m not sure the king will be pleased.”
I give her an apologetic look. “Father will see me in the morning, I’m certain he will not miss my presence that much.” I make sure she sees the plate I took from the kitchen in my hands. “See, still fueling my ever-growing body.”
Though I’m now twenty-five, and my Fae body has begun its painstakingly slow aging process, I still need to maintain my physique. It will probably take at least fifty years for me to grow out of my mid-twenties metabolism that constantly craves protein and nutrients. On the bright side, I no longer have to worry about my monthly cycle—that, I will not miss even for a second.
“Hm,” is all Hila has to offer as she sits me at the vanity, takes my plate, and places it on the counter.
She begins to unravel the twin braids in my hair as I look in the mirror and note how long it has grown. I have not cut my hair for a few years, and the silver locks are down to my waist now. The metallic-colored hair was passed down from my father, and my green eyes from my grandmother. I am not totally sure how genetics work, but it seems like the Gods took tiny pieces from each family member and jumbled them into a single person.
My eyes snake up my hair and land on my face—nothing remarkable, just the usual pointed Fae ears, and pale skin. No scars mark my face, which is a gift from the healers at the palace. The royal family must keep up appearances for its citizens, and this includes mending broken bones, cuts, and bruises to perfection.
