“Why not?” I press.
“Because there was an emotion greater than fear.” His gaze is menacing. “One that I couldn’t control.”
I gulp, knowing exactly what he’s about to say next. Looks like the cat’s out of the bag, but I ask anyway. “And what emotion is that?”
Felix looks at me for a moment. He shakes his head. Then, with a shaky breath, he says the one thing I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden.
“Your desire to kill.”
RYDAN HELSTROM
WITH NO CONCEPT of day or night, Rydan is sure he’s already lost his mind. Three days, three weeks, three months could have passed, and it would all feel the same. No sunrise. No daylight. No sunset.
Just darkness.
Rydan brings his head between his knees as a cool draft sweeps through the room. The hair on the back of his neck prickles as the current flows over him, causing him to shiver. He squeezes his arms around his legs, hoping that maybe if he applies enough pressure, his body will somehow just implode. But no such luck.
He’s still alive—barely surviving. Stuck in this miserable, lonely cell.
A clatter sounds in the distance. His ears perk up. A door, perhaps? Has someone come for him?
He crawls to the front of his cell and grabs onto the iron bars with both hands. He narrows his eyes in the dim lighting, expecting to make out the shape of a burly guard, but instead, a figure with a small frame moves toward him. A faint light glows in one of her hands; in the other is a small tray.
Rydan keeps his eyes trained on her as she moves closer, noticing her clothing, a peasant skirt and ratty tunic, accompanied by long blonde braids. Her facial features are gentle and innocent, like a tiny mouse, and her lips are the lightest pink he’s ever seen.
As she draws nearer, her blue eyes meet his. “Your dinner.” She holds out the tray, then crouches down to push it between the bars.
Without uttering a word, Rydan grabs the tray and begins devouring the stale bread and bland meat.
The girl gives a small smile, then stands and turns to walk away. He stops, mid-bite. Even though he’s a prisoner, he’s still a human being, and a gentleman at that. No need to act like an animal. “Thank you.” The words come out as a croak.
The girl turns around to face him. “You’re welcome.”
Now that he has her attention, Rydan sets down his tray. “I’m Rydan. What’s your name?”
She bites her lip, then looks behind her as if she’s expecting someone. “I really shouldn’t.”
He furrows his brows at her response. “I take it you’re the one who will be bringing me my meals on a daily basis?”
She stays silent and nods.
“Right then,” he confirms as he takes another bite of his bread, “so I can assume that we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Is that correct?”
The girl shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I suppose.”
Rydan flashes her a toothy grin. “Then I would love to know your name so that I can thank you properly.”
The girl hesitates before falling into a well-versed curtsy. “Elvira. But you can call me Vira for short.”
“Elvira.” The word flows so smoothly off his tongue. It’s a pretty name, one he hasn’t heard before. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Silence falls between them.
He doesn’t want her to leave, but the tension is thick and uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you, but I appreciate you bringing me my dinner.”
“It’s no problem, really,” she says, looking over her shoulder again. “I best get going.”
He gives her a nod and she curtsies again, then scurries up the stairwell from which she came. He turns his attention toward his tray, realizing that he’s no longer hungry enough to finish his meal, so he scoots it to the opposite side of the cell. He crawls to the back where strands of hay and leaves had been gathered, undoubtedly from the last prisoner. He briefly wonders how long that person was in this very cell, until the thought of them dying in that very spot floats across his mind. Morbid, indeed.
He shakes the thought away as he lies down on the ground. The hay and leaves don’t do much in the way of comfort, but at least it’s something.
With a yawn, he closes his eyes, mumbling Elvira’s name as he drifts into a deep sleep.
DARIUS TYMOND
DARIUS DIRECTS A harsh gaze at the six men kneeling before him. “You may rise.”
The men stand in unison and, if the situation weren’t so dire, the sight would be enough to make a shiver run down his spine. I’ve trained them well.
“What is the status on Arden Eliri?”
The soldiers remain silent for some time.
Darius narrows his eyes. “When your king asks you a question, you respond.”
One of the soldiers, a younger lad, looks up from the ground. “The girl is still missing, Your Majesty.”
Darius balls his hands into fists. He takes a deep breath and rises from his throne as he focuses on the soldier who will soon discover he’s made a mistake in delivering bad news. “What could possibly be hindering the six of you from finding this girl? She’s a girl, for lords’ sake! It’s been a week!”
The men shuffle their feet and mumble, clearly afraid to look their king in the eye.
“I’ve had enough of your blatant incompetence. Each and every one of you can consider yourselves discharged from duty.” Darius waves his hand dismissively in the air. “Get out of my sight.”
With their heads bowed, the soldiers retreat to the Great Room doors and exit one by one. Darius lets out a long sigh before heading toward his throne. Just as he turns to take his seat, an intoxicating scent hits him—lavender and neroli—and he knows immediately who it is. Aldreda.
“By the glum look on your face, I surmise the guards still haven’t located Arden?” she asks.
Darius does not respond, only shakes his head.
Aldreda purses her lips. “I see.” With her hands resting comfortably on her abdomen, she takes several long strides across the Great Room. For a woman with child, she moves gracefully and elegantly, as if gliding through the air like an eagle. She floats up the marble steps without making a sound, then stands confidently next to her husband. Her eyes drift to a window at the back of the castle, her gaze fixed on a black falcon perched on the sill. Darius notices a small smile tug at her lips as she places a hand on his right shoulder. “You know what this means.”
He looses another breath before nodding. “I’m afraid I do.”
She removes her hand as quickly as she’d placed it there. “Shall you send for them or shall I?”
Darius stands, his back turned to her. If she sees the look on his face, there’s no doubt she’ll try to take over and control the situation. And if there’s one situation he needs complete control over, it’s this one.
“I’ll do it.” He wavers. “I should be the one to initiate.”
Aldreda straightens and, without even looking at her, Darius knows she’s sensed it. His weakness.
“When?” she demands.
His voice cracks. “At dawn.”
“Hmm, we’ll see” his wife purrs.
Darius closes his eyes, fully aware that she’s about to pounce and take full advantage of this opportunity.
“My King, you have more than enough on your plate. And this is an urgent mission, is it not?”
He remains silent, doing everything in his power to remain standing on what little ground he has left.
“It’s only logical to make contact immediately, wouldn’t you agree?”
With a deep breath, he whirls around to face her. His expression is stoic, like a statue. “Then I shall make contact this evening. Would that please you, My Queen?”
His harsh words seem to fall on deaf ears. “Better yet, allow me to do it for you.”
“Aldreda.”
Her hands leave
the comfort of her stomach and fold across her chest. “Darius.”
His mouth presses into a firm line. “I will take care of it. You need to tend to the baby.” He gestures to her growing bump. “The state you’re in is fragile enough as it is. You do not need the extra burden.”
Her stone-cold gaze indicates that she’s not going to give in, but, much to his surprise, she does.
“Fine, if that’s how it must be.” Her words are quiet, but she’s not defeated. “I just figured I’d have better luck with them anyway given my . . . history.”
Darius sucks in a quick breath, then shoots her his best don’t-even-go-there look. “I would prefer for you to leave now.”
Knowing that she’s won, Aldreda bows her head to hide her smile, but Darius sees it, bright as day. He clenches his jaw as she slowly begins to exit the room. When she reaches the doors, she turns to look back at him for a brief second, then slips through them, shutting them quietly behind her.
His shoulders drop and the muscles in his face relax. Unwelcome images of Aldreda gallivanting around town with a member of his Savant creeps into his mind. “No,” he mutters as he closes his eyes, trying to think of anything other than another man’s hands all over his wife, another man’s mouth caressing his wife’s lips, another man’s . . .
“Enough!” he shouts to himself as he stands and flings his arm, knocking a goblet of wine clear across the room. Red covers the once pristine white marble. He allows his head to fall into his hands as he tries to push the memories further and further from his mind.
And then it occurs to him.
Maybe this is exactly what he needs—anger, adrenaline, and confidence—to reach out to his dear old friend. Maybe he’ll be able to face him again without feeling the need to kill him, once and for all.
CERYLIA JARETH
DAWN IS JUST breaking as Cerylia roams through the castle halls. A grumble erupts from deep within her stomach and she realizes she’d fallen asleep without eating supper the night prior. She approaches Delwynn’s chamber, wondering why he hasn’t arrived at her rooms yet with her breakfast, but then she remembers.
Opal.
With a quick pivot of her foot, Cerylia turns around and rushes down the hall. She makes a swift left turn and continues her long strides until she reaches a window overlooking the courtyard. Sure enough, Delwynn and Opal are positioned in the middle of the yard, training and practicing per her original orders. This was before Opal’s . . . incident. The sight angers her, even though the healer had advised her fit to continue her training. Cerylia had been convinced that her prodigy needed at least a fortnight’s rest, but Opal had also insisted that she was fine to carry on. And so, much to her dismay, Cerylia had approved the request to continue training.
She discreetly watches as Delwynn instructs Opal to sit down on the ground, legs crossed, palms facing upward and resting on her knees. Delwynn imitates the movement until they’re both sitting ducks in the middle of the courtyard.
When they remain still for a few moments, Cerylia can’t help but roll her eyes. She gathers the front of her cloak and scurries down the stone steps that lead to the courtyard. Although her footsteps are barely audible, Delwynn immediately senses her approach. He opens one eye and quickly rises to his feet. Opal follows suit.
“Your Greatness,” he announces as he drops into a bow. Opal lowers herself into a half-curtsy and then, as if she’s changed her mind, rises before quickly dropping into a bow. “What can we do for you this fine morning?”
Cerylia brushes a strand of chestnut hair from her face before responding. Although irritable from not having breakfast, she’s determined not to let it show. “How are you getting on with your training?” She directs the question to Opal.
Before the girl has a chance to respond, Delwynn’s hands fly to his cheeks. His eyes grow wide. “Your breakfast!” He shakes his head. “My apologies, Your Greatness, I had a late start and have been so focused on Opal and her training. Let me run to the mess hall right away—”
“Delwynn,” Cerylia interrupts, “There will be no need. I can handle retrieving my own breakfast.” She gives him the warmest smile she can muster. “You two keep to your training schedule. Your dedication has been noted.” She winks at Opal, who gives her a large grin before turning her attention back to Delwynn.
“I can assure you, it won’t happen again!” Delwynn shouts as the queen heads back up the stone steps into the castle.
Once inside, Cerylia doesn’t head to the mess hall, but instead goes for a stroll along the hallway perimeters. It doesn’t take long for her to reach another set of windows that overlook the courtyard. Due to the direction of these windows, Delwynn’s back now faces her, so she can clearly see Opal’s front. She watches them for a few moments, noticing how brightly Opal’s emerald eyes shine in the growing morning light. Laughter echoes throughout the courtyard. Cerylia smiles. She seems to be enjoying her training—a good thing, no doubt.
But her smile fades as a realization surfaces; the truth she’ll have to eventually face—and what she’ll force Opal to face as well. Another memory works its way into her head, and Cerylia closes her eyes, shoving it far, far away, into the depths of her subconscious. But the pain feels fresh. The hurt lingers. And the agony of what once was screams.
She only came to be Queen of Sardoria a mere decade go, although it feels longer, and it certainly wasn’t of her own accord. The townspeople nor the royal court would ever presume her widowed status—given her poise, demeanor, and governance. She’d built Sardoria from the ground up, for those seeking refuge from Tymond’s barbaric reign.
Her mouth presses into a harsh line. Tymond. The precious diadem that sits upon his graying head is nothing but a shadow crown. If only the people of Trendalath knew who their real king and queen were, they would rejoice!
The lies, betrayals, and deceit surrounding Tymond’s reign are not known amongst his people, if at all, which is why it has become her sole purpose to expose the man for who he truly is.
A murderer. A thief. And a coward.
But before she can act, there is one question that must be answered. What truly happened to her husband those fateful fifteen years ago?
For over a decade, a past riddled with uncertainty, with hurt, with longing, is all she’s known. Trendalath was once her home, her safe haven—a place where she would raise a family and produce the next heir to the throne, the next king. But it had all been taken away from her far too quickly in a cowardly tirade.
Cerylia narrows her eyes as her gaze lands once again on Opal. But this girl . . . this girl is the key to finally releasing the ghosts of her past. And when she’s ready, Cerylia will finally have her vengeance. She will finally uncover whether or not Darius Tymond killed her beloved husband.
BRAXTON HORNSBY
IT’S WELL INTO the evening the next day, and still no sign of Braxton’s covert visitor. He’s almost certain that Xerin couldn’t have gotten very far by foot, but the further he ventures into the woods, the more he realizes what a rash assumption that is.
He stops at a nearby tree and pulls a canteen of water from his belt. The canteen is nearly dry, giving him two options: either turn around and head back to the inn, or search for a freshwater source. Seeing as he’s the furthest he’s ever gone into these woods, it would make sense to retreat back to the safety and security of Hanslow Inn, but he’s never been one to give in so easily. Having spent a large portion of his life outdoors, tracking animals and their trails is just one of the many skills he’s picked up over the years.
A fresh set of deer footprints catches his eye, so he turns left, his focus trained on the newfound trail. He’s thrown for a loop a few times—apparently the deer had a muddled sense of direction—but after five minutes, he notices something glimmering through the brush.
A lake.
He pushes his way through the thorny bushes and branches, the bottom of his trousers catching on a nearby bramble.
He shakes his leg in an effort to free the stubborn shrub, but it doesn’t budge. With an exaggerated sigh and two hands clasped tightly over his knee, he pulls. His eyes widen at the sound of fabric ripping.
He immediately releases the grip on his knee and lowers his head, shaking it, then lifts his half-clothed leg away from the shrub. As he’s walking away, his temper gets the better of him and he whirls around to kick the darn thing. Tiny green leaves explode into the air and the plant sways back and forth from the impact.
“Damn plant,” Braxton mutters to himself as he smooths down his trousers. He adjusts his vest and satchel before continuing onward.
Based on the setting sun, he surmises it’s probably close to 1900 hours. He’ll have to turn back soon in order to retrace his steps to the inn, whether he finds the lad or not.
When he reaches the lake, he loosens the cap on his canteen, smiling at the canvas of purples, blues, and pinks reflecting off the water. With a deep inhale, he takes the sight in for all it’s worth. He lifts his gaze to a nearby conifer tree just across the lake. A black falcon is perched on one of the branches. And for some reason, Braxton can’t help but feel like the bird is watching him.
He tilts his head to the side, watching in bewilderment as the bird mimics the movement. Braxton straightens up and fluffs his vest. The bird’s head returns upright as it ruffles its feathers. This bird . . . it has to be . . .
Impossible.
The falcon takes flight from the tree and soars toward him. A majestic creature, Braxton watches in awe as it flies overhead, then swiftly turns around and takes a dive straight at him. In defense, he ducks and throws an arm over his head so that his forearm is facing the sky. A couple of seconds later, he feels a pricking sensation as talons grip his skin. As someone who’s fond of nature and animals, normally this wouldn’t frighten him, but there’s something strange about this particular bird. It’s almost as if it can think and understand—like it somehow has intentions.
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