A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Twelve

Twelve

Ophir set her jaw. She clenched her fists. She braced herself to be yelled at, yet again.

“What are you?” Dwyn struck her across the face, the harsh, red welts already rising against her pale skin. Her sea-freshened face was pink against the wind that chafed it, but it was nothing compared to the harsh, clear evidence of Dwyn’s act of intentional violence.

“Ow!” Ophir’s hand flew to her face where the imprint of a hand was already hot against her skin, eyes wide with shock. She’d expected a scolding, not a slap.

The day was as terrible as her energy. The winds, the impending storm, the chill, the ferocity in every one of her lashes matched her as if one was a harmony and the other its melody. Ophir’s eyes were as wide as saucers, the melted honey of her irises staring at Dwyn in a state of bewildered horror. It wasn’t the first time Dwyn had attempted a rather violent form of therapy, but this was the first time the fae had hit her.

“Hey!” Harland shouted from where he stood off to the back.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dwyn yelled dismissively at the guard, returning her aggressive posture to the princess. There was no gentle energy in her tonight. She focused her dark brown eyes on the princess where she shrank.

Ophir blinked rapidly in shock, flinching preemptively. She’d been hit twice in her life, and both culprits had been dealt with swiftly and without mercy. This was the third time someone had laid a hand on her, and she had no idea what to make of it. She stumbled backward, a thin hand raising to touch the heat of the welt. She knew what Dwyn wanted to hear and swallowed through the thought.

“I’m a snake?”

“Say it again.” Dwyn raised her hand, and Ophir winced in anticipation of the pain. Distant lightning over the sea made her look like one of the old gods from the time before the All Mother had brought order and love to the world. There was a dark ferocity in the typically aloof siren’s face she’d never seen before.

“Goddess, fuck, stop!” Ophir flinched and lifted a hand to protect herself. Harland’s stare intensified from where he’d been idling in the expanse above the cliffs. He was clearly uncomfortable but didn’t know what to do or how to help. He hadn’t let Ophir out of his sight in nearly seven months, save for the moments she slept or the times she excused herself to the bathing room. He’d become a permanent shadow, and following the tragedy that had befallen the castle, the princess no longer tried to evade him. No one was sure when he found the time to sleep, particularly as he no longer trusted any of the other castle guards to watch her.

Ophir’s unusual relationship with Dwyn had resulted in the liveliest anyone had seen the young princess in months. No one questioned the Sulgrave fae’s presence—she may as well have been from a village in Farehold, a border town in Tarkhany, or the Raascot capital of Gwydir for all it mattered—as long as it seemed to be doing what no one else in the kingdom had accomplished. Whoever she was, and whatever she was doing, it seemed to be working.

“Don’t tempt me, Firi. I’ve been looking for excuses to smack you ever since I moved into the castle. You and your goddess-damned flame-soaked night terrors haven’t let me get a decent sleep in weeks. Go on. Give me a reason.”

“I’m a snake.”

Harland relaxed at the exchange. Out of the corner of her eye, Ophir caught him chuckling to himself and begin to pick at tiny pieces of lint on his cloak. He seemed to be doing his best to give the women their privacy. It was impossible to miss the bizarre brand of psychology Dwyn seemed to wield. While healers and spiritualists had tried prayer, tonics, and drugs, and while her parents had gone to great lengths to offer their youngest child space and understanding, it was the Sulgrave fae’s violence that appeared to be making true, noteworthy progress.

The cliffs were not quiet today. The clouds were dark with impending storm. The sea matched its ominous intensity, white caps breaking the otherwise steel shades of its waves. The wind whipped around them, making Ophir wish she had tied her hair into a braid. Her hair was a mix of muddy brown and dark blond, tangling in a cloud against her face as the wind moved it. She choked on a strand of her hair and spit it out, attempting to look fierce, and failing.

“Again! Say it until I believe you.”

Ophir scrunched her face angrily. “You want to know what I believe? I believe that you’re certifiably insane.”

“Try again, princess.”

“I’m a black snake! I’m a big, terrifying black snake!” She cried her assertions into the wind at Dwyn, fists balled in anger. Ophir doubted she looked threatening, but she pulled her lips back in a snarl to show the sharpened ends of her canines. It wasn’t the desired expression of fury Dwyn was trying to elicit, but rather, a face of contempt and irritation at her so-called friend who wouldn’t stop hitting her across the fucking face.

The siren lifted her hand to strike again and Ophir winced, raising her forearm up defensively to block the blow.

Dwyn’s voice was growing higher and louder to combat the sound of the approaching storm. “Fight back, Ophir! Stop being so pathetic. You’re acting powerless. Where is your rage?! Don’t let me hit you. Don’t let yourself be a victim. What are you?”

“If you don’t want me to get hit, then stop hitting me!”

“Do you think the world will stop, princess? It will punish you as long as you allow it! Don’t let it!”

Dwyn pushed her to the ground and the princess went flying, skidding through the dust, grime, and sand at the cliff’s edge. Her hands scraped and chafed as they burned against the impact, a jolt of pain shooting up her arms. Her palms stung with the shallow scrapes, droplets of blood already beginning to form on her hands. She shot a panicked look to Harland just in time to see him straighten where he stood. His full attention was on the girls as her feral friend descended upon her.

“Where’s your will to live!”

“You’re insane,” Ophir said, bewildered.

Through gritted teeth, Dwyn said, “I haven’t shown you a drop of insanity yet. You have no idea how much I have to give.”

Dwyn wound her foot up and kicked Ophir in the ribs. She reeled against the pain, stars populating her vision. That was the signal to intervene. Harland moved quickly toward them, his hand on his hilt, but Dwyn thrust a powerful stream of water directly from the ocean below at the guard that threw him against solid stone. His body made impact with a loud thud as her power crashed around him, cracking his body against the cream-colored outer walls of the castle. Water and chaos and pain erupted in a way that filled the very air, as if the impending storm was only a player in their terrible game. Dwyn pulled her foot back again and kicked Ophir in the stomach this time. The princess gagged and choked on her pain, feeling loss, betrayal, and terror consume her.

“What are you!” Her foot drew backward, ready to come down in another terrible blow. Her next kick would surely draw blood.

With anger, Ophir spun on the siren. She pushed herself up with one hand and began to call her flame with the other, but Dwyn was too fast. The wind was the wail of a legion of banshees as it whipped off of the ocean’s choppy surface, whistling and crying around them. Ophir’s toffee hair had become painful whips of rope as they slashed and bit into the skin of her face and cheeks. Thunder cracked just beyond the bay, announcing its arrival to any who dared to remain on the seaside. Dwyn doused the emerging fire with her water and crunched the princess’s hand beneath her foot.

“What are you!”

With a shriek so loud and unholy that it washed out the ocean around them, Ophir unleashed an explosion of anger. Her hands flew out in front of her as if to send another wall of flame at Dwyn in their death match. Her banshee cry opened a bottle of fury and the madness of long-held violence as she released a raw, untethered scream. “I’m a snake!”

And there it was.

Dwyn began to back away quickly, lips parted, eyes wide with surprise.

Harland had just begun to stand from where he’d been knocked nearly unconscious against the wall of the castle. He was gasping for air after having nearly drowned on dry land from the siren’s blast of power and perhaps thought he might be hallucinating from the swallow of seawater.

Ophir stared in horror at the vile evil that had emerged from her explosion of rage.

A large, black serpent was poised to strike, its vitriol focused fully on Dwyn.

Manifestation was said to be the power of the All Mother. In her infinite wisdom and selflessness, she had breathed the earth and all its creatures into existence through the power of thought, energy, and air. The goddess had desired lush, green lands, and so she’d manifested vegetation. She’d wanted to quench her thirst, and so she’d filled the world with water. Animals filled her world, from the gentle herbivores to the terrible predators that kept the balance of life in check. The All Mother had desired companions and had crafted humans to live alongside her. They’d grown jealous and afraid of her power, so she’d made the fae to bridge the gap between the mortal and the holy.

Throughout recorded history, manifestation had been reported only three times. The first was said to have been possessed by a religious Speaker for the All Mother who used her words to bring harmony in war times, conjuring walls to end battles, chains to shackle enemies, and dividing the kingdoms to prevent their lust for blood. The second was said to have belonged to the original fae king of Farehold, as he’d created for himself the wealth and armies he’d needed to take hold of a kingdom, leveling the lands. The third had been killed at the gentle age of eleven when she’d shown the first inclinations of manifestation. Her parents had attempted to hide her gift, but the moment word spread, it had been decided by the church and crown alike that the gift was too powerful to be wielded on these lands.

Dwyn’s shock and surprise had given way to a slow, private smile. She didn’t seem to fear the monster before her, not even as the thunder cracked and the lightning of the approaching storm reflected against its scales. The edges of her lips twinged upward as the fallen princess, who still clung to the cliff’s edge, and the shocked bodyguard examined the large, black serpent.

The siren motioned to Harland. “Can you take care of this for us?”

The serpent was the size of a large dog. Ophir wasn’t sure how Harland was supposed to “take care of it” and keep his life and limbs intact, but Dwyn didn’t seem concerned.

Ophir had manifested.

What was more, the siren had seemed to know she could. This was why she’d spent weeks forcing the princess to envision the beast. She’d created a nightly meditation of how the creature looked, how it made her feel, the powers it possessed. She’d gone so far as to beat Ophir within an inch of her life to activate whatever remnants of survival remained in her weak, pathetic body.

The snake was enormous. It was the living embodiment of rage, venom, and fear. Still, it did not seem emboldened to move of its own accord. The creature remained coiled, as if waiting for a command. Seeing his opportunity, Harland brought his sword down in a sharp, clean arc. The unnatural viscosity of the black, thick blood that sprayed from its beheading was as horrifying as the appearance of the creature itself. Dwyn immediately began the process of shoving the serpent’s body over the cliff’s edge, as if her first priority was concealing the evidence. The wind fought against her efforts as the storm around them began to thunder over the sea, but Harland joined the siren in shoving the serpent’s body over the edge of the cliff into the waters below.

They were joined in a mission to hide the evidence of what the princess had just done. No one could know about this, and they knew it intrinsically.

The rain began to pour down over them with the flurry of rocks and fists. Any evidence of the snake’s blackened blood was washing away under the pounding of water as lightning cracked over the ocean. The waves were crashing with such intensity that their sea spray began to join the rain soaking the three who remained on the cliff.

Shock glued Ophir to the ground.

Harland scooped up the princess as Dwyn opened the castle door, guiding them through the corridors. She’d become familiar enough with Castle Aubade over the past few weeks to know how to navigate from the cliffs to the princess’s chambers. Her rooms had changed a number of times, as the severity of her flame would often leave the bedchamber in such a state of charred disrepair that they’d need to relocate to a new wing until something could be done about Ophir, Flame Heart.

***

“What do I do?” Ophir’s voice sounded so small to her ears. She had been strong, once. Those parts of her had been laid to rest with Caris. She hadn’t thought she was capable of signs of life until she’d created one of her own.

In the seconds that followed, she had gone directly from the storm-swept cliffs to her room where thoughts could flood through her mind just as the waters beyond the fortress. Her guard disappeared, presumably to clean up after her as he’d done so many times before. She was rife with anxiety, twisting her fingers against the wet fabric of her skirt as she flipped through the events of the evening like a tattered, paperbound novel, reading it forward and backward and again and again until the spine cracked. She’d waited in agonizing silence for Dwyn, Harland, or anyone to burst in through her door and demand to know how she’d created a snake.

She had summoned a serpent. No—she hadn’t summoned it, for it had not existed.

Summoners called to that which occurred naturally. Some could speak to only present elements, like those who crafted metal, fire, or stone by wielding the elements before them. Ophir had been gifted with the ability to summon an element even when she found herself lacking its presence. She could summon fire, rather than simply move that which existed in hearths, candles, lanterns, and torches.

What Ophir had done was not summoning.

She had manifested.

She’d been foolish to think Dwyn’s methods had been an exercise intended for healing.

Harland entered her room without announcing himself. He knelt before her as he had done so long ago, but everything was different now. Her clothes and hair were wet, as she’d been the morning he’d burst into her room following the party. She sat atop her bed fretting over her creation, but this time she was not a distant husk. Fear had replaced her numbness, seeping into the world around her just like the damp, soaked spot on the duvet from where her sopping clothes and tendrils of hair rested firmly on the mattress.

His saturated armor mirrored her dress as it dripped onto her carpet. She knew from the twitch of his hands that he wanted to comfort her. Of course he wanted to be a good guard, a good subject to the royal family, a good friend and a good steward of magic and peace. Surely, he wanted to do the right thing, but how could one do the right thing when there was no clear path forward?

But she knew his pained expression went far beyond that of a man of duty. His face was that of a man who wanted to take her in his arms and hold her.

Ophir chewed on her words. “If people find out—”

“They won’t,” he said quickly. He abandoned his comforting post and stood, crossing his arms to force his hands to be kept to himself. He rubbed at his chin with a free hand while he stated the facts. “Your gift is flame, Ophir. It is well known throughout the kingdom. Everyone knows what power you possess, and they would never expect or believe that you’d come into anything further. It’s unlikely that you would show an aptitude for such a radically different skill this late in life. No one will suspect you of possessing a new gift.”

“Why would you hide this for me?”

His eyes were tight and serious. “You know why.”

Her damp, brown-gold locks shook, water dripping from their tendrils. “Several fae have multiple powers. Dwyn can—”

His eyes strained as he turned to hear her finish her sentence. His words were taut with a low severity as he asked, “What can Dwyn do?”

She didn’t want to incriminate the fae who had quickly become her only friend. No man would feel safe in the presence of a siren if they knew what she could do. Regardless, Ophir wasn’t sure she’d survive if Dwyn left. She’d made more healing progress, begun to gain healthy weight, and even stretched her nights of sleep further and further thanks to the Sulgrave fae’s presence. “She has multiple water-related abilities. Not only does she manipulate it, but I believe she can also breathe in water.” He didn’t need to know what she used her powers to accomplish. Harland was no sailor. He was at no risk of falling prey to whatever dark whims a siren might possess.

“No one has to know about this,” he repeated, as much to himself as to her. He pressed a hand to his heart as he looked at her, a silent vow in his action. Manifestation came with the kind of consequences that raised the ground, toppled dynasties, and created worlds. It was a power too great to be allowed to live on this earth. He said it as much with his eyes as he did with his gesture: he would not allow her to meet a manifester’s fate. “But Dwyn knew.”

“She learned when we did,” Ophir replied.

“She knew,” he said, expression grave.

“How could she have known?” Even as she asked the question, she held the same puzzle pieces that Harland gripped with uneasy hands. Dwyn had planted the image in her mind for weeks. She’d goaded her, pushed her, and beat her until the princess snapped with the power. This had been no healing exercise in freeing oneself from trauma. She’d been engaging with intent. The Sulgrave fae had known.

Harland shook his head.

“What do we do now?” Ophir asked.

He looked at her with pained, hazel eyes. “She’s in a guest room now. She wasn’t happy about being separated from you.”

“Is she in trouble?”

Harland chewed his lip. “That’s not the right word.”

“We haven’t been apart in weeks,” Ophir replied. She wasn’t sure what the inky snake had taught her about Dwyn, but a few facts remained. Dwyn had saved her. Dwyn had kept her alive the night of Caris’s murder and continued to save her night after night, fitful sleep after restless slumber. Aubade was spared an ashen end because of Dwyn.

The line between suspicion and salvation grew thinner with every night that passed.

***

For three days, Ophir did not see or hear from Dwyn. Harland had refused to answer any questions about the Sulgrave girl. In the moments following her manifestation of the serpent, everything else had blurred. Ophir was escorted out of her rooms only for meals.

For fifty years, Ophir had been adrift. She’d dodged responsibilities, deflected obligations that came with the crown, and indulged in the pleasures and victories of a princess who’d learned how to navigate as the secondborn. For the gut-wrenching, hopeless months following Caris’s loss, she’d grieved, she’d prayed, and she’d suffered. For three days and three nights, she pictured herself on the cliff and the enormous, terrifying beast that had sprung from her fingertips.

She pushed the word out of her mind every time she was confronted by the implication that came with creation. The thought was too big, too important, too powerful for Ophir to speak aloud. She settled into a protective shock as the sun rose and set. Though she didn’t name the power, one distinct change occurred.

For three consecutive nights, Ophir did not dream.