A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Twenty-nine

Twenty-nine

“Is this her work?” one of the men asked, nudging the charred remains of a corpse with his foot. The late warmth of autumn shined down on the country home, but despite the corpse’s grilled appearance, the body was cold. The other two fallen men and their blood loss helped him to establish a timeline. It had been hours since this slaughter had occurred.

Harland took a knee by the body and looked at the sight around him. While one was clearly the product of fire, the other two had been mutilated by some unholy power. It almost looked like the product of a wolf, but something about the bites and claws was unnatural. An intrusive thought crept into his mind at the idea of unnatural creations. The guard pictured the snake on the edge of the cliff and brought a hand to his eyes, rubbing his temple. At this point, he had no idea what Ophir was capable of, though he hadn’t expected it to be murder.

“Maybe they deserved it?” one of the men offered, voice mingled unconvincingly with hope and some indiscernible emotion.

Harland and his men were tired. They’d been on the road for weeks. A few centurions had stayed at the castle to guard the king and queen, while others had been posted at all of Ophir’s preferred entrances and exits to Aubade, should she try to sneak back into the castle. The rest of them had dispersed among the cardinal directions surrounding the royal city in search of Farehold’s last remaining heir.

A pleasant breeze rubbed the nearly naked autumn branches together, scattering a few reddish leaves to the ground. It rustled his hair. On the wind came a distinct sadness. The day was too lovely for such horrors. Harland’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just the bucolic setting of the cabin near the trees, nor the distance from the surrounding villages. It was the snared rabbits that had been left, untouched, fallen by the man’s feet.

These men had not deserved what had been done to them.

Harland knew exactly why Ophir had run.

She’d lost Caris, and he’d stood guard outside of her door after she was told that her freedom, kingdom, autonomy were to be taken as well. She’d been informed she was to be married off to King Ceneth, and she did the only natural thing she could have done: she’d fled. He blamed himself every bit as much as he blamed Dwyn. He knew little about the Sulgrave fae, save for her arrival bringing on new and terrible changes for all of Aubade, if not the entire continent. The ominous legends connecting blood magic to royal hearts had seemed like little more than ghost stories. He’d been a fool to believe that the timing between Caris’s slaughter and Dwyn’s arrival was a coincidence. Caris’s death had left a gaping wound just big enough for an opportunistic snake to slither in, only this one was more deadly than the serpent on the cliffs. It was true that she’d spared Ophir from drowning, but the princess she pulled from the waves was no longer the one he recognized. Dwyn’s influence had not only twisted all he knew to be true of Ophir’s character but had threatened their alliance with Raascot.

He’d love a chance to get his hands around the throat of the wicked water fae, just once.

“I think we’re on the right track” was all Harland said. “Do what you need to do to see these men are buried. I’ll meet you in the next village,” he announced. The guard returned to his stallion and swung his legs up into the saddle. He urged his horse onward before they could argue. When they finally found Ophir, Harland wanted to be the one to confront her.