A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Forty-two

Forty-two

3:00 PM

15 hours and 45 minutes until execution

“Guests have arrived for you.” The servant knocked on Ophir’s door and called to her.

Ophir looked up from where she’d been relaxing on the bed. She wore gauzy, loose-fitting clothing that matched the fashions of the palace. Her dress was the same blue Caris’s eyes had been. Zita had treated her as an honored guest following their conversation, and it had taken no time to track down the fugitive in question. Ophir’s time in Tarkhany would come to an end.

She twitched in confusion, face bunching together, confident she’d misheard the young woman. She’d left her earpiece on, but the girl had been speaking the common tongue. “What guests would be here for me?”

The servant exhaled. “They’re from Farehold—arrived several hours ago. They’ve already spoken to the queen. She had them bathed from their travels and determined it appropriate that they hold an audience with you before tomorrow’s events.”

Ophir stood, dress so airy that it floated on a nonexistent wind in her wake. Outside the palace, people had been practically bundled against the sun, leaving little skin exposed to its scorching rays. In the shade, however, they remained in an ongoing state of near-nakedness.

Wearing gauze had been the norm since she’d arrived in Midnah, as had napping during the hottest times of the day, eating chilled, brightly colored fruits, and watching the strange, tall bird as it wandered around the palace as if it owned the place, skinny legs with knobby knees angled in the wrong direction, enormous black eyes always sparkling with avian curiosity as it looked for food. She supposed she would have let Sedit do the same, if it had been her palace. She hoped he was okay.

“Are you looking at the bird?” It was the same servant who’d refused to speak to her in the common tongue when she’d arrived. Ophir hadn’t been surprised that she’d come to check on the princess as she’d sat near the fountain under the setting sun. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Is he a pet?”

The woman made a half-shrug. “He’s more of a guardian. This type of bird is known for their relationship to snakes. They have a rather curious hunting technique. They strike with their talons before they peck.”

Ophir cast a nervous glance at her feet. “Are snakes a problem here?”

“In Tarkhany? Yes, of course. Cobras, vipers, mambas, all variety of venomous serpents. In the palace, however? No. And you can thank him for that.”

And so, she did. She silently thanked the tall, peculiar bird every time she passed the gardens. She wondered if she needed a bird on her side now that she was about to receive unexpected guests. Perhaps there would be snakes that needed stomping out.

She approached the middle of the room, each footstep slower than the one before until she came to a complete halt. Her time in Midnah had been so utterly removed from the horrors of Aubade that she’d nearly forgotten why she’d fled. A northern king, a white gown, a bridal veil, and a life in chains to duty awaited her. Anxiety was a cold, thumping thing as she waited to see who’d come to drag her back to Farehold. Her heart skipped arrhythmically as she looked for aid, wishing Sedit was there.

Sedit…

It was as if she’d looked in the mirror, then immediately forgotten her appearance upon turning her back. She possessed an emotional impermanence, born from a life of deeming herself the auxiliary sister, the unworthy heir, the failed daughter. But she was a motherfucking manifester. The truth of her power was as real and innumerable as the sands between Midnah and Aubade, yet her belief in her abilities was as thin and fragile as the gauzy gown she wore.

She became immediately self-conscious of how the cloud of fabric settled around her, hugging her curves, draping with such a thin, sheer covering that it peaked at her nipples, dipped with her navel, and pressed into the outline between her thighs. She hadn’t minded in the slightest while wandering about the palace, as everyone was dressed in similar garb within palace walls, but she wasn’t sure how it would appear to someone from her kingdom.

She clasped her hands in front of her and fidgeted with her fingers until an all-too-familiar face appeared at her door.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Ophir,” Harland practically cried in relief. He rushed to her as if to hug her, but her standoffish posture stopped him just short of the embrace. Instead, he snatched her hands from where they’d been folded delicately in front of her, scooping them into his own. His joyful reunion caught on a snag as his eyes dropped from her face and grazed over her practically exposed body. “What are you wearing?”

She shook her hands loose and took a step back, voice a mix between confusion and irritation. “You’ve come all the way to Tarkhany to ask me about fashion?” The truth was, it did feel good to see him. She’d felt very alone in the palace and would have taken anyone’s company. Berinth was already kept securely in shackles in the dungeon, and now all that was left was to dole out bloody, cathartic justice. It was the sort of thing Harland could be present for.

She looked over her shoulder. “Who did you bring?”

Ophir scanned the dark hair, the pointed ears, the gorgeous features of an entirely unfamiliar fae male. He was muscular, but not in the way Harland was strong. His jaw was sharper, while Harland’s was square. This new man was built for agility, for silence. Something about him sang to her of shadows and secrets. She lifted a single brow as she regarded him. He remained impressively expressionless, despite his exhausting journey, her practical nudity, and his presence in a foreign land. Perhaps he was one of the rare beings who could not be fazed.

The fae waved two fingers in idly greeting. “I’m Samael. I’m—”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit at the name. Her entire posture changed in a moment as her eyes trained on him with more purpose, reacting in both surprise and excitement. “Yes, I know you! You saved my father’s life.” She stepped away from Harland toward the stranger, shaking his hand. She may be angry with her parents, but she loved them and hadn’t wanted her father dead. The assassination attempt had been a close-guarded secret within the royal family. It wouldn’t serve them to let the world know how easy it had been to infiltrate their walls, or how King Eero would already be with Caris in the afterlife if a lowly guard hadn’t sensed trouble and gone to investigate. “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll spend his life in gratitude, as will we all. Your promotion to spymaster was well deserved.”

She dropped Samael’s hand and turned to Harland, only to find his eyes were still trained on her a little too intently. How revealing was this dress?

The column of Harland’s throat worked as if struggling to speak. “Ophir, we’ve been told about the execution. How did you find him? How did you get to Tarkhany? How—”

She attempted to make a face as if to communicate to Harland that now, in front of their new friend, was not the time. “I have ways” was all she said.

He released an exasperated breath, face betraying his displeasure. He was clearly exhausted. He’d traveled through ungodly conditions, skin pinked by the baking oven of hell itself—which would have undoubtedly been a cherry shade of red with white and purple blisters had they not packed the tonics necessary to knit their cells back together—only to find a princess who didn’t want to be found. She was handling things just fine on her own.

“Samael.” Harland pursed his lips, words coming out with thinly veiled control. “Can you wait outside for a moment?”

Samael and Harland were of separate but equal ranks. Harland could not command him, but Farehold’s spymaster didn’t seem to mind. His gesture wasn’t quite a shrug. It was almost a curious disinterest, as if both amused and indifferent to the world around him. A few moments later, they were alone. Harland ushered her to the bed to sit, but she remained on her feet. She knew he was used to them sitting side by side, with their familiarity, with their intimacy. She expected him to find the subtle gesture of distance was unsettling. Still, he shook his head and searched her eyes for answers.

“You found him?” he said, voice hushed.

“I have.”

“And…” This time when his gaze darted between her breasts and her eyes, she ensured he would see the disappointment on her face. He cleared his throat for what must have been the nine thousandth time in their short reunion. He said, “You’ve come all this way and you’re okay with the justice of another nation’s due process? I have to say, I’m surprised.”

“It’s better this way,” Ophir said. “If I’d caught him alone, I would have locked him in a root cellar and spent years peeling him apart one strip at a time. It would have been satisfying, but no one would have known. Queen Zita’s way is superior.”

He rubbed his chin, and she saw the doubt in his gesture.

“Every kingdom must know of his guilt. The corners of the earth should hear his crimes and see him suffer. I want every man, woman, and child to know what happened to the man who killed my sister. I’d love nothing more than to see Caris’s vision for unity come together in her death.”

“I don’t think this was what she meant,” Harland muttered.

“Then she should have stuck around and done it herself,” Ophir snapped. “I’m building a relationship with Tarkhany, avenging my sister, and ensuring her murderer pisses himself in front of thousands before I’m the one who swings the ax. Before my head hits the pillow tomorrow night, this will be a deeply satisfying memory.”

His hazel eyes used to sparkle when they looked at her. They’d reminded her of all things green and rich and alive once upon a time. There was something flat about the greens and browns as he looked at her now, as if disappointment came with its own opaque sheen.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t say it with such pride,” Harland said quietly.

Ophir didn’t bother lowering her voice. “You’ve brought Samael with you from Aubade. Isn’t it his job to know everything? Why the secrecy now?”

He extended his hand for her arm. The obstinate pieces of her wanted to create space, but she’d been so touch starved. She didn’t want to be alone. She allowed the contact, submitting to the pressure as he pulled her to the space beside him. “It’s not Samael I’m hiding from. You know nothing of this kingdom. I’ve only asked him to step outside because I know you won’t talk about your…”

“Manifesting?”

His command for her to hush was sharp and cutting.

Her lip pulled back in an involuntary show of her fangs. In that moment, she wished it had been Dwyn who’d found her rather than Harland. “So, we are hiding things from Samael, just to be clear?”

“It’s not that, Firi. Don’t be foolish. Nothing is hidden from him . Your manifestation is something we’re hiding this from the world . If they knew what you could do…” His face collapsed, hazel eyes catching on her features like a sweater snagging on a nail. It was as if he were searching for ways in which she’d become someone entirely new, an unfamiliar creature, something as wild and wicked as the serpent he’d seen her conjure on the cliffs.

***

Harland knew a few things.

He knew that one should never put his sword away wet. He knew that most of one’s body heat was lost through the ground, and so it was more important to sleep on top of something than beneath something when slumbering on the forest floor. He knew that the juice from citrus fruits made milk curdle. And he knew that Ophir would never do anything she didn’t want to do. He couldn’t cross-examine her. He couldn’t force answers from her. He couldn’t do anything unless she, too, felt it was what she wanted for herself. He didn’t just know this; he accepted it. It was part of why he’d remained her guard for so long while others had failed. He understood her.

Instead of pressing the issue further, wondering how Berinth had been caught, what the conditions had been, how she’d been certain, he attempted support instead. “I know Berinth didn’t act alone. Have you gotten other names from him? So that the information doesn’t die with him?”

Ophir tilted her head ever so slightly.

He understood her, but she couldn’t say the same of him. He hated that she was consistently surprised when he showed patience—always impressed when he was practical, supportive, and restrained. It was an uncommon reaction within the castle walls.

Her pause told him that no, she had not.

He tried again. Rather than asking her in a way that might seem condescending, he chose his words to emphasize the belief that she’d already done the correct, intelligent thing. “When you affirmatively identified him, did he say anything?”

She perked at this, recognizing his tactic. He knew it was why he’d outlasted the others, just as he knew it was why she hadn’t chased him away.

“Yes,” she said, relaxing slightly. She put her hands behind her, propping her weight up in a more comfortable position. “He was feral when we spoke, but I expected as much. How would anyone act when they’d been caught on the run? How does any dishonorable man behave when they’re about to meet justice? He was incoherent. Nothing he said made sense.”

Harland allowed her a moment to process, knowing she’d get there in the next thirty seconds without him saying anything. He watched her face as her lips moved together. It almost looked as if she were rolling something over her tongue, testing an idea, tasting a thought.

“We should go speak to him before the execution,” she said.

Yes, this was why they worked together. He didn’t tell her what to do, and he didn’t underestimate her intelligence. He knew that she was perfectly capable and that sometimes the best thing he could do was play a facilitating role. “Do you have access to him? I’m ready now if you are. Though I do think Samael should come. He doesn’t need to know anything about your manifestation. He’s special in a way none of us have seen. It’s hard to place. He has…intuition. He’ll be an asset.”

“Intuition? What kind of gift is that?”

Harland’s cheeks puffed as he pushed out a slow breath. “He just knows what needs to be done. It’s an inborn judgement. He trusts when he knows what needs to be done. Of course, he has incredible skill in battle, or he wouldn’t have made it in the king’s guard. But when it comes to his intuition… Farehold would be without its king if it weren’t for Samael. Your father trusts him with his life.”

He wasn’t sure what Ophir knew of Samael, though, to be fair, her limited understanding perhaps matched his own knowledge of his colleague. He’d gained something of a mythical reputation for having saved King Eero’s life only a decade prior. Farehold’s king never spoke of it, save to sing the fae’s praises. Samael had bypassed thousands of years of convention with his instant promotion to spymaster. Despite his devotion to proving himself steadfast and trustworthy, the bizarre nature of his arrival and instantaneous rise to his station gave even the most open-hearted among them pause.

Still, Samael had yet to let anyone in Farehold down.

Neither Harland nor Ophir could say the same.

“Fine, fine,” she said, as if she didn’t have the energy to argue. “But I don’t want the attention I’ll draw in broad daylight.”

“You? Draw attention?” He regretted it the moment her lips flattened into a straight line. He took on the stance of a proper member of the royal guard, straightening his shoulders and dipping his chin as he said, “Come nightfall, we find the dungeons.”

***

7:00 PM

11 hours and 45 minutes until execution

Ophir had only been to the dungeons once, but Tarkhany’s layout was unforgettable. As with many dungeons, theirs was underground. It only required stepping into the palace gardens encased by the inner pillars of the palace walls. She led the way, baby-blue gown floating behind her as if she were made of little more than clear, daylight air. The evening hour had already allowed for a stark drop in temperature, which hadn’t ceased to amaze her. No matter how blistering the noon hour was, the nights were incomprehensibly chilly. At present, it was the crimson hour before dusk. Still warm, but no longer unbearably hot. Ophir breezed beyond the final pillar and stepped into the courtyard, walking nearly to the middle. The rectangular fountain had a curious illusion effect, where it appeared to have a permanent shadow on one side.

She led them to a sinking set of stairs beneath the fountain. It unfurled into a large, circular room the size of the courtyard above them. It would have been dark, had it not been for the dim, crimson fae lights dotted above every cell.

Their jail was intermittently populated—perhaps emptier than the dungeons of Aubade, though she’d never had cause to go down there herself. Her brief appearance in Tarkhany’s dungeons the night prior had only served to confirm the identity of the criminal while he screamed rabid, frothing lies of his innocence. She hadn’t turned her head that night as he’d wailed after them, allowing herself to walk back to her room, heart warmed with vengeance.

Vengeance.

Dwyn would have wanted to be there.

Ophir shook her head of thoughts of the Sulgrave girl, focusing on the present moment. Dwyn. Fucking Dwyn. She wasn’t sure who she hated more—Dwyn, or herself for wanting to trust someone so badly. She looked over her shoulder at Harland and Samael, who didn’t rush her but seemed to wait for her to signal their forward movements. She’d trusted Harland once—before he’d escorted her away to be married off to Ceneth.

She held Harland’s eyes for one breath, then two. He dipped his chin slightly, encouraging her forward. The desert was arid, which prevented a musty scent from developing, but a stale, unwashed smell of bodies and sweat filled their noses instead. It made her miss the smell of sulfur and spoiled meat. She could trust her creatures. Sedit would never betray her. Nothing she made would harm her. She wanted her hound. Instead, she had a guard, a spymaster, and a captive to confront.

Ophir stepped up to his jail cell and watched as Berinth’s eyes lifted slowly. Her stomach turned in disgust. She wanted to kill him now. She wanted to summon a demon within his cell, or to cook him on an open flame between the stones of his prison. The public execution would send a better message. She needed the world to know that they could not touch Caris without consequence. Ophir was the consequence.

The moment their eyes locked, he scrambled for her. His hands, smudged and filthy, wrapped around the bars.

“Please!” he began, words tumbling over each other like water over stones. “Please, you were there that night! You know me!”

She almost vomited in her mouth. “Yes, I was there, you sick fuck. I was there when you led her away. I was there when you—”

He shook his head. “Led who away?”

She scowled. “Don’t you dare play this game with me. Give me a reason to end you now, Berinth.”

“My name isn’t Berinth!” His pathetic attempts at deceit were a disgusting plea. He gripped the bars like a rat trying to dig its way out of a cage. A hand shot through the space between the bars, clawing at them as if they might reach out to comfort him. “You have to help me! I’m an innocent man. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even know where I am!”

Ophir opened her mouth to scream at him but felt a shoulder on her hand.

It was meant to be a calming gesture, but she turned the flame of her fury on Samael instead. If Harland hadn’t been there to absorb her blow, to intercept the moment he recognized her wrath, Samael may have left the dungeon with third degree burns. Harland was no stranger to being scorched by her fire. Her fire quelled within her palm as she glared up at Harland, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes hard.

“Don’t touch me!” She tried to shake free, but he kept a heavy hand on her shoulders.

Instead of addressing her, he looked to Samael.

The fae said nothing; he merely shook his head. It was one swift motion to the side, an abrupt cut of denial, that said everything he needed to say. No .

“What!” Ophir demanded. “What’s ‘ no’ !? No, don’t kill him, it’s immoral to murder? Is that it? Because guess what?!” She didn’t care if her yelling was unseemly. She saw the whites of the eyes as the other prisoners pressed themselves to the bars to watch. “I’m killing him in the morning. That’s right, Harland. Come tomorrow morning, I’ll be the one who kills him.”

Harland remained silent, looking to Ophir, then back to Samael.

Her anger spiked higher, somehow. She hadn’t thought it was capable of growing.

Samael’s expression was unreadable, though somewhat amused. “What an interesting gift.”

She looked between them, relaxing enough so that Harland released his bruising grasp. “Flame?”

He pursed his lips. He was not speaking to her. Turning to the prisoner, he asked, “What’s your last memory? Before being dragged to the cell?”

Berinth continued his despicable, clawing motion against the bars. The iron slid beneath his palms, forcing him to adjust his grip time and time again. The smell of piss hit her once more. She could barely keep herself from gagging on the putrid scent, particularly mingled with her overall revulsion for the man. She scowled at the exchange as he spun idiotic lies about his family, his life, his village.

Samael turned back to Ophir. With no emotion, he said, “You knew his name was not Berinth, correct? You expected it was a pseudonym?”

She frowned. Yes, it had been suggested that he’d been using a false name. “Why do you ask?”

Samael arched a brow. He looked at Harland as if asking whether he should speak his mind, but Harland nodded.

“He did everything you accuse him of,” Samael confirmed. “I’m certain you’ve correctly identified the man who killed your sister. But this man is innocent.”

Perhaps she’d kill Samael instead. “Listen. I don’t care if you saved my father,” she growled, taking a step closer to him, “I’ll—”

Harland quelled her temper, putting his hands on her shoulders once more.

“Samael.” Harland’s eyes flared with urgency. “Can you explain?”

Farehold’s spymaster shook his head. He could not.

Harland’s frown deepened, but now Ophir’s expression was mirroring his.

“What are you saying?” she asked. “Someone made Berinth kill my sister?”

Samael appeared unbothered, as if this were any unimportant weekday afternoon. “I’m saying, he is not responsible for what happened. He doesn’t remember it. He has no recognition of you before your encounter in these dungeons. I know that to be true. And if this man was at the estate the night of Caris’s murder, he wouldn’t be able to effectively conceal his recognition. He couldn’t fake knowing you.”

“He was…what? What could you be implying?” Ophir prompted.

“He was threatened? Forced? Coerced?” Harland offered.

“He was hypnotized.”