A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Fifty-one

Fifty-one

6:30 AM

15 minutes until execution

Ophir didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.

The morning light in the desert was infinitely prettier than any she’d seen in Farehold. Maybe it was the dry clarity of the air, or the infinite expanse of the dunes on all sides, but the gentle pastel gradients were unmatched. Perhaps it was because she was used to sunsets on the western coast, rather than the endless horizons in all directions provided by the desert. Midnah’s enveloping warmth helped. It was much easier to enjoy a morning when the air was perfectly pleasant, its dawn climate too early to be anything lovely.

A low scaffolding of sorts had been constructed over the fountain that stretched in front of the palace. It elevated the entire party onto a platform above the crowd, safely removed from reaching hands or the wayward daggers of the particularly rebellious, while still within their line of sight. She had pictured it, of course. She’d seen beheadings, hangings, and magical executions in Aubade. They didn’t happen often, but life was long, and justice had a way of finding its target.

Executions in Aubade weren’t an entirely solemn event. Occasional street vendors would sell food from their carts, and crowds would gather for the excitement. But it certainly wasn’t the banquet thrown in Tarkhany.

Dressed in the finest, airy lavender gown she’d ever seen, face painted for royalty, hair half up, Ophir held her chin high as she exited the palace into the first light of morning. She gripped Dwyn’s hand for comfort, unwilling to let go. Ophir was escorted by several guards from the palace to the platform where the crowd waited. The moment she’d exited the palace, she’d been greeted by the music of what may have been a harp or maybe a lute.

Loud, bright, lavender, wonderful.

She wiped the residual effects of minty, relaxing rest from her eyes. Dwyn squeezed her hand, sending an electric bolt of resolution through her. In lieu of pillow talk common to lovers basking in morning glow, Dwyn offered the peace and reassurance Ophir needed to get through the morning. Berinth was to blame, and she was here to deliver justice. There was no looking back.

She scanned for the musician, seeing a man sitting upon the platform with a large instrument that looked like an upright cello, with the stretched leather of a drum for a covering between his legs. He played it masterfully, the music quiet and respectful enough for the occasion, while still bright and lovely. A cornucopia of breakfast foods stretched out across the platform. It was lined with chairs intended for Ophir, her guests, Zita, and her retinue. Street vendors were out in full force, with breads and fruits distributed among the onlookers and the guards alike.

Among the newness, there was one thing that Aubade and Tarkhany had in common.

At the center of the platform, the man she’d known as Lord Berinth knelt, shackled.

Good . She resisted the urge to spit. Rage crackled through her, flame threatening her palms. Let him grovel. Let him see me coming. Let him sob as the wrath of kingdoms presses down on him.

She wasn’t sure who would be accompanying her that morning but was relieved to see Zita approaching. The woman wasn’t as friendly-looking as she remembered, but perhaps they were both just nervous. Ophir did her best to smile, though she wasn’t sure that was the appropriate reaction. At least Zita looked pretty, if not familiar. She wondered if the queen had chosen her orange, black, and gray dress intentionally. She was dressed like the same long-legged bird that stomped about the garden, poised against vipers, cobras, mambas, and the like.

There was one final serpent in the palace, and this one could not be killed. Ophir straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and envisioned herself as the big, black snake, ready to strike.

The seats to either side remained empty. The desert queen mounted the steps to the platform, gesturing for Ophir—the middle kingdom’s princess, so she’d been called—to sit beside her. Ophir looked over her shoulder to see Harland and Samael trailing behind her with the other guards. She met Harland’s eyes for the briefest of moments before facing forward. She didn’t have the emotional space for his disapproval. He could handle his revenge however he wanted if his sister was murdered at a party. Ophir was here to do whatever was necessary.

The bubbling voices and faces rippled with surprise over Dwyn’s presence. Ophir was the foreigner they’d expected, not someone from Sulgrave. She hadn’t been introduced, expected, or invited. No one seemed to know what to do with the way Ophir gripped her hand, unwilling to be separated from her unusual guest. They made space for the unexpected companion as Ophir took a seat with Zita on one side, Dwyn on the other. She looked at the food in front of her, unsure if she’d be able to eat. She scanned the sea of faces, merry chatter, eyes floating to her over and over again—the stranger from Farehold, the first time in centuries someone from Aubade had come to visit, and it was for an execution.

She mustn’t overthink it.

Berinth, the murderer, the traitor, the villainous scum, remained on the platform. She’d call her flame. He’d scream. She’d get to watch him die as her fire engulfed the man whose hands had plunged the knife into Caris’s body. She could call her fire in her sleep. She’d done it a dozen times, usually without intending to. Summoning flame was as easy as breathing. It would be one moment of power, then a lifetime of knowing that he no longer stalked the earth. He would die. His life would smoke out, and she’d know the barest edges of peace.

It would be easy. She could do it. There was nothing to worry about.

Soon, it would be over. Soon, this would all be a memory.

She continued to look about, wondering where Tyr might be. He’d promised he’d be here, and she had to believe he was only steps away. She knew she wouldn’t see any evidence of him thanks to his frustrating, useful, wonderful, miserable gift, but she thought it would be comforting to at least know he was there. She wished he had the power to speak mind to mind. Dwyn was an excellent support system, but her cup was only half full. She longed to be flanked by the two who’d gone on this journey with her in all senses of the word.

Her eyes snagged on someone. It wasn’t Tyr, but she was not alone. Harland and Samael rounded the line and mounted the steps at long last, escorted to the far end of the table. She knew they were behind her in the line but hadn’t expected for them to be invited onto the platform. The tension in Harland’s shoulders and taut, forced neutrality of his face told her he was far from happy. Samael’s expression was something else entirely, though she couldn’t quite discern what emotion he was displaying. What an odd man he was. Maybe someday she’d care. More likely, she never would.

The food looked delicious, but nerves made her too queasy to eat. Piles of aromatic rices, spiced meats, brightly colored fruits, and dense, honey-coated pastries dotted the table. Pitches and goblets of waters, wines, and juices lined the table. Over the sound of the crowd and the music of the string instrument, she could make out the sounds of Lord Berinth’s loud, inelegant sobbing, punctured by rough, disgusting pulls of sloppy congestion. It was fitting that the bastard was unwilling to die with dignity.

Ophir’s hand flew to her ears as she realized something. She could understand nothing. Tyr still had her device. She could make a new one now if she worked quickly, but she was on display in a rather public way. The table had no cloth to cover their legs or make the banquet any more discreet if she held her hands in her lap. She fidgeted uncomfortably, debating whether she should risk exposure to create a new translation cuff for her ear.

An elbow gently prodded her bicep.

“Are you okay?” Dwyn whispered.

Ophir nodded. Yes, her nerves should have been about the execution, not about her translator.

Zita looked at her and offered the controlled smile of nobility. “Are you ready, Princess Ophir?”

Ophir dipped her chin again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever truly feel ready, but it was no more nerve-wracking than giving a public speech or being brought before the queen in the dead of night in a new country where she knew neither the language nor the customs.

All things were scary the first time.

The seat beside Zita remained empty, and Ophir’s mind briefly returned to her conversation with Harland and Samael. They’d asked who else she’d met in the royal family. Was this seat left intentionally empty for that person? Someone she hadn’t met, and would probably never meet? Something egged on the distrustful edge of her consciousness, but there was no point in questioning things now.

Zita stood and walked to the middle of the platform. The crowd quieted respectfully as she made herself known. Once more, Ophir encountered an itching sense of familiarity when examining the queen. Her gown was vibrantly orange on top, nearly as bright as the fruit that was so prevalent in the pastries Ophir had nibbled and set to the side throughout her week in Tarkhany. The dip-dyed nature of her gown gave way to a beautiful gradient of gray, ending in black, as if her dress were the sunset itself. Had the queen dressed like the garden’s bird on purpose? Or, maybe that’s what she was seeing—an enchanting déjà vu of the sun over the desert as it gave way to the blackness of night.

Zita turned to the table, offering Ophir a quick smile before she picked up her goblet.

“Citizens of Tarkhany!” she called out to the crowd. Any remaining conversation silenced entirely as everyone regarded their queen. “For centuries, our relationship to Farehold has been a tenuous one. I’m pleased to announce with peace and unity in my heart that when Princess Ophir came to our doorstep seeking aid and shelter, Midnah answered her call!”

The crowd cheered heartily, raising their waterskins, fruits, and breakfast foods. Ophir’s heart skipped up as nerves coursed through her. She reminded herself to breathe, as if it were no longer an involuntary action. Each breath was an intentional inhale and exhale, lest she faint. She became too aware of her tongue, suddenly conscious that there was no comfortable resetting place for it in her mouth. She fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. The air hurt. Her dress itched. The light was strange. She was no longer certain she wanted to do this. She wanted to leave. She wanted to go.

“Firi?” Dwyn whispered again, voice low.

Ophir grabbed for her hand again under the table, and Dwyn gave it a comforting squeeze. Her face creased as her worry deepened.

“Firi, what do you need? What can I do?”

Ophir swallowed, shaking her hand free to reach for a napkin. She began to dab at her forehead, her sweat evidence of her panic more than any indication of the early morning temperature.

“Her enemy crossed the desert to escape her wrath!” Zita continued.

The crowd booed the man in shackles, not needing to hear his crime to believe their queen.

“And now we’ll offer Aubade the justice it deserves. Here! To the royal family of Farehold!” Zita raised her goblet high, smiling proudly as everyone in the audience and at the table lifted their cups in solidarity. “To justice!” she toasted.

“To justice!” they repeated.

Ophir reached for her glass, bringing it to her lips just as Dwyn made a face beside her. Her companion barely concealed a gag. “It’s rather bitter. I’m surprised royal wine would be so low quality.”

Ophir’s ears rang as a powerful, familiar scent of roses filled her nose.

Roses .

Bile rose in her throat. The world began to swim.

She understood exactly what she was smelling. It had haunted her like a demon’s possession. It had permeated her memories, soaking her clothes, invading her very fibers for days and weeks and months following that night. The thick, gagging perfume of too-sweet flowers that had wafted through her nightmares engulfed her senses. The rose-drenched smell from Berinth’s party.

The champagne. The blood. The drug. Caris .

Her goblet tumbled from her hand as her face shot up, panicked.

“No!” Ophir cried out over the platform. She clawed toward Harland, who was making a sour, disgusted face similar to Dwyn’s. It was too late; Ophir couldn’t breathe. Zita spun on her, an unfamiliar rage burning through the woman’s face. “No! Don’t drink it!” Ophir stood, jumping back from the platform. She shouted at Zita, at Dwyn, at everyone.

Murmurs, gasps, and horror rippled through the audience.

Dwyn grabbed for her, fingernails dragging bloodied lines across her pale forearm as the fae’s lids fluttered, eyes rolling back.

Ophir struggled to stand. Her vision flashed to a sensual masquerade. She saw flesh and bodies and sex. She saw flutes of champagne and masks and blood. Her sister’s guard looked at her with fishlike eyes. Entrails twisted and pooled on the ground.

Roses. Roses. Roses.

Someone at the table hit the ground, tumbling from the platform into the fountain below. Chaos exploded in all directions as people began to scream, hitting food and water out of one another’s hands. The crowd struggled against the information before them. The man called Berinth began to laugh, his voice a strained, cracked thing. It wasn’t the low, murderous laugh of the wicked but the high, broken cackle of the helpless. Ophir’s hand flailed wildly for Dwyn as pandemonium erupted. The drug hadn’t taken her, but it may as well have. Her head swam, eyes watering, vision failing as she was dragged talon and tooth into hell.

Ophir began to cry as she fought to pull Dwyn to her feet. Hot, horrible tears choked her, gagged her, smothered her as she yanked and struggled to get Dwyn to safety, but her friend had gone limp. Caris was there, dragging her to hell. No, Caris would never do that. Perhaps Ceneth was sending her to where she belonged, desperate for her to join her sister. Maybe her parents had grabbed her and were gripping her by the bicep to thrust her into the life they desired, desperate for her to die in her daughter’s place.

She screamed in panic and fury all at once, hands ablaze with hot, orange rage as she struck her assailant. Hands grabbed with rough, bruising strength as he tried to jerk her away from the table.

“Leave her!” She recognized the rough, masculine voice. A moment later a large, black-clad shape stepped into view from the place between things.

Ophir buckled against her sorrow. The sight of him shattered her. She was at Lord Berinth’s party all over again, Tyr in his proper, dark suit and slick mask saving her instead of her sister. The command came from somewhere primal as Ophir bared her teeth and pointed to Dwyn. “No, Tyr! Help her!”

“Ophir—”

“Help her!”

With a frustrated growl, Tyr turned to the siren. She turned away from the pair, trusting Tyr to take care of it. He remained behind her, yelling at Dwyn, screaming at her to do something, to use her final borrowed power, to help, to heal herself so that she could call the fountain’s water, to do anything , but she did not. She blinked uselessly, head lolling from side to side, breath coming with labored, rattling pulls. Dwyn’s mouth parted as if to speak, but she was utterly helpless.

Ophir scrambled to find Harland as Samael struggled to haul the man to his feet. Samael appeared to be okay, to have been spared, but it was too late for Harland. The fast-acting paralytic was in his system.

A scream cut above the crowd. A single, high loud sound cut from the palace as someone sprinted from the ornate palace grounds. Ophir whipped her head to the side, tendrils of hair cracking against her skin as she turned to see who ran for them, only to see a lone woman in a deeply violet gown running on bare feet as fast as she could from the palace to the platform.

A vision of beauty and nightmare, of terror and misery stood before her. The cropped hair, the flowing dress, and the dark brown skin of the rarest calla lilies were unmistakable. Whatever was left of Ophir’s sanity crumbled as her eyes shot wildly from one queen to the other, horror gripping her as she knelt in the presence of a second Queen Zita.