7. Frozen Journey
7
FROZEN JOURNEY
W ith aching thighs and a sore backside, Luella clumsily slid from the horse, her feet unsteady as she tried to balance herself.
After riding for what appeared to be hours—for the moon was now falling below the horizon as the sun crested over the tops of the trees—they had stopped. Without a word, her second captor had pulled back on the reins, halting the steed from any further movement. A sharp push against her upper back, and he had urged her to dismount before following suit—much more seamlessly than she had.
They were in the middle of nowhere.
Trees stretched in every direction, so tall they almost concealed the dawn light trying to permeate through the fog of early morning. The trunks were large with scraggly roots growing above the ground like twisted variations of arms, reaching out of the earth to grab unsuspecting ankles and pull them to the realm of the Below.
Luella grew cold at the imagery. Perhaps she did read too much. An old cautionary tale; one that her tutors used to tell before bed, trying to stave off her small rebellious phase of disappearing into the forest in search of the will-o’-wisp or chasing butterflies.
Only demons could enter the Below. They freely came into this realm in search of any wandering souls to snack on—or so the exaggerated, cautionary tales proclaimed—before going back to where they belonged. The scape of fire and brimstone, a realm that stood completely at odds with its kinder neighbor, the Above.
Juxtaposed to the beastly, fire-filled region, the Above was home to angelic creatures with white, beautiful wings. From Luella’s books, she had seen drawings of floating rocks in the sky above an endless stretch of ocean. She had never seen a demon—higher or lower level—or an angel, but she recalled hiding behind one of the tall pots of the entryway to the castle.
As a young, curious fae, she often found herself getting in trouble for putting her nose where it didn’t belong. Leading her to stumble upon meetings and political talks she had no business overhearing.
Once, she had seen a male with stretching, black wings, the tips brushing against the marble floors of the foyer. One of the fallen. Angels who were cast out of the Above to be banished into this realm. They resided on the Fallen Isles, a small collection of islands—nestled between Syreni and the Mortem Sea—where they resided in savage solitude.
Luella gingerly stepped over one of the gnarled roots. It was engrained within her to never step on top of one. She knew it to be an innocent and young act, but how could she go against the tales she knew as well as her soul?
Her captor eyed her, eyes of the darkest blue glinting in what almost appeared to be some form of amusement—if he was even capable of it.
Their stare was broken by a thundering sound underfoot.
She looked around worriedly.
Maybe the tales weren’t so false?
As if he could hear her thoughts, the male placed a warm hand on her shoulder, steadying her. Between a far-off copse of trees, she could make out a shape, growing closer and closer.
A steed with a dark as night coat, its rider wearing leather armor, braids of white threaded with chains that caught the light of the rising sun. Sunlight glinted off his golden swords, twin handles of a polished gild crossing over his back.
"Tharen," Luella sighed. The small word made her cloaked captor look at her, and even she could not tell if the sound of her voice was feared or relieved.
Tharen pulled to a stop right in front of them, dismounting with ease. His icy eyes shifted between Luella and her involuntary escort.
"Are they dead?" Tharen’s voice cut through the silence.
She expected her newest captor not to give a verbal answer. She had grown used to his ever-present silence.
But he spoke.
His voice was deep and gruff with what she imagined to be disuse, a lilt to the edges that made her eyes want to flutter shut and beg him to never cease. She could fall asleep to the sound.
"Yes," he grumbled. "Both of them. I did as you instructed and left immediately after disposing of them. I’ve heard word from the King. He wants us at Serpentis by tomorrow."
She jolted, realizing they were discussing the two soldiers who had assaulted her. She wasn’t sure how Tharen had gotten word to the male, but it seemed they must have some method of communication.
An enchantment to link their mind, perhaps?
Tharen nodded. "Very well. It will be a long ride, but if we don’t stop, we’ll arrive before sundown."
Tharen lifted her, placing her on top of Miria, before pulling himself up to settle behind her. She was a bit more familiar with riding now and expected it as Miria shifted under her weight. Her thighs clenched in anticipation of the movement, sore muscles screaming in protest.
Tharen’s bare hand settled on the chilled flesh of her upper leg. Her cloak had parted, drifting to fall over her hips and reveal an expanse of her bruised flesh. She shivered as his fingers made indentations into her skin from the force of his grip.
Keen blue eyes chased the hand against her skin, and Luella looked over, watching as the quiet male mounted his steed, the ends of his cloak fluttering from his deft movements. With a sure grip on the reins, he directed the horse to Tharen and Luella, standing right by their side.
The cloaked male was close, and Luella shrank into herself—she had nowhere to go with Tharen behind her, keeping her trapped on the horse. A gloved hand reached out, settling on top of her other bare thigh.
Both of them were touching her.
A sharp inhale was pulled from her lips at their twin touches. She could feel the burn of his added touch against her thigh, even through his gloved hand.
Tharen rumbled a laugh from behind her, and she could feel the vibrations from where he was so closely pressed against her spine.
"Enough, Graves," Tharen ordered, though his tone wasn’t as hardened as Luella had heard it before, rather slightly baiting in nature. They acted like acquaintances or reluctant allies.
She was pleased to learn her second captor’s name so that she might stop calling him male in her head.
Graves , Luella mused.
It suited him. A severe and mysterious name for an even more enigmatic and dangerous being.
"You’re just envious," Graves roughly teased. His tone was quiet, and she had to strain to make out the words. He didn’t elaborate on what, exactly, he thought Tharen was envious of.
She felt Tharen shake his head from behind her, and he quickly snapped the reins, starting off in a storm of kicked-up moss on the forest floor under Miria’s hooves.
Graves gave a hushed laugh, the ends of it chasing after Luella and Tharen from where they galloped ahead. Luella heard a loud call as Graves urged his own steed onward before he was riding alongside Miria.
They wove in between trees, and she gasped when Tharen urged Miria to jump over fallen logs, dwindling streams, or bits of cracked earth and stone. Her stomach plummeted from the movement, however small it was, it felt monumental.
Strange, yet freeing—to be airborne, if only for a moment.
She swallowed a giddy laugh that threatened to bubble over, reminding herself that she was heading to her death. This wasn’t some joyous outing of freedom and wind-soaked skies and sun-kissed skin but a leap into a fate she could not escape. Death met everyone. And she will have to resign herself to face it sooner than most. Perhaps she could find comfort in these small moments of joy before the end…
They rode on until the sun was high in the sky.
The air was even cooler here, in Medius, as they started to ascend from the flat earth of valleys and forests into the mountain ranges that would take them even closer to Serepentis. Grassy knolls and endless, packed greenery gave way to stone crags and barren cliffs, dipping sharply toward the tumultuous waters of the coast. The water here was more unforgiving than in the fae kingdoms, like the sirens and water nymphs who lived below spun whirlpools with their hands, breathed storms into the sky with a mere puff of their lips, and braided threads of lightening into the dark, roiling clouds.
Her hands grew frozen as she numbly pulled the cloak around her frame, shivers wracking throughout her body, growing more and more pressing with every passing moment.
She wasn’t used to such frigid, biting cold, and in the thinness of her tattered gown, she was wholly unprepared to face it.
The wind stung her skin red and froze it into an icy numbness. She burrowed her nose into her shoulder. The action pressed her cheek into Tharen’s chest, and she felt him let out a slight rumble, almost as if in satisfaction. She was too cold to care she was nearly burrowing into him. He whistled a sharp sound that cut through the wind howling.
Graves pulled up beside Miria, tugging back on the leather reins as his white steed stomped upon the ground and let out a whinny in protest from the quick stop.
He lifted a gloved hand to pull the cowl away from his lower mouth, yelling to be heard over the sound of the wind. "What is it?"
Tharen secured an arm around Luella’s waist, and she reveled in the slight warmth radiating from him. He held his other hand out toward Graves, fingers curling as he gestured.
"Give me your cloak. You don’t need it. She does," he gritted out through his teeth like he was angry for having to ask for help. "Her skin is like ice."
"I-I’m okay-" she started, but the words were a broken stammer. Her lips were frozen, and her tongue stumbled over the letters as she tried to speak.
Graves eyed her curiously before conceding.
"I don’t w-want your h-help." Luella recoiled away from Graves, shuddering violently from a harsh gust of wind.
Tharen’s hand firmly slapped against her shoulder, stilling her. "You will take what we give you."
Graves was silent as he lifted a hand to undo the fastening that kept his cloak held tightly over his frame, roughly pushing his hood back as he pulled the cowl away, unraveling it from his neck and baring softly tanned skin and rather lush lips, offset by a strong jaw and straight nose. His hair was a dark brown, nearly black, falling around his ears in shaggy waves, and those eyes were even more striking when she could take in his features in their entirety.
His appearance was rather regal. Almost too regal to be some shadowed hunter, if not for the jagged edges of a wicked scar cutting into the side of his face.
Luella’s gaze stayed trained on the pale scar that cut through his left eye and curved downward toward his cheek before stopping right by his lip. It was uneven, with jagged edges, but the color was faint like it had been healed for some time. He lifted the scarred side of his mouth in the beginnings of a snarl as if he knew exactly where her eyes had strayed. Like he couldn’t stand the pity that must have been in her features.
But she didn’t pity the male. Right ?
She couldn’t.
If anything, Luella was curious. How could a creature as deadly as he succumb to the blade of another?
And how might she do the same?
Graves pulled his horse closer, placing a gloved hand on Luella’s shoulder as he tilted her to the side. Her hands floundered as she was shifted off balance in the saddle, but Graves steadied her. He gently wrapped the bottom of the cowl around her face; the fabric was still warm from his breath, and it smelled like cloves and honey. Sharply sweet and addicting.
She breathed in deeply, eyes fluttering shut as Graves wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, reaching around her to pull it tightly to her shaking frame. The fabric of his glove rubbed against her exposed chest as his fingers worked to deftly clasp the hook along the front. His eyes never left hers, gaze piercing, and the deep blue shade was so enticing she wanted to fall into their depths and drown.
Luella never knew blue could be so beautiful yet so lethal.
Graves wore a black, fitted shirt under the cloak. The front was tied with laces, half-done and stopping right at the middle of his chest, exposing tanned skin and hard lines of muscle.
He must be some sort of powerful creature to be able to withstand such frigid chill. The fae were more fragile in that sense—less durable. Healed slower than the other creatures, yet quicker than the humans.
He placed a hand under her chin, forcing her gaze up. "Curious," he remarked. A smirk painted his features, scarred lip tugging up wickedly.
She shook her head vehemently but didn’t try to speak. Her mouth was still far too frozen to accurately string together coherent sentences.
Tharen settled a rough palm against her now-covered shoulder, flicking Grave’s hand away. "Alright, enough of that. We need to make haste. The King and his"—Tharen stumbled over his words for a moment before adding—" Advisor would like us there before nightfall. And I’d rather not risk sparking his ire. You know how furious the King can get during one of his tantrums."
"Don’t I know. Fire-breathing bastard," Graves mumbled the last part under his breath as if in afterthought.
Everyone knew how temperamental serpent shifters could be. As a rare dragon shifter, the King of Serpentis was not known for his patience or long-suffering.
And Luella would soon be at his mercy.
She shuddered, but this time not from the harsh wind.
Tharen’s hand came to rest at the base of her throat, cupping her, before he slipped his fingers under her cloak, resting against her breastbone. His palm radiated a pleasant sort of heat. Her head tipped back, and she swallowed down a sound of satisfaction from the pleasant warmth.
"How are you doing that?" she forced out, teeth still chattering.
Tharen’s head dipped, mouth pressing against her ear as he blew hot air against it. "Prima mage. Don’t you remember, Princess ?" He nipped the skin under her ear harshly as if in reprimand. "I am the prime of all mages. Master of both Spirit and Body and wielder of all four elements".
A sudden rush of heat burned her skin, and she yelped.
"Ignis…?" Luella breathed. The magic of Ignis—fire—burned her bare flesh.
How ? she thought.
Most mages, from her understanding, only had a watered-down ability to wield one—or two at best—of the four elemental magics of the fae, and none had ever been documented to have both of the demon magics of Spirit and Body.
Tharen hummed. "I have mastery of everything in the body. Sense your heartbeat, control your temperature, and settle your nerves… But this ," he emphasized the hot flash against her chest. She knew a reddened handprint would be left against her skin. "This is all Ignis. I can wield all four of the elements." The mage demonstrated his self-proclaimed prowess with a sudden flutter of the fingertips of his free hand, little whirls of air swirling at the behest of his movements.
Aer magic.
She had never seen it before.
"You’re powerful." The words slipped out unbidden, and male satisfaction glinted on Tharen’s features, smug and assured from her compliment.
If not for the frigid chill freezing her skin and making it blue, a blush would have given her embarrassment away.
The heat of the palm against her chest calmed to a pleasant warmth once more, radiating a source of reprieve against the chill and her frozen skin. She settled back into Tharen, hands tucking into the folds of her borrowed cloak.
Graves looked over at her, gloved hands flexing against the reins as though he were itching to reach out and touch her but having to physically force himself to hold back. She traced the line of his scar with her eyes, throat bobbing as her attention dipped to veins along his neck; scars littered his skin. He was covered in a history of violence.
Clearing his throat, Graves whipped the reins, his steed spurred into action and starting ahead, forcing the wind to blow a harsh breeze back on Luella and Tharen.
Behind her, Tharen kept his hand against her chest and pulled her even closer into the shield of his body, wide shoulders curving around her like he was trying to block the harsh winds as best as he could.
Tharen snapped the reins with one hand, his other still resting on the skin of her chest. Miria gave a low whinny, hooves kicking up pebbles, and they were off into the windy peaks of the coast, following after the relentless gallop of Graves atop his pure, white steed.
Luella allowed her mind to wander in these last few precious moments she had of freedom.
She savored it.
Relishing in the brisk wind cutting through her, the sight of glorious cliffs and crashing waves against ocean rocks, and even the steady thrum of heat that radiated from her captor’s palm against her flesh. She wished to keep everything frozen in time—in memory, so that she may fall into its embrace like the pages of a book, to steal away from the hardships and trials she would soon be forced to endure.