A King of Souls and Flame (The Ravaged Kingdom #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

KADEN

Hellfire wasn’t lethal to demons, but it was agony.

Over the centuries, I’d put my share of our kind to the pyre — let them burn until their charred skin sloughed off in flakes. Some of them until their flesh melted and their bones turned brittle enough to shatter.

Most I’d tortured for minor transgressions. Offenses so petty I couldn’t even recall.

A request too presumptuous.

A less-than-gracious reply.

A fleeting glance that set me on edge.

I’d burned them all and made a spectacle of it to show my court that I was not to be trifled with, despite my Drathen blood.

Perhaps it was fitting that I now languished in a tower of hellfire. Thick manacles of shadow held me suspended by the wrists, dangling along the wall of flames that lapped at my half-naked body. My skin sprouted weeping blisters that were quickly scorched off, replaced by blackened flesh.

The pain in my shoulders had dulled to a throb, both of the joints dislocated. The ache was enough to distract me from the searing agony of the flames that charred my sensitive wings.

Every so often, those smoky manacles would tug me out of the fire, my knees slamming into the obsidian floor. My father would wait for my body to regenerate so that I could give him the answers he sought.

When I didn’t, he’d start again.

Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes. The brightness of the flames further obscured my vision, but my father’s dark form loomed through the dancing pinpricks of light.

“A filthy half-huntress,” the demon king mused, staring out the narrow window that overlooked the bubbling pit of lava below. “An odd choice . . . even for a half-Drathen mongrel.”

I gritted my teeth as the flames surged higher, stoked by his flash of disgust.

Disgust as he recalled my fae mother, whom he’d raped and impregnated with his heir so he could claim the throne of Anvalyn.

“Is it not enough that you dishonor me with your blood? Your disobedience? You must also disgrace my crown by bedding the half-huntress whore?”

Rage burned within me, hotter than any hellfire, but I forced myself to remain silent.

I knew what he was doing — baiting me in the hope that I’d get carried away by my emotions and reveal some piece of information he didn’t already know.

That Lyra was half witch — half Coranthe witch, to be precise.

That she carried a blade with a rowan-wood core capable of killing my father.

That she was the one he’d sent me to hunt.

Or, most dangerous of all, that Lyra was my mate.

It was this last secret that I swathed in shadow — hid and protected within the deepest confines of my mental fortress.

To my father, it was bad enough that Lyra had infiltrated his kingdom and escaped unscathed as my royal guard demolished an entire wing of his palace.

A half-huntress was an insult, assuming, as he did, that mortal blood flowed through her veins. She was merely an inconvenient pest to be exterminated.

But his disobedient heir’s mate . . .

I fought back a shudder.

If Semphrys discovered what Lyra was to me, he would not settle for hunting her down and having her killed. He would send his most ruthless lieutenants to drag her back to Dorthus, and then he would take his time breaking her. Tormenting her mind and brutalizing her body.

All to punish me.

Only once I was thoroughly shattered would he grant Lyra the mercy of death, knowing that a piece of my soul would die right along with her. Knowing that I could not endure my own wretched existence after being the cause of her suffering.

But I would not reveal what Lyra was to me — would not give him any more reason to harm her.

He could melt the flesh from my bones, allow my body to regenerate, and burn me a thousand more times.

I — would not — break.

“No,” he mused, the obsidian shards that formed his black crown gleaming in the orange glow of the lava. “She was not merely a body to warm your bed. If she were, you would not be so reticent. So determined to protect her.”

My insides crawled at how perceptive he was. Dangerously perceptive.

While I’d had a few dalliances over the centuries, those females had been little more than props to keep up appearances as the Dark King’s heir and loyal dog.

To divert attention from my true motives, I’d meticulously cultivated a reputation as a cruel and ruthless prince and honed that image like a blade.

I sensed it when my father unsheathed his mental claws and cringed as he slashed through my shadows to access the inner sanctum of my mind.

After his extended torture session, my shadows were wispy and anemic. My mind exhausted from the pain. But I hurriedly shored up my mental defenses and braced for his next attack.

My father was unequaled in his mind-scouring abilities, and he could shred through the mental shields of even the most disciplined practitioner.

I was hardly a match for him after days of this torment, but thankfully, before I’d fully drained my mental reserves, the doors to his private chambers swung open to reveal a tall, pale demon swathed in black robes.

My nostrils flared with dislike as the male’s scent reached me, and I clenched my jaw tighter against the pain.

Fleshtalker.

His gaze flicked to where I hung suspended amid the flames. The demon’s oily onyx eyes seemed to sparkle with glee, and yet he kept his voice bland as he said, “You have need of my assistance, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” said the king, turning toward his servant and folding his hands behind his back. “The prince has not been forthcoming with information regarding the huntress. I fear my son may have forgotten his duty . . . forgotten whom he serves.”

If I hadn’t been so focused on blocking my father out, I might have rolled my eyes at this show of disapproval. Claiming me as his son as I hung suspended over the raging hellfire was the most paternal thing he’d ever done.

“That is troubling news, my king.”

“Indeed.”

There was a long, ugly pause as Fleshtalker studied me, his thin lips pursed.

He was careful not to appear too eager, but I could practically taste his excitement. The sick fuck couldn’t wait to get his hands on me, and it was all I could do to contain the panic that was clawing its way up my throat.

Though I was unmatched in my shielding capabilities — a necessary skill I’d developed to ward against my father’s intrusions — Fleshtalker’s power didn’t function in the way that most demons’ ability to read minds did.

He could extract memories held in the body, which was how he’d earned his name. My mental shields didn’t work on him the same way they did my father.

“May I ask, Your Majesty . . .” Fleshtalker grimaced. “Well, it is rather unsavory, but . . . I wish to ensure I understand your request.”

Semphrys’s eyes flashed, and I sensed my father growing annoyed.

“The huntress . . . You wish to know who she is and why the prince has seen fit to conceal her identity. Am I to assume that prompt retrieval of this information is of paramount importance?”

“You are,” my father bit back, his nostrils flaring with anger. I knew it grated on him that I’d withstood his methods –– that after days of torture, he hadn’t managed to break me.

“Of course, Your Majesty. And shall I glean this information by any means necessary?”

“You shall,” Semphrys replied, his mouth curving in a wicked sneer before striding toward the doors.

As he moved, he pulled his shadows with him, the black tendrils snapping taut so quickly that my shoulders screamed in agony. Dark manacles wrenched me forward, and I slammed down onto the floor.

The change in position granted me a temporary reprieve from the lapping flames, the cold air needling my abused flesh and still-smoldering wings.

Fighting the nausea crawling up my throat, I drew my energy inward, thickening the shadows that concealed the inner sanctum of my mind.

I glared at my father’s retreating form as he swept from the chamber, and then Fleshtalker’s face swam before my own.

His mouth stretched in a wide, humorless grin that did not meet his cold black eyes. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”