Chapter Fifty-Eight Maxim
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Maxim
Agony strikes through my chest.
I stumble against the Iron Tower I was creeping alongside, my eyes widening.
Fuck, no. Not now!
Every night, a blade vision has struck me, forcing me to seek the isolation of my cave for my own safety. My interaction with Antony proved that my mind is completely gone from my body during Thyra’s blade visions, making me vulnerable to death.
But tonight, I thought I had a reprieve.
The moon had reached its zenith and no vision had struck.
Now, I realize fate is playing a game with me.
Dawn is only two hours away. It’s much later than when the visions usually strike, but the stab of pain in my chest warns me I won’t have long, maybe only ten minutes, and now I have a decision to make.
I press up against the red stone of the Iron Tower, its massive structure casting a shadow that gives me the concealment I need to weigh my options.
For the last week, I’ve worked alongside my cousin Kaiba, fortifying our towers along the border, creating extra defensive points in between existing Ember Towers, and readying our troops to defend them.
If I could have constructed more stone towers in that time, I would have, but they take months to build.
My warriors have trained all week, using sand to mimic the properties of iron dust, practicing burning it out of the air before it can disperse.
What’s more, their clothing is already protective, their armor consisting of fire-resistant boots, long pants, and long sleeves, together with a cowl, hood, and most importantly, a face mask.
Then, today, eagles were sighted flying down from the north, delivering wooden chests to several Iron Towers across our border.
Now, unwanted flames flicker around my fingertips as I consider how I might get inside this Iron Tower as quickly as possible and find out what kind of weapons the eagles have been delivering. Before the blade vision strikes.
Of course, I could have sent a team of warriors instead of coming myself, and I was on the verge of doing just that when I saw from a distance what the crates are made of.
Ashen-brown wood. The same kind Antony is determined to collect. The same wood that’s resistant to my fire.
Whatever’s inside those crates, Hadrian must want to protect their contents from fire.
One option is to let my flames burn out of control. I could annihilate this tower, along with every Iron Fae in it, and retrieve the unharmed crates from the rubble.
But at the back of my mind is the concern that Hadrian might want me to do just that. I need to know what I’m dealing with first.
Before I can make a move, the eagles above the tower abruptly bank toward the east, then cast northward before disappearing out of my view.
At the same time, the concealed door at the base of the tower bursts open. Iron Fae pour from it and I brace for a fight, but they march away, also heading northward, their swords gleaming in the starlight on this side of the border.
I risk a quick glance to see if they’re taking up an attack formation, but no, they trek onward.
At the top of the tower, the final two eagles and their riders rise into the air, racing north in a flurry of wings.
Within seconds, the crunching of boots on rocky earth and the beat of wings fades into silence.
The concealed door remains open, and I consider it now with suspicion, the back of my neck prickling.
“He said you’d be here,” an unfamiliar male voice calls from the other side of the tower.
My jaw clenching, I step out from the shadows.
A lone man stands twenty paces away from me. Beside him, rammed into the sand, is a wooden shield made from that same ashen-brown wood, large whorls on its tall, wide frame.
The man’s brown eyes glitter as he gives me a boyish grin.
Fuck, but even without green eyes, the family resemblance to Antony is clear.
He must be Hadrian.
Brave of him to come anywhere near me, particularly in such flammable clothing. He’s dressed in an embroidered tunic, long pants, and boots, all pristinely white, except for the blood-red gloves covering his hands.
I don’t see any iron dust on him, but I won’t underestimate him.
“Who said I’d be here?” I ask.
Hadrian arches his eyebrows. “No formal greetings, one king to another? I expected a little courtesy.”
Courtesy? This fucking boy may be the same age as me, but he has no idea whom he’s dealing with.
I repeat, “Who said?”
“My mentor, Stanimir. He’s willing to do anything for his cause.”
Stanimir. The man feeding Hadrian information.
I sent as many warriors as I could throughout my kingdom looking for any sign of Stanimir or the other travelers.
All I’ve been able to confirm is that Ortansia, the leader of the Tol-Dakri in whose city the travelers were last seen, went to seize them after they made an attempt on my life, only to find the travelers were already gone.
There have been no sightings of them for the past week.
I fold my arms across my chest. I wish I were posturing, but the jabbing pain in my chest is getting worse. “What cause is that, Hadrian?”
“Bringing about the reign of the eternal heir.”
My brow furrows. “Eternal heir?”
He smirks. “The rightful King of Serulia.”
I snort. “I suppose you think that’s you.”
“Of course it’s me.” Hadrian’s response, his tone, everything about his body language tells me his belief is absolute. “It was always going to be me.”
By the Goddess of Truth and Light, he fucking believes it.
“What makes you so certain?” I ask, intending to goad him into a fight.
“Because I cut her first.”
I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but if he means Thyra, and he hurt her…
“Don’t worry,” Hadrian croons. “Thyra enjoyed it. She fucking screamed for me.”
Rage burns through my body and mind. Pure. Uncontrollable. Fury.
Flames burst across my chest.
I’m a heartbeat away from burning out of control when mind-numbing agony strikes through my chest, a sharper jab than ever before.
To my horror, my flames stutter and fade.
For all my remembered life, I’ve wanted my fire to die. I’ve wanted to control it, but now I need it and it’s fucking failing me.
Hadrian dares take a step closer, leaving his shield behind him.
“Is your strength waning, Ember King? Stanimir said that would happen too.”
How does Stanimir know these things?
Hadrian draws his hands forward and now his gloves come alive.
A coating of iron dust so thick that it appeared like material rises off his hands and swirls above his palms.
If I inhale it…and I can’t burn through the dust to protect myself…
I want to fucking kill him, but if I stay, I’m dead.
Gritting my teeth, defeat tasting like ash in my mouth, I take a step back. A rush of air billows behind me and from the corner of my eye, I catch the glimmer of light reflecting across my serpent’s scales.
The loyal beast shoots toward me, ever brave, although for once, he doesn’t have to fear that my fire will kill him.
As I leap onto the beast’s back, Hadrian’s laughter follows us into the night.
“Run along, then,” Hadrian cries. “Your people will be screaming soon, too.”
My serpent dashes away, heading south, then banking east, rare fear evident in the shivering of his scales.
If I thought for a moment Hadrian would follow me… But a glance back tells me he’s heading northward beyond the Iron Tower.
Moments later, we soar over empty sand dunes, my serpent carrying me away from any cave entrance where my people might have gathered in the cool of the evening and into the vast desolation of my kingdom, dipping toward the surface of the dunes, as if he senses I won’t be able to stay on his back much longer.
A groan rises to my lips as the pain in my chest sends me toppling to the hard sand before my serpent has the chance to set down.
I land on my back, trying to keep my focus, holding on to my mind for long enough to verify that neither Hadrian nor any Iron Fae has followed me.
My serpent slides to the sand beside me, his anxious hissing fading as my mind leaves my body and then—
I’m standing at Thyra’s bedside, as I have every night for the last week.
Tonight, she’s lying on a different surface and she’s wrapped in a different blanket. She must be sleeping in a new location, but I can’t see any of the details beyond her form.
Everything else is hazy.
She looks peaceful, but it’s a fucking illusion.
The air burns with white frost, icy tendrils wafting around her face and shoulders, radiating out from her body, seeping through the blanket.
I catch the final stream of golden light across her right arm where she rests it outside the blanket.
Her appearance changes, her hair shifting from dull strands to glistening brown, her skin tanning, becoming as bright as sunlight glinting across hot sand.
Her lips blush red. I can’t see the color of her irises with her eyes closed, but I picture the vivid amber they became the first time she had a blade vision in front of me.
Most striking of all, I inhale the scent of white roses, an intoxicating and mesmerizing perfume filling my mind and dulling my thoughts, dragging me closer to her.
The fiery amber thread connecting my heart to hers is shorter than it’s ever been, pulling me so close, I could run my fingertips across her sleeping brow and breathe in her quiet exhalations.
I don’t touch her.
I can’t.
Despite the tangible thread, my hand glides through her form as if I were a ghost.
She isn’t awake.
She hasn’t woken up all week.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
Each night, I’ve tried to see the image of the Dragonstone Blade emblazoned on her arm, but it’s either been covered by her long sleeve or by her blanket.
Tonight, it’s clear she isn’t wearing clothing beneath the blanket.
And now, she stirs, turning onto her back, the blanket bunched beside her, its edge barely covering her breasts.
The underside of her arm becomes fully visible to me.
A soundless snarl builds in the back of my throat.
The dark runes on her arm are moving.
Each rune rotates. Very slowly. Turning in its place like an object with multiple different sides, shifting through shapes.
Until they all pause at the same time.
The sides of the runes align, the small gaps between them doing nothing to obscure the image they’ve collectively created.
Snowflakes.
Black as night, they sparkle along the ivory ribbon.
The icy air wafting around her intensifies. The same ice that’s chilling me to the bone.
She stirs again, and I lurch forward, knowing I can’t wake her but needing to try, only to realize that the bunched-up blanket at her side is gathered against the body of another person.
For the first time in a week, Thyra isn’t alone.
The Frost King lies beside her, breathing deeply, his eyes closed.
Suddenly, I understand why Thyra isn’t wearing clothes.
I’ll fucking kill him.
I’ll fucking tear him apart.
I’ll—
My fury fades as quickly as it grew because she looks so damn peaceful. So damn content.
A contentment I won’t be able to give her.
Whatever needs she has, I won’t be able to fulfil them.
I haven’t been able to touch a woman for years.
I can’t fuck without burning.
A fact I proved to myself with my hand on my cock. I may be volatile, but I didn’t risk any woman’s life figuring it out.
Now, I want to step away from Thyra, from this peace she seems to have found, but I can’t. When I try, the thread between us pulls taut and pain jabs again through my heart.
Greater pain than before, making my eyes water.
I hunch my shoulders, preparing for more discomfort, when I notice something…
The icy air wafting around Thyra…
It isn’t rising from Thyra like I thought.
It’s floating toward her.
My focus flies to Stellen and my eyes widen.
The frost building between them is coming from him.
I don’t give a fuck about Stellen, but how is this not hurting Thyra?
The runes start turning again. Like a shifting puzzle, their sides rotate until they stop in unison.
My heart sinks to see what they’ve become.
Flames. Black fire blazing across the ivory ribbon.
Pain jabs again at my heart and my knees buckle under the force of it.
The thread pulls me even closer to her, dragging me nearer just as it pulled me in the bloodlands, but now flames lick at my chest and arms, heat radiating from me to her, shimmering waves building across her body.
I can’t believe the heat doesn’t wake Stellen, but it looks like frost continues to pool on Thyra’s other side.
I don’t know exactly what the runes are doing, but I can’t let this go on.
“Wake up.” My mouth moves, but my words seem to fall into a chasm, the sound gone as soon as I make it. “Thyra, wake up!”
She doesn’t respond. Her breathing doesn’t change.
“Wake the fuck up!”
Thyra doesn’t stir. Neither does Stellen.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.