Chapter 15
Aiden
Yes, I will trip and fall and fumble,
but that does not make my end,
Tired is a woeful understatement. It has been a week since my half-sister was first found, only to be lost again.
The palace has become a drawn crossbow, servant and sovereign alike awaiting release.
Volker stand guard with doubled vigilance, whispers drift through the corridors, and anxious eyes watch the arena as though the Chasm itself will suddenly open of its own accord, freeing us instantly.
Those abominations guarding our skies have taken more Volker in the last seven days than they have in the last year.
Patrols have doubled and parents are to keep their young ones home after the Core dims.
The King’s poor eating and relentless pacing through the corridors mark every night he burns away.
In the span of days, he seems to have aged by decades.
He convenes councils at all hours, demanding reports and tactical discussions.
It is common knowledge that he blames himself for my father’s exile, his death, and the supposed death of his niece.
Now, with this fragile sliver of hope dangling before him, life has taken its cruel revenge.
My father was once in line for the throne.
He commanded attention. He won hearts and minds.
The realm sighed when the crown passed instead to my uncle.
He was too soft. Uninspiring. And he would never produce an heir.
Since his appointment, he had shown nothing but kindness and mercy, but it only fuels whispers that the myth of our bloodline is just that.
A story crafted to keep power in one family’s hands.
The peace treaty signing was over almost as quickly as it began.
Cinder Cliffs did not even bother turning up, and it ended with each territory claiming they needed more time to consider the conditions, given the new information brought to light.
Apparently, centuries of political leadership still cannot produce a room full of decisive people.
The doubt in that room was palpable; though eventually, there was some sense of gratitude that my uncle was being transparent.
Unlike when Kaed’s kidnapping was buried by the palace, a cover-up that ignited the civil war in the first place.
The ceasefire, thankfully, holds. But trust in my uncle still weakens despite the goodwill gestures and gifts he bestows upon the leaders.
Nykholas, Lili, Tobian, and Leander succeeded in unearthing the alchemist who sold some of the ingredients in the elixir enslaving their Captain.
Yet the discovery proved fruitless. He would not give up the name of his buyer.
My uncle dismissed my proposed punishment, continuing his unfortunate habit of valuing mercy over efficiency.
Choosing instead to set the Volker upon the brewery as shadows.
Such a duty would have once fallen to the Captain, but Theron insisted he take the task.
Yet another futile attempt to climb the ranks.
I have tried to keep the focus from myself, yet irritation and something perilously close to jealousy have me pinned to a wall.
Two murderers, Kaed and my half-sister, devour every ounce of our attention.
I know well the danger of leaving them in the hands of the rebels, I do.
And yet, the bitterness of knowing my uncle would burn the land to ash if it meant saving them chips away at me.
I have only ever loved one with such abandon.
Nykholas and Leander stride into the war room, their arms laden with parchments.
Wary eyes survey Leander while he distributes his share to the far end of the table and finds himself stuck to a shadowed corner.
Head down, hands behind his back, his broad, scarred chest peeking out from under the collar of his chainmail.
Trained under my grandfather’s brutal regime and the last living Master of the Art of Pain, he is an expert in dragging out death until the victim begs their gods for it.
When my uncle took the throne and cast out the old ways, he did not cast Leander out.
He repurposed and polished him into something the land could stomach.
“Majesty,” Nykholas clears his throat, “these were posted all over the city this morning. Identical reports have come in from the other territories. Apart from Cinder Cliffs. Scouts are monitoring the streets but have yet to find the source.”
He drops parchment after parchment around my end of the table, his rings glinting under the hanging lanterns.
A flash of gold set in dark metal with a small falcon at the centre catches my eye.
The parchment is dry and thick beneath my fingers.
Out of habit, I bring it to my nose and inhale quickly.
Ink, smoke, faint traces of spice. Nykholas smirks to himself for whatever reason as he thumps into a seat opposite me, leaning back lazily, one hand raking through his white hair.
My jaw flexes, recalling the similarities between him and Kaed.
Arrogant. Violent. Unreasonably attractive.
It is no wonder they are so close. The room falls silent as we all read:
To the people of Sheyole,
We detain the King’s Captain and now his Princess.
Another failure from King Aeron.
He who claims foresight saw nothing. Again.
They have called us criminals, fools, conspirators.
But now the proof bleeds through the cracks of his golden walls.
King Aeron hid the Princess, our saviour, the key to our freedom in The Above while you toiled and starved in these barren lands.
All to keep his throne, his court and his favour with the gods intact.
No more.
Her blood will open the way
These lands will not hold us any longer.
Cinder Cliffs must come forward and share the knowledge of the ritual that will set us free, the key to the gates, to equality and opportunity in The Above.
Where the air is fresh and the land is plentiful.
Where our children, our sisters and brothers will not be ripped to shreds by the monsters that hold us here.
If any Cinder fae possess the truth of the ritual, speak it here, on these public parchments, and we will begin.
Freedom will be ours.
We will return to where we belong.
The King’s face darkens as he reads, his hand crumpling the parchment in a trembling fist as his other hand clenches the table.
“If they hurt her...” his voice is a broken whisper, “if they kill him—”
“Any responses to this nonsense?” I ask carefully to draw attention away from him.
“There are theories written on these ones.” Lili’s eyes dart across the page. “Peeling her skin off and making a salve out of the flesh. Smother it over the basin.” She flicks to another. “Cut off her hair with a ceremonial dagger and mix it with Checheen Bark.”
“They may not be able to murder her, but she could die accidentally if the rest are anything like this. At the very least, they will cause her a great deal of pain.” Nykholas idly traces his finger along the scar slashed across his lips, as he leans over Lili’s shoulder to read.
It is as if the rebels have lost their damned minds.
No blade forged with ill intent, no poison brewed with malice, can end a royal life.
Feye had seen to that. Anything that holds his essence cannot be destroyed on purpose.
It was written into our blood long before any of those fools learned to sharpen a knife.
But accidents. Recklessness. Desperation. Those are still dangerous.
“Prince,” he continues quietly, “to many, this isn’t nonsense. We are well aware of the disparity among our people, now more than ever.” He glances wearily at the King. “They sense a chance at a better life, and that kind of belief can set whole nations in motion. They have hope.”
“Then we shall turn their hope into fear,” I remark, ignoring his frown to glance at my uncle, whose mind is far from public sentiment. He stares through the table as if the answers are in the grain.
“These fools don’t understand what they’re meddling with.
” He says, his golden bracelets clinking while he pinches the bridge of his nose, “They’re untrained, reckless children playing with fire in an oil-drenched temple.
The Creed is clear as day; she must be a sacrifice.
A sacrifice is willing. Kidnapping and experimentation will not suffice; she must choose it.
” He slams his palm onto the table. Nykholas grunts in agreement, but there is not a single breath to be heard from anyone else.
No doubt, some disagree, but they are unwilling to speak up.
The Creed, as with all our ancient texts, has been up for debate since its conception.
I rub the parchment between my fingers, studying the thickness.
“First, we must force contact with Cinder Cliffs. They are much too quiet.” They are known for their monopoly on knowledge.
The finest universities in Sheyole, the grandest libraries.
But with much knowledge comes pride. And covetousness.
“Then, trace this parchment straight to the mill. The ink. Even the pins and glue used to post them. And, Uncle, I know you will not like this, but we need to counteract their narrative.”
“What do you suggest, Aiden?” He leans his head back on his chair, eyes closed.
“Though I disagree on principle — a sacrifice, by definition, is never truly willing. That is what makes it a sacrifice — it may serve us to present it so. By forcing her, they will never obtain freedom. Additionally, your niece could destroy the entire realm with her black flames if they provoke her. She is just as likely to destroy us as she is to save us.”