A Fate of Wrath & Flame (Fate & Flame 1)

“Not for long. It cast you aside and released that horrific shrill scream that could be heard across all Cirilea”—she winces as if recalling the sound—“and then it burst into flames. We assume it returned to Azo’dem.”

Azo’dem. Zander said that name when he was condemning me to death. Given he thinks I am a murderer, it must be their version of hell.

“Only an elemental caster has ever been able to banish a daaknar.” She studies me closely.

There it is again, this talk of casters. Zander mentioned it in the tower, and then Annika did so in the sanctum.

Annika.

“Did she get away? The king’s sister was there that night—”

“My sister is well,” a deep voice cuts in.

The woman tending to me scuttles off the bed and bends in a deep curtsy. “Your Highness. I didn’t expect you so soon.”

I swallow against the flare of nervousness and fear, and listen to the steady approach of footfalls, dreading that I’ve survived a demon’s mauling only to land myself back on a bonfire. That wouldn’t make sense, treating my injuries only so he could watch me die. But people sometimes choose irrational paths in search of reprieve from heartache. My mother taught me that.

Zander appears at my bedside. He is wearing all black again, though the jacket he wore to the tower cell has been replaced with one more regal, made of a velvety material. The embroidery along the lapels reminds me of waves crashing against rocks, the ochre thread accenting the deep gold highlights in his hair. His sword and dagger remain at his side.

And that stony, unreadable mask is firmly in place.

I find myself unable to look away from this man—this king—whom I was supposed to marry, who now wishes me dead. The daylight offers me a glimpse of his face that the moonlight did not, one that reveals a perfect balance between the hard edges and symmetrical, softer features—a square jaw that surrounds full lips, sharp cheekbones that frame large, deep-set eyes, a long, slender-tipped nose that meets a shapely brow.

Though I know it’s probably not wise, that it could be seen as a challenge, I hold his steady, dissecting gaze. His eyes are a light hazel. They would be pretty if they weren’t so full of hate.

“How are her wounds?” he asks after a moment.

“Healing well, Your Highness.”

“Show me.”

His words are an echo of those he spoke in the tower when he demanded to see the injury to my chest. The memory of his gentle touch against my bruised skin sends an unexpected shiver through my body.

The woman’s fingertips are cool as she peels back the bandages, exposing my neck.

Zander’s expression reveals nothing.

“How bad is it?” Am I missing a chunk of my body like Margrethe was? Will I have use of my right arm after that thing tore through my shoulder?

“Not as bad as one might expect.” She tacks on a quieter “Your Highness” at the end, and I realize she’s talking to me.

I’m not anyone’s Highness, I want to say. I’m just Romeria, or Romy for short. But I remember who I’m supposed to be, who everyone believes me to be.

“Why don’t you show her, Wendeline,” Zander suggests.

The woman—Wendeline—nods and rushes to somewhere nearby, returning a moment later.

The entire time, Zander’s unwavering eyes remain locked on mine. It’s like he’s waiting for a twitch or clue, an unspoken answer to his thoughts. It’s unnerving, and I can’t help but divert my gaze.

She holds up a hand mirror bordered with elaborate gilded curves in front of me.

My face reflects within the frame.

My face. The one I’ve known all my life, back when my life was ordinary in East Orange, Jersey, and then when my life became anything but ordinary. The same blue eyes of Alton’s Adriatic Sea, the same hair, as black as a starless night. The same dusting of freckles across the bridge of my nose, almost too light to notice.

How can I be the Romeria that I’ve known all my life and this other Romeria, this princess of a kingdom in a strange place?

One who journeys to a foreign land.