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

Wendeline doesn’t seem to notice the waves of shock slamming into me. “When I saw you and the king, how close you two were, I had hoped …” Her words fade with her sigh.

She had hoped that we were truly in love, that our marriage would bring an end to whatever strife exists between the two kingdoms and people, just as Annika hoped.

Elves.

“The mortals of Islor have learned to coexist with the immortals, and while there is still friction, the crown has made many strides.” She bites her bottom lip in thought. “If you would open your heart and your mind, you would see they are not the barbaric fiends we were taught to see them as. In fact, you may find a kinship with them.”

Elven.

Immortals.

I force myself to keep engaging, though my thoughts spiral with all this new information. “A kinship from my prison cell, with the constant threat of death?”

She hesitates, then lowers her voice to say, “Somehow, you killed a daaknar. At the moment, you’re the only one in all of Islor who can do that.”

People tend to keep those of value alive longer. Sofie’s words echo in my head.“I’m more useful to the king alive than dead.”

Wendeline confirms it with a knowing look. “Take whatever comfort you can in that.” She collects her things again.

“Thank you. For everything. You’ve been kind to me.”

She purses her lips. “I believe you shall see some freedoms soon, now that you are mostly healed. But when that happens, do not expect you will find any allies within these walls.”

“Right.” A not-so-subtle warning to not trust anyone. Perhaps not even her.

“And Romeria?” She pauses at the threshold to my sitting room. It’s the first time she’s used my name. “Assume the king is always one step ahead of you and listening closely.” With one last hard look, she departs.

That night, I toss and turn in a fitful sleep. The stench of Wendeline’s salve fills my nostrils, and its burn toils away inside my wounds while elves and demons torment my dreams.

But it is the tall, regal figure I sense looming over me that wakes me with a gasp. I search the dark corners of my room, only to find them empty.

And yet long after I close my eyes, I feel the lingering shadow of a king.

I wake to a knock on my bedroom door. A second later, Corrin barges in. “Are you ill?” There isn’t a hint of concern in her tone.

“I didn’t sleep well,” I say groggily. I watch Corrin as she sets a tray of food on the small desk in the corner. What is she? I assume not a caster like Wendeline. She looks human, but so does everyone else I’ve encountered, and now I know some of them are elven.

Barbaric fiends, whatever that means. Corrin’s personality is brackish, but I wouldn’t call her barbaric.

I’ve read countless stories and watched many films about fantastical creatures, enough that the term triggered a myriad of ideas to dwell on late into last night—everything from sharp physical features and unnaturally long lives, to arrogance and wicked manipulation, to supernatural speed and powers tied to nature. I’m having a hard time applying fable to fact, though. Wendeline called them immortal, but they also assumed Princess Romeria dead, so immortal does not mean unkillable. I have yet to see any odd-looking appendages. Everyone appears human.

Everyone including me.

Am I not supposed to be elven too?

Except I’m not, I’m human. These limbs, this face, my thoughts … they’re human limbs, a human face, and human thoughts. They’re all that I know. So how am I to tell the difference between everyone else?

And how has Wendeline not discovered what I am yet? She’s been healing this body for weeks. Certainly her magic would notice a difference in species?

Unless … the fleeting thought that this somehow isn’t my body that I’m in but Princess Romeria’s, resurrected, skitters through my thoughts yet again. It is the only viable explanation.

“The king has requested an audience with you.” Corrin sets a mug of drinking water on my nightstand, pausing to sniff the air. She grimaces. “Did you not bathe last night?”

“Wendeline told me to not wash off the salve,” I explain, distracted. Zander wants an audience? He was adamant he never wanted to see me again. Why now?

“Come, we must hurry. You cannot present yourself in your nightgown, smelling like a fermented fish.” She draws back the lengthy curtains, and I blink against the blinding sunlight that streams in. It’s the first time I haven’t been awake and pacing before sunrise since my imprisonment.

One by one, she pries the window panels open. Laughter that was once muffled now carries to my ears, raucous and clear. Somewhere nearby, birds sing.