Page 34 of A Flame of the Phoenix (An Heir Comes to Rise #6)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Faythe

R ainyte Ashfyre.

It didn’t make sense. The name. His existence. Faythe was certain she was hallucinating or conjuring an outlandish dream after she’d succumbed to her agony at the banquet with Marvellas.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve used my family name. I like to forget it exists, but the Gods seem to be having a wicked time with me,” Nyte said, running a hand through his inky hair as he paced around the cell, lost in deep thought with this unbelievable revelation.

Faythe couldn’t wrap her head around it, slammed dizzy and confused.

“Agalhor never would have… been with her,” Faythe said in horror. Her stomach churned, and she slipped off the cot. She ached and shivered, but she couldn’t sit still with this world-shifting information.

“He’s not my father, I assure you,” Nyte offered. He appeared far too composed, whereas Faythe was on the brink of insanity.

“His brother…” Faythe recalled the memory of the family painting Agalhor had shown her in Rhyenelle. “But he died in battle centuries ago?”

“He is very much alive, and someone I’m really itching to return to so I can kill.”

“Where?”

All Faythe knew was Ungardia, but could it be true the Prince of Rhyenelle, Agalhor’s brother, had crossed realms?

Did anyone know of his relationship to Marvellas and the son she had of his?

“She put you here to mess with my head,” Faythe said, reverting back to her original assumption. It was far more logical to believe. She took her head in her hands and rocked on her cot, feeling a madness creeping into her mind. “You’re not real,” she whispered.

“Faythe—”

She clamped her hands over her ears, wishing she could take back the token of her name.

He’s not real.

Faythe couldn’t stop whispering that to herself as she lay down with her back to him. She blocked him out of sight and sound, willing the torment of his appearance to disappear.

Yet the Dresair’s riddle in the abandoned Rhyenelle shop repeated through her desperate denial.

Come the return of the lost first son.

What did it mean?

Faythe curled into herself. So much pain ran through her body, her mind, her soul… Marvellas would be able to break her easily if she didn’t pull herself together.

“Death said you would come,” Faythe whispered, recalling the haunting vision in the ruined temple.

Nyte’s curious hum focused her to release her hands from her ears, but she couldn’t turn around and meet those golden eyes again.

“That primordial seems to have made a sport out of meddling with my fate,” Nyte grumbled, displeased.

“Did they send you here to help us against Marvellas?” Faythe hugged herself, staring at the gravelly stone wall.

“No. I’m rather hoping I’m here because you’ll help me.”

“If it isn’t obvious, I’m not much help to anyone here.”

He left a pause of silence. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Faythe didn’t expect that to strike a chord in her.

What was she doing? Lying here in a pitiful heap of agony, defeat, and denial. She had promised her friends and herself she would fight, and already, she was allowing pieces of herself to crumble.

With a deep breath, Faythe pushed herself up. “I’m going to win.”

“You have a plan?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I can’t predict what Marvellas will do—each day is uncertain. But she can’t predict what I might do.”

“Sounds like a very dangerous game.”

Faythe finally looked at him. Not a detail had changed. She almost wanted to touch him, convinced he was just an illusion. He was too perfect, even with his facial scar. Too frightening…too much like his mother.

What would Marvellas do when she discovered him here?

It could change everything.

Nyte looked past her, down the hall. “Someone’s coming.”

A head of dark blond disheveled hair came out of the shadows to stand in front of her cell. She’d seen this guard before and had only remembered him as he was one of the few who didn’t hide under a mask and hood. There was something sadistically gleeful in his dark eyes every time he stood by Marvellas’s side, even as the Lakelarian queen.

“Are you going to be nice?” he taunted.

Faythe’s body tensed against giving him the satisfaction of seeing the shiver it broke over her skin. She had dealt with fae males like him before, and it had been a long time since she’d remembered Captain Varis in High Farrow at all.

“Are you her pretty pet playing fetch?”

It may not be wise to provoke someone in a position to hurt her, but she couldn’t help the natural loathing that surfaced as if she were right back in those cells in High Farrow.

He jammed the key into her cell and swung open the only barrier of protection she had against him. Faythe despised that a cage was her idea of safety in the domain of Marvellas and her band of volatile fae and dark fae allies.

“My name is Captain Daegal. I want you to remember who conquered the continent as the Goddess’s right hand.” He stalked into her cell with the slow anticipation of a predator.

“You’re of no more value than a footstool to her.”

The captain reached for her, but Faythe anticipated it. Though she had no magick and was still regaining her strength, she wasn’t completely useless. All it took was predicting his brutality and a carefully timed step, twist, and a marginal duck out of his path. He tripped over his footing when he didn’t grab her for purchase, but he caught himself, palms slapping the wall.

“That was embarrassing,” Nyte commented from behind her.

The captain snarled his outrage, head snapping to her with fury sparking in his eyes.

Faythe realized the position she was in, and her impulse took three backward strides just as he pushed off the wall. Her fingers gripped iron, and then…

Slam.

The captain reached the cell door just as she closed it. She blinked in bewilderment, having not predicted how easy that would be.

Nyte’s smooth chuckle broke through her stupor. “Aren’t you going to run?”

“You insufferable child ,” the captain seethed. The clang of keys rang through her senses as he scrambled to find the right one to free himself.

Faythe couldn’t move. Her sight slipped to Nyte, and she realized the captain hadn’t once acknowledged him or reacted to his commentary. She had no intention of running—her actions just now had merely been on impulse for her own amusement.

She floated over to stand in front of Nyte’s cell while the captain hissed profanities and tried to find his key out of there. Faythe couldn’t care about him anymore.

Standing right in front of Nyte, with his ethereal gold eyes bearing down on her, she couldn’t be sure what was happening—or, more dauntingly, if he was a blessing or a curse.

“You’re not trapped in there, are you?” she said.

The captain couldn’t see him.

Nyte’s jaw worked. “I think I’m trapped with you. Wherever you are, or wherever you’ve put me. I’m beginning to believe you harbor my consciousness with your gift.”

“I manifested you as a cell mate?”

“Could have been worse, I imagine.”

“Can you hear my thoughts?”

“No, but I have a sense of your emotions.”

That was a relief at least. She didn’t know what having Nyte here meant—if he would be any use to her at all in her fight against Marvellas.

Rainyte Ashfyre had become a piece in their war that no one could have predicted.

Faythe was too distracted in her thoughts to have heard the captain’s escape. She winced at his iron grip on her arm and bit her tongue against a whimper when she was roughly pulled away.

She lingered a final look on Nyte over her shoulder. He remained right where he was. She was both fascinated and terrified to figure out more about him. Her secret weapon, if she could find a way to leverage him against Marvellas somehow.

The captain had been muttering loathing words as he marched, tugging her along in his bruising grip.

Zaiana appearing around the end corner was a surprising sight even though the dark fae had been in their traveling company here. Faythe’s mood darkened as she remembered Zaiana’s harm to Kyleer.

“Let her go,” Zaiana ordered.

“You don’t command me,” Daegal snapped. His insecurity was showing.

Zaiana didn’t have to do much to clearly pose as the higher authority. She didn’t even speak again, standing with hands clasped behind her, but the impatient warning was in her piercing amethyst eyes

With a disgruntled huff and a shove, Daegal released her.

“Come,” Zaiana said, turning back the way she came, expecting Faythe to follow.

Faythe did, only because she had questions and a wrath to settle.

“Did you have to hurt him?” Faythe asked inn resentment.

“He gave me good reason, and I gave him fair warning,” she answered coolly.

Faythe gritted her teeth, realizing that was probably the truth. There was something about Zaiana that sparked a light in her friend she’d never seen before. Every time Zaiana fought him, defied him, it was like he enjoyed it.

“How is he now?” Faythe asked, reluctantly setting aside her grudge.

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“Not since they locked him below, no.”

“You have to make sure he stays alive.”

“His life isn’t my concern.”

Faythe was exasperated within herself. That wasn’t true, and Zaiana knew it too. Her detachment was convincing to the world, but Faythe didn’t believe it. She’d been face-to-face with Zaiana at the peak of their rawest emotions. She’d seen the fear and pain on the dark fae’s face when Zaiana had truly believed she might die. She’d heard the break in Zaiana’s voice as she admitted her regret for what she’d done to Kyleer in Rhyenelle. Faythe had glimpsed inside a vault of emotions that was sealed tight from a world that had taught Zaiana she couldn’t have them.

“Where are you taking me?” Faythe tried instead.

“To look more presentable.”

Faythe had expected a torture chamber at the top of her list, so it was a surprise to be led to a ladies’ powder room.

A couple of timid younger fae approached in servants’ uniforms. “We’re to bathe you and present you for Her Grace,” one said.

Faythe didn’t know why she looked at Zaiana. The dark fae merely rolled her eyes and leaned against a far wall to wait.

A bath did sound glorious, considering she was still wearing her bloodstained camisole after days, and the nights had been so cold. Her only hesitation came when they removed Reylan’s cloak. But at her reaction, one red-haired fae smiled reassuringly, taking it with care.

The sunken pool of water steamed while the moonlight glittered outside the glass walls. She sighed pleasantly, the hot water caressing her skin while the picturesque view of ice and snow surrounded her. It let her forget war and bloodshed in this tranquil contrasting embrace.

She didn’t mind the sting of the soapy water against her Magestone wounds as she basked in the beauty for a while. Faythe found Lakelaria to be the most beautiful kingdom, second only to her own. She thought about how she could make her own mark on the castle by taking inspiration from here, imagining bathing with a full open view of the sun splitting over crimson-peaked mountains. It brought a joyful sting to her eyes to think of what could be if they won the war and earned their peace.

Being scrubbed of the dirt and blood cleared a fog in her mind. Every time the Magestone in her wrists was even slightly knocked, it seized Faythe with pain, but she was learning to grit her teeth and bear it without a sound by now.

“You’re very brave,” one fae whispered, cleaning over her shoulder. She had pale red hair and beautifully freckled cheeks.

Faythe felt compelled to take the young fae’s hand at the timid fear in her eyes. “Bravery isn’t in what we can endure, but in the way we keep fighting even when we’re terrified. And often the bravest fighters are the most silent.”

Her smile lit up in her beautiful brown eyes. Faythe caught Zaiana watching her by a slip of her gaze, seeming to have manifested a sense for when the dark fae’s attention was on her.

“Hurry up,” Zaiana said coldly, pushing off the wall and stalking out of the room.

“She’s terrifying,” the red-haired fae whispered, helping Faythe dry off.

“And she hasn’t even done anything,” another added.

Faythe actually smiled. “She’s not that bad.”

“Is it true you won in a fight against her?”

“No. I don’t think I could have. Some powers can’t win against each other—they can only destroy each other.”

They watched her in awe but didn’t falter in their routine of tending to her before leading her toward an ornate, silver-rimmed vanity.

Faythe’s hair was styled, and she was dressed in a white-and-blue gown. This was a far cry from the torture chamber she’d first presumed the Spirit would summon her to. While Faythe was immeasurably glad to feel her skin refreshed, she couldn’t settle her stomach that the price was about to be revealed to her.

Just as the fae around her began to relax and Faythe was starting to enjoy their kind company, the air in the room shifted. It was subtle at first, like the brief silence before a storm. Then she saw it—just a flicker in the mirror’s reflection: the fiery glow of Marvellas. Faythe’s stomach dropped, and icy fingers of dread crawled up her spine, freezing her in place. Marvellas’s presence swallowed the room, and the fragile moment of comfort shattered, leaving only the pounding of her pulse in the stillness.

The servants bowed to the Spirit, and their gentle presence escaped through the door, replaced by the suffocating air of battle and dominance.

Marvellas didn’t speak, and Faythe had no words either. She watched Marvellas approach with hateful eyes, but the Spirit’s neutral expression didn’t shift. Marvellas moved with the grace of water, keeping her anticipation sharp. The last thing Faythe expected was for the Spirit to pick up the servant’s abandoned hairbrush.

So it had all come down to this. Not a rage-filled power struggle, nor hateful words, but finally being alone with the Spirit of her nightmares after all this time. Marvellas began combing her long chestnut tresses with the convincing tenderness of a mother.

“You used to love it when I brushed your hair,” she said, her voice so peaceful she hardly recognized Marvellas right now. “It was our favorite way of bonding.”

“I’m not her.”

Faythe wondered if she should stay silent and let Marvellas play out her delusion, but her resentment prevailed over her self-preservation. She would rather her wrath than this sick pretense.

The Spirit’s irises flashed to hers in the mirror at last, their core like liquid metal. They always moved in the heat of her anger. Her hand had stalled, but with a breath of composure, Marvellas continued her ministrations.

Faythe had so much she wanted to ask, and none of it had a gain in the war. Everything that wrecked her on a deeper, more personal level now flooded her mind with a sea of vulnerability.

“Why them?” Faythe let her first burning question slip. “Liliana and Agalhor. Why their child?”

Marvellas thought on her ask, head tilting while hypnotized by the brushing of Faythe’s hair. “It was both a personal and a practical choice.”

“You were involved with Agalhor’s brother.”

Marvellas’s gaze snapped to hers in the reflection. Faythe’s chest struggled against the beat that surged within it, because her reaction was confirmation.

“There is no one left alive who knows that,” she said, her voice edging onto a warning.

“Are you sure?”

“Who told you?”

“He betrayed you, didn’t he? By taking your son from you.”

“My…”

The brush in her hand became nothing more than gold dust leaking out of Marvellas’s clenched fist. Faythe swallowed dryly.

“Who told you that?” she demanded again.

“No one?—”

Marvellas took a fistful of Faythe’s hair, yanking her up from the stool. Faythe’s body jerked painfully, the sharp tug wrenching a strangled cry from her throat as her scalp throbbed under the Spirit’s ruthless grip.

“Anything you try to keep from me,” Marvellas hissed, her breath hot against Faythe’s face, “I will break your mind to discover.”

The threat hung heavy in the air, suffocating. But despite the ache blooming at the roots of her hair, Faythe refused to yield. She steeled herself, her heart pounding as defiance flickered in her chest. But then Marvellas’s hand lashed out, gripping Faythe’s wrist. A searing, immobilizing pain shot up her arm, and Faythe’s back arched involuntarily as the agony soared. Marvellas’s nails raked at her skin, splitting open the scabbed wound with the pressure, and the Magestone embedded within it roared to life.

The Magestone’s toxic power surged through her veins, its energy screaming in her ears. Faythe’s vision blurred, the world spinning as Marvellas pressed deeper into her mind, her mental dominance tightening like a vise. The Spirit’s presence slithered through Faythe’s thoughts, wrapping around her memories and emotions with chilling precision.

“Stop,” Faythe gasped, her breath ragged.

“It will all be over soon,” Marvellas purred, her voice soft, almost soothing, as her grip on Faythe’s mind tightened further.

That was when the memories surfaced—the ones Faythe had fought so hard to protect. Those of Reylan. His face, his smile, their moments of shared laughter and stolen glances. Faythe whimpered, feeling the weight of Marvellas’s intrusion threaten to tear through those precious fragments. Reylan was the brightest light she had clung to in the endless darkness.

Not him. Faythe couldn’t allow her to take him.

Her heart hammered as Marvellas pressed harder, forcing images of Reylan into sharper focus, threatening to strip them away. The thought of losing him, of having his memory erased or tainted, sent a wave of fierce resolve surging through Faythe’s battered mind.

“If you take him from me…” Faythe’s voice cracked, her chest heaving with deep, painful breaths. She was weak, teetering on the edge of collapse, but she couldn’t let go. “It won’t matter. I’ll find him again and again.”

Marvellas’s eyes glowed with amusement, as if the very idea entertained her.

“Each time…” Faythe’s voice strengthened, her determination burning through the fog of pain and the Magestone’s grip. “Each time, we’ll come back stronger…until we finally win. And we will destroy you.”

The defiance that laced her words was the last shred of strength she had left, but it was enough to cause Marvellas to pause. Faythe dragged the only thing she could think of to the surface, causing Marvellas to release her in shock.

She showed her Nyte.

Marvellas stared at Faythe wide-eyed while she clutched her bleeding wound and caught her breath. “You can’t possibly know his appearance in adulthood,” she whispered in disbelief.

Faythe had never seen the Spirit appear so… human . As vulnerable and desperate as any mortal at the quick vision of her son Faythe supplied.

“Rainyte Ashfyre,” Faythe dared to say.

It became a weapon that backed the Spirit a ghostly step away and severed the final threads of denial Faythe had been holding onto. Nyte was real. Faythe would never have known his name otherwise.

“He’s here?” Marvellas asked, hopeful and broken. “Tell me where.”

“He’s not,” Faythe said quickly. “I have visions, that’s all.”

It was like she could see the wheels turning in Marvellas’s mind. The Spirit was used to having control of everything, but she couldn’t comprehend this. Faythe didn’t know if she’d sabotaged her chances by using the knowledge of her son so soon.

“Can you show me again?”

That request didn’t come as a demand—nothing vicious. It was a quiet plea from a mother.

Faythe had to block her empathy that threatened to open. She firmed her face. “Take me to Reylan,” she demanded.

That returned the icy demeanor to the Goddess.

“I was going to remove the Magestone for you to try reach him, but now all you’ve done is weaken yourself beyond being able to. You’ll go back to your cell to recover.”

“Take it out now,” Faythe said, even though it nauseated her to think of the agony it would put her through.

“I won’t ever underestimate you again. Chains alone aren’t enough to combat your will. The stone stays in your flesh and will only be removed for each attempt at breaking the ruin.”

Each attempt.

Faythe had to spin, barely making it to a bucket before she retched. Not much came up, and hunger pains clenched her stomach when she finished dry-heaving at the thought of the repeated torture like what she’d endured in the banquet hall the first time the Magestone was embedded in her.

“I’ve had enough of you,” Marvellas said.

Faythe detected a note of defeat and distance in her tone. When she lifted herself off the floor, she found Marvellas standing with her back to Faythe, staring out the long window. She didn’t insist Faythe show her the vision of Nyte again, but she didn’t think it was needed while Marvellas hugged herself, lost in thought.

She didn’t know how Captain Daegal had known to come, but leaving with him wasn’t much more pleasant than staying with Marvellas.

Back at her cell, Nyte was sitting in the same position she’d first seen him in when she awoke.

Before the captain would let her go, he pulled Faythe tightly to him, and she resisted the urge to spit in his menacing face.

“You try something like that stunt earlier again, I don’t have instructions not to hurt you,” he seethed.

He pushed her so hard she almost didn’t catch herself quickly enough before her face hit the wall. The cell door slamming shut was distant to the pain roaring in her ears from the disrupted Magestone in her arms.

She stayed in that position, hands plastered to the cold stone wall, until the stone stopped pulsing through her.

“I might have an idea,” Nyte said after a stretch of silence.

“Tell me.” She peeled herself away from the wall and slumped onto her cot.

Nyte was staring down the hall, his expression dark as if he were thinking of the departed captain. “I don’t know if it’s possible, and I’m not the most thrilled about it if it is.”

“Then why share it?”

“Because it might be the only way for me to have a temporary presence beyond your mind in this world.”