Page 40 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Dwyn scoffed softly before saying, “No, Firi. You know I’d support anyone whose life you wished to end. If you killed for sport, I’d be your favorite spectator.”

“That’s fucked up,” Ophir said, attempting levity. The moment passed, and nothing eased between them. Her face prickled with confusion. She flexed her fingers, urging her flame to burn brighter as it melted the tension from Dwyn’s frozen muscles. “Then what?”

“You have to pick one, Ophir.”

“What?”

Dwyn looked at her then. She offered the stern, unflinching gaze she’d once given on the cliffs of Aubade when Ophir had lost herself to nightmares and sorrow.

She held Ophir’s questioning gaze as she said, “You wanted to leave Farehold, and we ran. We took down Tarkhany. Raascot was ours. I’ve abandoned Sulgrave, so we can tick that one off the list. The four corners of the known world have been in your hands.

There’s nowhere left to run, Firi. There’s nowhere to turn. ”

“We’ll find another house,” Ophir said.

“A house?” Dwyn repeated.

Ophir shuffled uncomfortably. She allowed her flame to swell, matching her intensity.

It illuminated every corner in the humble shelter, filling the space with a cooking heat until she was certain any residual chill had thawed from Dwyn’s body.

“A real one,” she promised. “Not one I manifested. We’ll get the next one we find.

We’ll have proper beds and a nice fire, and I’m sure they’ll have a kitchen full of food.

There’ll probably be some unsuspecting farmer you can murder. You love murder.”

Once again, the attempt at humor fell on unreceptive ears.

Dwyn’s spirit remained damp. She was no longer the teasing, goading person Ophir knew and loved.

She closed her eyes, her fresh rosemary scent mingling with the flame as if she were a comforting spice in a homey kitchen rather than on the floor of a cold, empty shack.

“And then what, Ophir? We live in the woods? We stay in Raasay Forest? Tyr chops logs and Sedit kills game and we learn to sew?”

Ophir chewed on her lip. “There’s always the Etal Isles. We could be the first from the continent to make it there. What do you say?”

Dwyn smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She lowered her thick, dark lashes as she gazed into the flame that hovered above Ophir’s palm.

“If I thought you meant that, Firi, I’d be thrilled.

You know I’d support you. We could walk across the continent, and I’d be with you every step of the way.

But we both know we aren’t going to the Etal Isles. ”

Ophir’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “What would you have me do?”

The windless silence following the storm was oppressive. Nothing interrupted the painful heartbeats as seconds stretched into an eternity. Finally, Dwyn said, “We have to go back.”

Ophir felt like she’d been slapped. “Back to Gwydir? To where my father and his rings and his fertility—”

“Eero will return to Aubade, and Ceneth isn’t your enemy.”

Ophir let her fire wink out. Sooty darkness engulfed them. Her eyes stung with an iridescent shimmer from where the flame had been only a second before. “You really want me to marry him, don’t you.”

She didn’t pause for long before saying, “I do.”

“How could you?” Ophir asked, betrayal leaching into her question. “From the moment I met you, you’ve told me to seize my independence. You’ve joked about letting me out of the marriage so many times. And now, what? Suddenly you want me to fall into line and become a good bride?”

“No, Firi. A marriage to him keeps you safe from Farehold’s manipulation.

It secures your allies in Raascot. It may even cement an allegiance with Tarkhany.

Eero is a bastard. He deserves whatever fate befalls him.

Send a hundred years of beasts his way. But Zita likes you.

Ceneth tolerates you, at the very least, and would protect you, even just to honor your sister’s memory.

Returning gives you shelter, a castle, a title, and a kingdom.

Go back to him. Though you may want to use different rings at your wedding. ”

Ophir scoffed into the darkness. “What does it matter to you if I have a kingdom?”

She felt Dwyn’s now-warm fingers as they gripped her arms in a plea. “We’ll make it right.”

“I destroyed the castle. I created a dragon. I killed a man—”

“You’ll be their queen! And you’re a manifester, Ophir.

You’re a goddess. You’re the goddess for all I care.

They will revere you as such. We’ll make gold statues in your likeness if that would make you happy.

We will all worship at your gilded feet.

And if they don’t, they’ll live in fear of you, which is just as good. ”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

Dwyn’s silhouette cast a long shadow as she turned to face the wall.

“Feel whatever you want to feel. That’s your right.

” A stretch of silence broken only by Sedit’s breathing pulsed between them.

At long last, Dwyn was ready to meet Ophir’s prompting gaze once more.

“But you are Ophir, Princess of Farehold, Creator of Flame, motherfucking manifester . You do not run.”

Ophir stood from the wall, not bothering to slow as Dwyn caught herself against the sudden movement. She stared down at where Dwyn sat on the floor before saying, “You’re right. No one tells me what to do. Including you.”

***

Their fight in the dark of a crumbling building of cracks and nightmares had been three days prior.

Dwyn remained quiet as they awoke and continued their walk through the pine forest. She said little as they picked their way over the rocks and mountains.

She didn’t celebrate when they found a proper cabin.

She didn’t say a thing as Ophir caught the owner’s attention with a wave and a smile, her gold-brown hair and pointed fae ears drawing a curious stare from the hermit.

Dwyn didn’t even take joy in draining the unsuspecting human who’d built a quiet life for himself in the countryside.

Tyr disposed of the body in a shallow grave between the trees while Dwyn, Ophir, and Sedit made themselves at home.

The home had been rough-hewn from the forest around it.

Each tree, a Raasay log, wept with coniferous sap that acted as amber glue, connecting the stacked logs.

The four humble walls of the cabin were decorated for a man who lived alone.

A hand-sanded table had been pushed against one wall, and a fireplace lined with carefully stacked and balanced stones had been built directly into the wall at the cabin’s center.

The hermit’s bed had rested on the floor beside the fire so it might warm him through the night.

Ophir wasn’t sure if she should feel sad that they’d taken the life of a lonely man or glad that it had been someone with no family so he wouldn’t be mourned.

As her thoughts flitted to Caris, she settled on the latter.

Ophir slipped out of mud- and sweat-slicked clothes and stood in her shift as she attempted to create something soft and lovely.

The resulting black dress belonged with her pile of cobwebs, not with fabric worn by humans or fae, but at least it was clean.

Dwyn didn’t even react as she stepped out of her shift and tied the dark, draping gown around her figure.

She and Sedit sat on the late homesteader’s bed as Dwyn pulled together a few things from the kitchen and began a proper dinner.

“Has Ophir tried manifesting food?” Tyr asked. He dipped his hands into a shallow basin of clean water that the human must have recently gathered. The dirt and evidence of his gravedigging were washed away with a bar of homemade soap.

Ophir made a face, and they both looked expectantly at Dwyn for her retort.

Tyr was the first to speak up. “No witty comeback? Nothing about how she’d probably poison us with anything she made? Or how she should give it a shot and I should try it, or…”

But Dwyn didn’t take the bait. She didn’t look at either of them while she cut into the root vegetables the woodsman had in his kitchen and tossed them into the pot that hung over the hearth.

“You’ve been quiet for almost two full days, Dwyn,” Tyr said.

Ophir scratched Sedit lovingly as she said, “We spoke.”

Tyr looked between them, but Dwyn continued with her task. “And? Is anyone going to fill me in?”

Ophir absently hoped that Dwyn might cook for all of them, but she didn’t hold her breath for such an outcome.

She met the look of concern on his face with the defeat on her own and said, “It’s nothing worth repeating.”

***

On their sixth day, Dwyn and Tyr were in agreement.

“Firi…”

“Stop!” Ophir barked. She missed when they were at one another’s throats.

She bristled at Tyr’s heavy breath, knowing that whatever he said, he was not about to be on her side.

“You aren’t going to live in the woods, Ophir.”

“How the fuck would you know?” she spat. Sedit matched her energy, lips pulling back from his thin, venomous fangs as a low grumble escaped his belly. She was warmed by the solidarity her loyal creature offered.

“Well?” Tyr asked, looking around. “Is this it? Is this your dream life, Ophir? You want to be a frontier woman and live in the woods and drink water from a bucket and catch your own game? You, the princess I watched laugh and party and revel in life’s many joys—”

“What’s wrong with partying?”

“Nothing!” He clipped out the word, temper flaring. “That’s my point! You were happy! You were yourself! Now, you’re not running toward anything. You’re only running away.”

Ophir blinked in surprise. She looked up at Dwyn and couldn’t determine whether she regretted doing so. Dwyn was looking at him with equal surprise. Her lips were parted slightly in silent agreement, eyes wide as she regarded Tyr.

“For fuck’s sake, you two. Are you happy? You finally agree. Dwyn and Tyr against Ophir. How’s it feel?”