Page 11 of A Rising Hope (The Freckled Fate #3)

11

FINNLEAH

T he Queen was a terrible hostess. Or perhaps she no longer needed regular nourishment considering her blood meals. But I had yet to find anything edible in this castle besides green apples.

My stomach gurgled loudly, disrupting the palpable silence that filled the extensive library. The Queen gave me a questionable look before returning to her thick book. I stifled a groan as my stomach twisted in pain, its acid burning all the way to my throat.

I had spent three days with the Mad Queen keeping her company in this lonely castle.

Maybe it was the lack of food, or the absence of sleep, or my aching bones from the shackles that I carried with me everywhere, but I found myself in a particularly piss-poor mood today.

We wasted most of the daylight, sitting in the drawing room or the library together, mostly silent. Occasionally, the Queen would question me about the General and each time I answered as thoroughly as I possibly could, eager to gain her trust.

Then each night I was sent back to my room, accompanied by her observant shadows. And each night, the Queen made her way to the highest tower, where she stole more magic from the half dead mages hung on the thorny ceiling.

Three nights I had spent at the castle wide awake. At first, unable to sleep, then unwilling, as I laid awake plotting my escape. An insane plan crafted by my sheer lunacy and delusion.

But like a caged animal, I was desperate.

I stared at the chain connecting the Basalt Glass shackles piercing my wrists.

Soon I’d be free. Soon, I’d feel the fire magic flooding through my veins.

I could almost taste the triumph.

All I had to do was shatter these shackles without dying first.

My thoughts replayed each carefully crafted step of my plan.

The Queen never went to that cursed room full of rotting bodies during the day, and I had no reason to believe she would go now. It was the only place in the entire castle where her sentient shadows didn’t follow, always staying away from the door. It was also the farthest tower overlooking the edge of the cliff; the room hovering right above the ocean. And if logical reasons were not enough, that room was the first one I wanted to burn, turning those bodies to ashes and setting them free.

I knew I couldn’t kill the Queen, but with my plan I didn’t need to. I’d reach the room under the guise of a stomach issue, free myself of the Basalt Glass, break the window, dive into the cold ocean waters, swim away while her castle and magic supply incinerated into ashes.

Even sleep deprived, I knew my plan was imperfect, too many variables depended on hope. Hope that the Queen would be too distracted with raw fire destroying her secret haven, hope that I wouldn’t drown in the wild northern ocean, nor that my magic would falter. Hope that I could summon Liriya in time to send a message and for dragonfly riders to find me.

Yes, my plan had its flaws, but after three days of waiting, I was ready to strike.

That girl’s sunken eyes flashed before me as I blinked, fighting the exhaustion away.

I wished I’d asked her name that day in the magnesium carriage riding away from the Rock Quarries. I wished I’d asked her what she’d dreamed of. I wished I’d asked what she loved and what cherished memories she carried. I wished I’d known who she was beyond those sunken eyes.

But more than anything, I wished she’d known a world filled with peace. Not fear and persecution.

My stomach grumbled once more, disturbing the unnatural silence in the room.

“Do you have any food that I could have besides apples?” I had asked, keeping my tone casual and yet direct enough to show that though shackled, I was not easy prey. “My stomach has grown quite upset.” The Queen raised her eyes from the book.

“Destroyers can survive on much less than that for much longer than a week. So, I didn’t think of that as a concern,” she voiced, shooting me a look full of suspicion.

“Yes, Destroyers can survive but it’s not quite an enjoyable the process,” I pushed back, always walking a thin line between being an equal and not being seen as a threat. “If I must be your prisoner and endure these awful shackles, must I too endure these terrible stomach aches?” The patience I thought I possessed had run its course when the Queen ignored my plea, returning to her book.

I stifled a scoff, standing up to brood around the room, aware of the Queen’s observant eye. I scanned the shelves, curious and cautious, unsure of what I was looking for. I needed something to keep my mind from spiraling completely out of control from the gnawing unease. So, I went searching for books with particularly noticeable wear, looking for faded spines and cracked covers. One with a twisted burgundy spine stood out. Its bindings sewed and patched multiple times over the years.

A Book of Daggers.

That’ll do.

“May I read this?” I asked as politely as I could. The Queen gave me a watchful glance, her eyes narrowing at the book I pointed at, pausing, then giving me a slight nod of approval. I gently pulled the book off the shelf, walking across the black-and-white marble tiles back to the sophisticated pink sofa. I leaned against the plush cushions, carelessly flipping through pages.

A Book of Daggers was as entertaining as I had imagined it’d be. Pictures and descriptions of masterfully crafted blades and snippets about the masters who made them. Then lists of all the owners and battles of which they’d been a part of. I flipped through a few more pages, letting the intricate images of daggers and their histories distract me from the passing of time. Seconds sped by as I occasionally peeked to the windows, heartbeat racing as I watched the sun move across the sky.

I was running out of time.

I opened my mouth to excuse myself to the bathroom, but my words were stuck mid-breath, never making it out as the Queen looked up at me.

“Who were your parents?” she asked all of a sudden, startling me.

“Sorry, what?” I repeated, settling down the anxious tremor in my clammy hands. It was an almost too personal, too specific question for the Queen to ask.

Insanaria raised her brows at me. Alarms blared in my head as she repeated.

“Who were your parents? Your name is quite odd and only now I realized I have yet to discover your father’s name.”

My mind ran blank.

Lie. Just say fucking anything! I shouted to my frozen mind as the prolonged silence became glaring.

But my thoughts came up short, completely useless. Not a single plausible answer appeared in the mess that I had become.

I swallowed hard, adjusting the book on my lap.

A truth and a lie will do.

“I do not have parents. They disowned me from the moment I refused to oblige with their commands, even as a child.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, peering at me, clearly not believing whatever lies I was spewing.

Shit.

“I chose the name for myself when I ran away. But if you must know.” I shuffled through all the Destroyer last names I knew—which, oddly enough, it was few—livid at myself for never asking about their family lineages. Such a fucking stupid thing to die because of . “My family name is Crisedeon.” I tried to hide a wince that flashed across my face at the sound of my made-up word. It was neither elvish, nor human, and definitely not Destroyer.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I patiently counted the seconds, preparing for whatever the next question she’d surely ask. But the Queen didn’t reply, returning her eyes to the book.

I should go right now. Find an excuse to leave the room even for a moment. Then race upstairs, then . . .

Breathe. I’d wait a minute. Let the tension in the air settle, then I’d go. So, I reopened the book on my lap, glancing at the random page.

And there it was. The one dagger I could recognize out of a million.

Heart Piercer.

My Heart Piercer. Yet here it had a different name.

The God Killer.

None of this mattered at all. A simple distraction but I continued reading.

The list of battles and its genealogy of owners went on for two pages, names scribbled and rewritten, reaching all the way to its first owner. None other than Lady Dynaya herself. I skimmed through the rest of the names until I reached the very last line. A little handwritten note by what I could only guess the Queen’s hand.

The God Maker.

Last owner: Insanaria M., Creator