Page 20 of A Rising Hope (The Freckled Fate #3)

20

GIDEON

20 years ago.

T he cold, fall wind mercilessly ruffled our capes. The unsettled war horses underneath us huffed, their hot breath puffing into clouds in the chilly air. My uncle and I observed the victorious armies celebrating down below in the valley.

The streaks of smoke from the freshly burned town twisted like ribbons in between the first stars of the evening. My uncle held the grand feathered helm in his arm tightly, his sword sheathed on his back; the hilt still covered in blood.

“You hesitated today, Gideon,” he stated, his scornful look still lingering on the armies in the valley as we stood atop a hill. “You cannot afford hesitation.”

“Must they all die?” I asked, forcing my shaking hands to calm. I squeezed the reins tighter, ignoring the specks of innocent blood on my new armor.

“You are just a boy now, Gideon, but one day you will be their ruler.” My uncle didn’t look at me, even as I looked at him. I wasn’t sure if it was the approaching night or if his eyes truly darkened. “You need to understand that mercy must be a gift not so freely given. Or it shall lose its value. The time comes soon when you will have to undo the mistakes of your fathers . . . of mine.” He paused, searching for the right words. “ One day, you will have to wage your own war. One that was started a long time ago, but you are the one destined to finish it at last. To end it all.” His voice was like a storm in the fall — melodic, dark, reaching down to the inner being of me. “But in order to do that, you must understand one simple concept.” My uncle continued, “You cannot attain freedom at a bargain. Everything comes at a price, Gideon. And everyone pays a price in war.” My uncle met my stare then, before adding, “And life is the only currency it takes.”

17 years ago.

Warm blood dripped from my broken nose.

The boy I fought was dead.

I shoved that rotting thought as far away as I could. To the same place where all the other suffocating, tar-like thoughts lingered. Those thoughts were poisoning me. I knew that. Killing me slowly, drop by drop. Until the weight of them would be too much and I’d drown.

The boy was dead. Murdered, killed by my own hands. The skin on my knuckles was gone, white bone peeking through my bruised and bloodied fists.

The skin on my face slowly melted off its bone, and the few spots that didn’t get scorched by fire were covered in gory blisters, but I let the pain ground me.

I held up the flag in my hand tight.

I won.

I won the war game. I won the fight without fire.

I won solely through pure strength.

Triumph.

No matter the cost.

Rows of observing Destroyers whispered carefully, all of them prying at the trail of bodies I left in my wake. My eyes darted to my uncle, far away on the tribune. His wary stare dug into me. And yet it was that look of frustration that flashed through his face that made my stomach drop with bitter defeat.

Soon I found him trailing through the Blackstone castle.

“I’ve won, uncle,” I repeated, not able to shake off the sticky feeling his disappointment left on me.

“Yes, you did, Gideon.”

“And yet you are disappointed,” I stated, ignoring the intense pain of my broken ribs as I matched his long strides through the stronghold.

“You relied on your strength,” he retorted.

“Is that wrong? I’ve outmatched them all. I’ve fought them without a flicker of my fire, and I still won,” I repeated, clenching my jaw. My uncle paused in the dark hall, nodding to the passing soldiers.

“Your strength, though admirable, is not your advantage, Gideon. It is your vice. Men that rely on strength win battles but lose wars. Look around.” He discreetly glanced at another group of soldiers that admired me from afar. They nodded, noticing my lingering glare on them, and I turned back to my uncle. His lips pressed into a thin line. “You must think more than a few steps ahead. What did you do wrong?” he asked and his question stumbled through my mind. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Empty. No answers. So, my uncle answered for me, not hiding his dissatisfaction.

“You won the war games. You’ve gained a few admirers. But you’ve shown your cards, Gideon. For a few seconds of fame and glory, you’ve exposed your strength for everyone to behold. The rumors of your powers have already scattered across Esnox. And now your enemies will be better prepared.”

“But if I didn’t, I would’ve lost,” I objected.

“Failure is part of progress. You must know when sacrifice needs to take place. And you must act upon it, no matter the cost, with no hesitation.”

I squeezed my hands behind my back until fresh blood trickled down my wrists, and I nodded quietly. “Yes, uncle.”

15 years ago.

Sweat covered my brow as we sparred deep in the dungeon. A thick blindfold covered my gouged eyes, keeping them from oozing. Shirtless, I fought in utter darkness, only relying on my senses and powers as I moved.

One step too far and my uncle’s blade scraped my bare back, making its mark.

I let a low growl rumble, fighting the frustration boiling within me.

“Focus, Gideon.” My uncle’s voice echoed off the cold walls. I forced my thoughts to sharpen, to still. The Basalt Glass piece wedged deep into my skin pushed me towards the edge of absolute madness. No longer shielded by my fire, the wild darkness roamed freely through me.

I moved again, feeling every shift of the air, every speck of dust move.

I had spent days locked behind the thick walls, blinded, enduring all kinds of torture. But I didn’t care about any of that. Every minute my mind held any semblance of reason, I spent on preparing for this fight. All I wanted was to win.

I lunged for my uncle once more. He blocked the attack, just as I thought he would. His fiery shield seared my exposed skin, but I didn’t stop. I pushed past the shield. My skin sizzled, but I held my chin up, standing straight.

I didn’t break.

I wouldn’t break, no matter the cost.

I clenched my teeth, almost shattering them.

My uncle then stabbed me in the stomach with his sword. The ice-cold metal pierced me completely through, almost severing me in half. The taste of iron filled my mouth as blood gurgled onto my blistered lips. I dropped to my knees, then toppled over. My face pressed onto the cold stone covered in my blood, as I laid dying.

“Dying with pride is still dying , Gideon. Leave heroics for the fools. The world won’t care how honorable you were if you die in the war and let the darkness win.” My uncle’s commanding voice echoed through the chamber as he departed.

Slowly, my consciousness slipped away from me, accompanied by the creaking sound of the heavy iron door being locked.

10 years ago.

I stood still in my uncle’s chambers in the Blackstone Castle. Hands clenched behind my back. A severed head of someone I thought of as a friend laid on his ornate desk.

“One day I won’t be there to protect you, Gideon,” he uttered, his back turned to me, as he observed the soldiers out of his window, standing watch in the court below.

I didn’t reply. All of my muscles relaxed, not a single movement out of place.

“You must always be a few steps ahead. You must plan for every possible scenario. No margin of error.” He turned to me, locking his gaze with mine. “We are all playing the same game, Gideon. I have lost mine, but you must triumph in yours. Win the war before you even start the fighting, do you understand?”

“Yes, uncle.” I nodded.

I gasped as my lungs painfully expanded, and I sat up. A wave of irritation rolled through me, prickling my skin. I looked at the large gap in my chest from the Basalt Glass arrow, the tissue slowly knitting itself together, bit by bit.

Dying always made me so weak.

My body felt groggy and heavy. Head throbbing. My fire was quiet, though slowly returning.

I assessed the tight chamber I was in.

A dungeon of sorts.

How original.

I cracked my neck, forcing myself back on my feet, despite the extreme nausea and pounding headache. Fucking side effects. The wispy black shadows that surrounded me violently hissed.

“Tell Insanaria I am back,” I snarled to them, and they scattered at my feet.