Page 29 of Wrath of the Dragons (Fear the Flames #2)
Chapter Twenty
Cayden
A mask covers the lower half of my face as I weave through the streets of Verendus.
Restless energy pounds through me and has only grown stronger as I await Elowen’s return, knowing she’s pondering Imirath’s succession.
I’d have gone mad if I remained in the tent or returned to the castle.
In the past, I’d pick up extra jobs when darkness cloaked the sky, often fulfilling multiple assassinations within a night, but I haven’t since I became commander. Well, at least not for profit.
Wind howls through the narrow roads, carrying a rotten smell with it.
It’s far worse in the summer, but it’s still not pleasant in winter.
The dilapidated buildings lean against one another to keep themselves standing, only adding to the unwelcoming aura this place gives off.
Nobody who lives here wants to. I turn down the alley beside the tavern and reach for the key ring looped onto my belt, flicking through them until I find the small brass one.
The back entrance to the Demon’s Den creaks open, and my boots vibrate with the cheers resounding against the basement ceiling. I roll my neck and crack my knuckles before forcing myself to turn in the opposite direction.
The place is doused in darkness, considering no worker has access to the upper floor, and I pull the matches off the shelf where I keep them and light the lanterns around my office.
The shutters are still open from when I was here earlier today, and I pause only briefly when a dragon cries out in the distance.
A sharp, patterned knock brings my attention back into the room.
“Enter,” I say, turning away from the sky and taking a seat behind my desk.
Alexus slips in, a bag slung over his shoulder most likely containing his servant uniform.
He may have changed his clothes, but garlic and wine still waft off him.
“What position did you secure this time?”
“Butler.” He drops the bag to the floor and takes the seat across from me. “Nobles make it so easy. All I have to do is stand in the corner with a pitcher of wine while they bitch and moan.”
“So they’ve been vocal?”
“Oh, they’re opinionated, as all entitled people are.” He gestures toward the whiskey I keep on my desk, pouring himself a glass after I nod. “But they’re terrified to mobilize. They have hired guards, but everyone knows a sellsword’s loyalty is to their coin first.”
“Their arrogance will win the battle against logic, as it so often does with lords.” I lean back in my chair. “Once they meet, it’ll be all the proof I need to execute those who refuse to bend the knee without risking a rebellion.”
Alexus nods. “I’ll get word to you the moment I hear of them gathering. I imagine it’ll be soon; their hatred grows by the hour.”
Then it’s my personal goal to increase that to every minute that ticks by. “If you have nothing else to report you can return to your position.”
Alexus throws back his whiskey and I toss him one of my smokes.
He lights it in the lantern before tucking it between his lips and slipping soundlessly into the hall.
A sword isn’t the ender of men; it’s their mouths.
The nobles have made the mistake of thinking they’re invaluable to the kingdom, but I’ll end them all if it suits my purpose.
Before I was king of Vareveth, I was king of the bastards.
I move to the window, raking a hand through my hair and down my face.
Fuck. I can still smell her on the tips of my fingers from when I touched her hair earlier.
In the midst of the slums, sweat, and smoke, she’s there.
The only life in an endless sea of death.
A flower growing in a graveyard. The scent of her is enough to spark a need to find her, to pull her close until she surrenders her anger and gives me everything.
I grip the railing, deeply inhaling in an attempt to quell the pounding in my head.
My patience is practically nonexistent, and I know I need to get ahold of myself before I see her again.
I’m tortured by the memory of her beneath me, her curls fanning across the pillows and my chest in the aftermath. Her taste.
Gods, her taste.
The door slams open behind me, and the steel of my sword sings against its sheath as I draw it. A sharp yelp fills the air as Ryder homes in on the tip stopping an inch in front of his face. I roll my eyes, sheathing the blade once more. “Knock next time.”
“Is that how you answer the door to your house? No wonder you don’t get any visitors.”
“Is there something you need?”
“Why are you angrier than usual?” he asks, draping his limbs over my desk chair and indulging in the whiskey. “Could it have something to do with a raven-haired woman who flew away?”
“Her hair isn’t raven.” When she steps into the sun it’s clear that it’s the darkest shade of brown.
“Right, well, can’t say I’ve paid close attention to Elowen’s features.” He sighs. “I’m not going away until you tell me what happened.”
“You never go away.” I clench my jaw and tuck my tongue into the side of my cheek. “Garrick is getting remarried and means to replace Elowen as his heir.”
Ryder’s face sobers at that, sitting up straight and placing his feet on the ground.
I think having a younger sister makes him naturally protective of Elowen, especially considering she and Saskia have grown close.
“Her only option is to take Imirath. She’ll never be safe if she doesn’t, nor would any of your heirs, considering they’d also have a claim to the throne. ”
Gods, I don’t want to think about heirs. My concerns begin and end with Elowen. There’s no need to complicate matters. Not to mention I have the nurturing capacity of a rock. I can’t risk a child—our child at that—being a casualty of my inability to love properly. “She knows that.”
“The Vareveth army is unwaveringly loyal to you, and to Elowen by extension. You rose in ranks beside them, bled on the same fields as them. Give the command and the throne will be taken.”
“Battles will be fought, and many will die no matter what Elowen decides. It’s not a matter of succession.”
“You could take the throne, birthright or not.” Ryder rises from the chair to stand beside me, and his eyes that usually dance with mirth are unwaveringly serious.
“We chose you as our leader long before you took Eagor’s throne.
Not because you were born into it, but because you were a person worth following.
You never needed to tell anyone where you come from for us to know you were different.
You are the first commander to bring war to Imirath and the first king in our history to take your crown through an act of rebellion.
The soldiers—all the hard battle-worn bastards—worship you like you’re some kind of god when you lead a charge that every other king would watch from behind their armies if they were even present. ”
I face the city again, overlooking the sloped roofs as smoke rises from chimneys, mingling with the snow and disappearing.
As a boy I remember watching the same sight, the fires that would never warm me while I didn’t know if I’d survive another night, wanting to become no more than a shadow.
In the dark, my need for vengeance grew and festered like an untreated wound.
In the absence of mercy, I became someone who would never need it.
I crack my knuckles and move to open the trunk in the corner to retrieve a mask, bandanna, and tonic.
Ryder’s statement hangs in the air, but I won’t be another man to use Elowen to his advantage, and I will not plot the events of this war without her.
I know Ryder means no harm in encouraging me to take the throne, but things are different now.
I have someone to lose if I act only out of selfishness, and I don’t want Elowen to be a casualty of my deceit.
I lift the small vial to my lips and toss it back, letting the evidence of my past slashed into my flesh disappear.
Violence is all I’ve ever known, and before Elowen it was all I had.
The presence of pain became normal, and I don’t know how to live without it.
When thoughts of Garrick surge, it drags up old memories I don’t want to think about. I take one last look out the window in the direction of Imirath. By the end of this war, I’ll hoist my enemy’s daughter above the ruins of his reign and make him feel just as powerless as he once made me feel.