Burn of the Everflame — Chapter 4

4

DIEM

ell . . . I wasn’t dead.W My life might have become a crumbling, rotting refuse pile of a mess, but I was alive and breathing. I spat out the clump of waterweed I’d been chewing, wrinkling my nose at the acrid tang it left behind. It tasted like licking the underside of a horseshoe, but with no fresh water on the island and no rain for more than a fortnight, my options were down to bad or dead. Waterweed held just enough liquid to keep me on this side of the living.

Not that this was much of a life to live.

I grabbed another handful of tangled roots and ripped them from the ground, then shook them free of the soil that clung to their tendrils. I popped them into my mouth and grimaced at the grinding of sand between my teeth.

I hate it here, I thought for perhaps the thousandth time that day.

I forced myself to my feet and wandered west, snatching a spray of crimson flowers as I walked. In the early days, I’d searched every inch of this cursed place for something rarer than the fluffy red blooms that peppered the island, the source of the flameroot powder that had started this mess. After finding nothing, I’d told myself the man I planned to give them to wouldn’t care. He’d never been the type to ask for special treatment.

Oh, how I wished he had.

I whistled a song—lively and a little crude, something that I knew would bring a wide, toothy smile to his face.

“Did you miss me?” I asked him as I approached. “I know I said I’d leave you alone for at least a day, but I just can’t seem to stay away.”

The only answer was the wind whipping over the tall island grass.

I sank to the ground beside him and added the flowers to a pile at his feet. More were scattered in the brush, carried by the breeze. This close to the shore, the sea was visible through the weeds, along with a faint smudge on the horizon that might have been the Lumnos coast—a sight I liked to believe brought us both a little comfort.

“Alright, you know the rules. Every time I start to feel sorry for myself, I come to you and say three things that bring me joy instead.” My eyes lifted to the dark grey clouds hanging low in the sky. “Looks like it’s going to rain today. That means we can give up waterweed for a while.” I pulled the chewed-up plant from my mouth and flung it away. “I’m pretty damn joyful about that.”

My attention caught on a flicker of movement out on the sea—a passing army patrol boat. “Get down,” I hissed at him, flattening my body to the ground.

There had been a lot less of them lately. The first week, the water had been swarming with boats, some even pausing at the island’s many docks.

The soldiers would creep down the piers as close as they dared—and, seeing nothing, nervously scurry away. As the weeks went on, there were fewer soldiers, fewer boats, fewer signs of anything beyond this island.

The boat neared the shore for a moment, then sailed away. I rolled onto my back, tucking my hands behind my head. “Where were we? Oh yes— the rain.” A rumble of thunder rolled in the distance, and I chuckled. “That was you, wasn’t it? Impeccable timing, as usual.”

He’d always shown up right when I needed him most, inspiring me to keep fighting when I was at my lowest. Just like now.

“That’s number two,” I whispered. “You, Perthe. You brought me joy.”

I turned my head, staring at the rock that marked his grave. With the soil cold and hard from the winter, it had taken me a full day to claw out a shallow hole in the grass with my fingers. I’d gently laid him inside— pointed toward Lumnos, so he could always keep sight of home—then meticulously searched out the prettiest stone on the island to set on the upturned soil.

Perhaps a smarter person might have stripped his body down and taken his thick clothing and collection of blades. I couldn’t deny I’d considered it.

Doriel, the Sophos Crown, had taken my weapons, making hunting damn near impossible. Though I’d thankfully worn the cloak gifted from the late

Montios King, its warming spell was another casualty to the island, leaving me in a permanent state of miserably cold.

You should at least have taken a knife, Perthe chided me from my thoughts. It’s my duty to serve you, Your Majesty. Even in death.

“You’ve done enough,” I argued back, laying my hand on his gravestone. “You kept my brother safe, just like you promised.” A gust of wind swept by, sending the red flowers whirling into the air and fluttering my tunic. “You saved Teller and Luther.”

In doing so, he’d saved me, too.

I glanced down to the torn fabric exposing the skin just above my sternum—the same spot where, weeks ago, the Ignios King’s godstone

blade speared through my heart.

It should have killed me.

When my chest stopped rising that day, I thought it had. I could have sworn I’d sensed the flickering warmth of the Undying Fire and the shadowy outline of a red-haired figure, hand extended to lead me away.

But then . . .

I made a choice, and a vow.

A shimmering veil of gold. An excruciating pain, as if my heart had been torn like a scrap of paper, followed by the purest sense of bliss I’d ever known.

And when my body jolted back to life, miraculously cured of its wound, my heartbeat returned in a soft duet. One, loud and steady, and the other an echo, with a formidable rhythm all its own.

Luther’s heartbeat.

My mate.

And yet . . . not.

Because only I had shed my blood. Only I had sworn myself to him for all eternity—in my mind, if not aloud.

And only I now bore the silvery swirl of two hearts entwined into a blade upon my chest: the mark of a mating bond. A one-sided mating bond.

They’re called stranded mates, Eleanor told me once. It’s all the worst parts of the bond—having to be near them, feeling their pain, never being able to love anyone else—without any of the benefits. It’s the worst fate I could imagine.

I burst into wry laughter. If there was some way to take something so precious and make a mess of it, of course I’d find it.

But as I laid my palm over the mark and felt a rush of comforting warmth, it didn’t feel like such a terrible fate—because I knew the second I got off this island and showed Luther my mark, he would pull his blade and complete the bond without a second thought.

I might be a stranded mate now, but I wouldn’t stay one forever.

“This,” I said, brushing my thumb across my skin and watching the mark turn golden and bright. “This is number three. This brings me the most joy of all.”

My third answer was always the same. The first two were my meager attempts at warding off the hopeless darkness that encroached further every day. The third was about remembering my reason to keep going.

My reason to not just stay alive, but to live.

I pressed a kiss to Perthe’s gravestone. “No more negative thoughts today,” I promised. “This time, I really mean it.”

I stood and smoothed down my pants, frowning at how low they hung on my hips. Food on the island was scarce, and though my Descended healing had slowed the effects of starvation, my stomach ached for something more than roots and bugs.

I started on my evening routine by checking on all the rainwater collectors I’d crafted to make sure they’d be ready for the storm, then rolled out the canopy I’d woven from stalks of tall grass. I couldn’t leave the makeshift shelter up during the day and risk being spotted by patrols, so every morning I tore it down, only to put it back up again every night.

“This would be a lot easier if you stopped hiding, you know,” I told myself as I tied the corners to one of the few clusters of palm trees scattered among the grass. “You could have a feast with all that food she left you.

Maybe she even packed you a tent.”

I stared wistfully toward the Arboros port. Before I knew what I was doing, my feet were carrying me south, lured by an empty stomach and a pitiful mood. When I arrived at the pile of wooden crates, I crossed my arms, staring them down like an old, loathed nemesis.

Doriel had promised I would be taken care of until Ophiucae was dead and my magic was lost to the foolish bonded bargain I’d made. But, much like on the mainland, prisoners out of sight were easily forgotten, and supplies from Sophos never came. When shipments arrived instead from Arboros, I knew it was an attempt to assuage the guilty conscience of its

Queen. After a week of debating, my spite defeated my hunger, and I decided to forego the supplies to conceal my survival.

Let the Crowns wonder if I’d lived. Let them lie in their beds at night, fearing that the most powerful among them was plotting their demise. Let them toss and turn with terror that the next time they came to this island for

a ritual, it might be their last.

I did, I was, and it would be.

I spat at the crates. “Keep your supplies. The only thing I’m taking from any of you is your thrones.”

I started back for my campsite when a crack of lightning sliced through the sky to the east. I jumped in surprise, but what caught my eye wasn’t the storm. It was a tiny black spot, its bobbing form barely visible against the clouds.

I squinted and leaned forward. Is that . . . ?

“Shit,” I mumbled as I broke into a sprint.

I veered off the twisting pathways and cut through the brush to stay hidden, flinching at the fronds that slapped my face. I skidded to a stop at my camp and fumbled with the strips of fabric I’d torn from my clothes to tie the canopy, but the sudden surge of adrenaline had set my heart racing and my hands shaking.

A fat drop of liquid splashed against my cheek, then another. “Now you send rain?” I cried out. I could almost hear the laughter of the gods in the thunder that answered.

Within seconds, the sky opened up with a freezing drizzle. With my hands slick and the fabric soaked, the knots might as well have been forged of Fortosian steel. There would be no untying them now.

I shot a look over my shoulder. The black dot in the sky had grown, wings now visible on either side.

I had a few stones with sharp edges—I could saw through the fabric, but how quickly? If I was spotted, my sacrifice these past few weeks would be for nothing. And, if they knew I was alive, they might never come back.

Then I might never get my chance to escape.

My focus darted back to the canopy. So many hours I’d spent gathering supplies, so many days spent weaving it together just so to prevent any leaks . . .

A visceral scream of defeat erupted from inside me as I clawed my fingers down the center. I ripped and I ripped, wielding my despair as

destruction. A drizzle became a downpour, and the rain mixed with hot, angry tears to blur my vision as my hard work fell to the grass in tatters.

I gathered the shredded remnants and scattered them in the brush just as the drumbeat of gryvern wings cut through the storm.

Thump, thump, thump.

I dropped to my knees and bent my head low until I was shrouded in the grass. The one good thing about the spell the Crowns had cast to trap me here was that it also kept their gryverns from flying overhead. They could only come as far as the shore without risking their deaths—and they had, many times, searching for any sign of me from the air.

And so had Sorae.

Each time she’d returned to circle the island, I’d told myself it was too great a risk to let her see me—what if she sensed my poor health and couldn’t resist the urge to get closer? What if I couldn’t resist the urge to get closer?

And then, early one morning, Sorae landed on the Lumnos pier with Luther on her back. My heart had stilled as I watched him dismount and walk to the shore’s edge, the same place he’d kissed me goodbye before my disastrous coronation.

When I caught sight of those blue-grey eyes, my self-control vanished like smoke. In that moment, something feral within me took over, and all that mattered was making my way back into his arms—even if it cost me my life.

It was pure luck, or perhaps another twist in the gods’ cruel game, that he never saw me run toward him, thanks to an approaching patrol boat that pulled his attention away.

But Sorae did. Her sorrowful wail had cut through my frenzy and brought me back to sanity. I had been ready to risk everything for one look, one touch.

But I wanted so much more than one touch.

With Luther, I wanted it all.

So I’d slid into the foliage, clutching the gold necklace he’d gifted me and weeping as I watched him mount and fly away. I vowed then that this pain would not be for nothing. For every tear I shed, I would demand a year in return—a year without war, without the endless attempts of this world to keep us apart, a year filled with the happiness we deserved. I let the tears fall freely that day, and I held on to that fragile, beautiful hope.

Today, however, it was a very different gryvern flying my way. And as for its rider . . .

I squinted through the rain, wondering if the isolation had gotten to me, but the closer it came, the surer I was.

There was no rider.

The gryvern was alone.

And I knew exactly which gryvern it was.

“Leave!” I screamed.

I shot out of the grass and bolted for the path. I had been dreading this day for weeks, praying it never came. Luther had warned me that a new Crown could not hide from its gryvern forever.

The Umbros gryvern soared toward the island, spearing like a creature possessed. In a way, she was. The bond that enslaved her to the Crown forced her to heed one command above all: protect your Queen. Unless I could get to her in time to contradict that order, she would find her way to my side—and die in the process.

“Turn back!” I shouted. I ran as hard as my feet could carry me, lungs and thighs burning with effort. I wasn’t going to make it. Even with the gryvern’s sensitive hearing, I would be too far away for her to hear me before she reached the perimeter of the island’s lethal spell.

But maybe she could see me.

I sprinted up the staircase that led to the dais of the Kindred’s Temple. I summoned a lifetime of climbing trees in the Lumnos forests to scramble up the intricately carved archway of the Umbros portal. The top narrowed into an obelisk capped with a cauldron of onyx flames, and my attempts to scale it fell miserably short. My nails slid against the smooth, rain-slicked stone.

“Go home,” I screamed, pointing east. “Go back to Umbros!”

The gryvern caught sight of me. Instead of heeding my warning, her wings tilted downward on a deadly course straight for me.

My arm thrashed in desperate waves. “Stop coming! Go home!”

Her head cocked at my strange behavior. If she could see me, maybe there was still hope.

My fingers burned, fighting to keep hold of the arch. I waved, I pointed, I bellowed, anything to catch her attention. Finally, her wingbeats stalled,

and she slowed.

My heart leapt.

And my grip gave way.

Too numb from the cold and too wet from the storm, my fingers slipped, and I fell, crashing hard to the godstone floor. My knee bent at an unnatural angle, and my skull bounced off the rock, leaving me dazed.

Though the island’s spell stifled the bond that would normally allow a gryvern to sense their Crown’s pain, the Umbros gryvern didn’t need it.

She’d seen my injuries with her own two eyes.

And a gryvern always came to aid a wounded Crown.

The stars were still clearing from my vision when I heard the high- pitched shriek of a gryvern in distress, followed by a strangled noise that I

knew I would never forget.

Then silence.

A terrible, awful silence.

And the thud of a massive body colliding with soil.

For the third time in Emarion history, one of these majestic creatures, whose only mistake had been trusting their Kindred masters, met its final end.

I gasped for air as rain pelted my face, knocked breathless as much by the loss as my fall. I don’t know her name, I realized in anguish. I’d met her in Umbros, even begged for her help, then reluctantly fought her over the sea during our escape, but I’d never asked her name.

She died. For me.

And I didn’t even know her name.

Tears mixed with rain on my cheeks as my head lolled to the side and came eye to eye with Yrselle’s lifeless corpse—or what was left of it after a grueling month of exposure to the elements.

Unlike Perthe, the Crowns had witnessed her death. If they came back, seeing her body moved would be a sure sign that I’d survived, so I’d had no choice but to leave her untouched.

Though my relationship with Yrselle had been fraught with threats, she had looked out for me when no other Crown would. It was her warning to stop taking the flameroot that led me to discovering the truth of who I was, and it was her vote that had secured my mother’s pardon.

A vote that had cost Yrselle, and her gryvern, their lives.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered weakly.

You deserve to suffer as my people suffered, she had told me. And believe me, you will.

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