Page 8 of A Rising Hope

His words didn’t offend me.

I was the villain—I held that title proudly. I was glad to take on that role, to play my part. The world wanted me to be the villain, so I was. A damn good one, too.

I let Godric question me, let him have a mirage of control. Even when both of us knew he had no choice. His little game of ten questions, his standoffish attitude, did absolutely nothing but succor his wounded ego. His life depended on his cooperation; he knew that very well. But I wanted him to be grateful. I needed his cynical heart to show more kindness for what lay ahead. So, I let him push me. I let him have his win.

“You are quite jaded for a Healer, Godric.” I tilted my head to the side, observing him.

“Being constantly hunted byyourkind does that to you,” he shot back.

“And yet you are still alive. I guessmykind didn’t do a good enough job.” My eyes met his. An unspoken warning settled between us, reminding him precisely of the cost I had paid for him to keep his life.

“While I am grateful to be alive, let’s be frank—the act wasn’t done out of your kind, brotherly love—you knew of my magic, of my skill, and that’s what kept me alive that day. Not you.”

I shrugged, not correcting him. He was so determined to see the worst in me.

Everyone was.

And I’d let them.

After all, the role I masterfully played came with certain benefits. I let the fire flicker in my eyes, matching the steady glow of the candlelight. A simple sign that my patience had run its course.

“I just want to know what sick, twisted game you are throwing me into, Gideon. It’s not that big of an ask considering the task at hand.” His lips were still pressed down in a thin line, but his glower softened. His eyes flashed with a glimpse of remorse at the harshness of his previous words.

I forced myself to take a slow, full breath, letting out air gradually, considering the millions of pieces in motion. The throbbing headache that had not stopped from the moment Insanaria marked me with her magic made me almost senseless. My thoughts tortured me with endless outcomes, each tainted with sheer, unfamiliar terror.

One wrong move.

One wrong step.

One wrong word, smile, breath.

One careless decision and she’d be dead.

My little wildfire.

Her laugh, the memory of her touch, her divine image—the only light amid the suffocating darkness that the world had become in her absence. Her daring, courageous eyes illuminated the deadly despair lingering in my soul like a hungry scavenger, ready to tear me apart at its first chance.

The muscle in my temple twitched.

I looked at the fogged-up window from the storm. The low quality glass, worn from time, peeked out from behind the ragged curtains nestled in between the low ceiling and tall shelves packed with all manners of jars. A loud crackle of thunder roared through the night, followed by another bright flash of lightning illuminating the room. Godric’s broad figure cast a grim shadow at the unpolished kitchen table.

Time was sand, simply slipping past my fingers.

The Queen wouldn’t dare harm her.

At least not for seven days.

I knew that.

And yet it didn’t make this any easier. Even submerging deep into the Numb, the searing agony within me receded only slightly, still gnawing at my every thought, consuming every living cell of my being.

No, the Queen wouldn’t touch her.

But that relied on the simple fact that she didn’t know who Finnleah was. The moment she found out . . .

My thoughts rattled, and panic crept up my veins at the possibility.

A dangerous gamble. A bet with time itself.

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