Page 106 of A Flame of the Phoenix

When it subsided, she released her breath and willed her heart to calm. She peeled herself up, daring to sit and discover the origin of the cold, eerie presence.

She found nothing.

Reylan was sleeping, which surprised her. She didn’t expect him to take the chance of a potential ambush or her fleeing. He didn’t stir at the ominous echo she’d felt creeping over her skin.

It came again, a tickle of air with notes of dark beckoning. This time Faythe was more captivated than alarmed, though her body still locked with tension. She got up slowly, wincing at the chime of her shackles and slicing a glance at Reylan. Still, he slept soundly. So peacefully her heart savored the sight for a few seconds.

Until the whispering call wrapped her again.

Faythe followed it despite it leading through one of the depthless halls. The darkness claimed her all at once.

Moonlight spilled into a room ahead, and when she emerged, it took a moment to survey the hall in her awe.

A huge statue loomed in front of her—a cloaked figure with no face, only a void as depthless as the passage she’d emerged from. It held a scythe taller than itself, and the only sign of imperfection was the missing chip on the underside of the figure’s blade. Around it, hundreds of black ravens were frozen in flight.

It was a mortal depiction of Death itself. The primordial the worshippers at this temple prayed to. Did they pray for a kind death? For this entity to spare them pain and misery in the end? Or was it far more than that? Possibly more than she could comprehend.

Faythe’s pulse skipped when she thought she caught movement. Her eyes darted over the birds, which remained stationary, frozen in the air by nothing at all. They began totwitch,coming alive right before her eyes, and Faythe stumbled back. She couldn’t have darted out of there before their feathers puffed in the wind and their wings cracked out of their frozen state until they could fly.

In a few heartbeats, Faythe was surrounded, holding her bound hands up to shield her face. They didn’t attack, but they swarmed her instead of fleeing now that they could.

“What do you want?” Faythe begged, terrified by the pounding of wings filling her ears, the brush of feathers like icy grazes.

“I need him to return to you for a while,” a deep, otherworldly voice said. “I need you to help him, and in turn, he will help you.”

Faythe squinted through the slash of black birds. She found the hooded form, shrunken to mortal size. She tracked its looming scythe—an instrument to reap souls, and she was perfect prey.

“Who?” she dared to ask.

“The first and only son.”

Faythe lowered her arms, overcome with dread.

“What happened to him?”

“He is a son of war. Between mortals and Gods. He is a binding tether between more than you can imagine. You are the heirs who, once united…will decide whether this world ends from the wrath of broken hearts or finds peace after all it will take to win.”

She had to be dreaming. Faythe sank to her knees, trying to grapple something that would expose this as nothing more than a horrifying nightmare.

“What will it take?” Faythe broke a sob with her question. Her mind spun with the faces of everyone she held dear. Her threads to each of them strained so threateningly she couldn’t know which would be in danger of breaking until it was too late.

She was haunted, completely awash with the worst dread of her existence, while this moment felt so familiar to when the Dresair had cursed her with the knowledge one close to her would die. The primordial didn’t say such words, but it was only now she was being crushed with the gravity of the war, realizingshe must harbor a fool’s heart to believe the battles to come would spare those she loved.

Faythe took a breath. One long, sure breath to fill her lungs. She couldn’t predict or prevent or control the uncertainty of war. But she was Faythe Ashfyre. She would not be weak, she would not cower, and she would fight with her last breath for everyone.

Hands touched her upper arms, and Faythe gasped, her eyes flying open. She gripped the assailant back, about to fight them off, when their hood slipped down.

Not an angel of death, but one of light.

Beautiful lengths of silver hair spilled against her brown complexion.

“Nerida?” Faythe breathed in disbelief. Now she really wondered if she was dreaming.

Glancing over Nerida’s shoulder, she found the statue of Death was real, but all the birds weren’t. Not even a part of the sculpture. A violent shiver wracked her body.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” the healer asked.

Faythe could only look at her in her stupor. Nerida was crouched in front of her and scanning Faythe with careful attention.

---