Page 132 of A Flame of the Phoenix

“You have to make sure he stays alive.”

“His life isn’t my concern.”

Faythe was exasperated within herself. That wasn’t true, and Zaiana knew it too. Her detachment was convincing to the world, but Faythe didn’t believe it. She’d been face-to-face with Zaiana at the peak of their rawest emotions. She’d seen the fear and pain on the dark fae’s face when Zaiana had truly believed she might die. She’d heard the break in Zaiana’s voice as she admitted her regret for what she’d done to Kyleer in Rhyenelle. Faythe had glimpsed inside a vault of emotions that was sealed tight from a world that had taught Zaiana she couldn’t have them.

“Where are you taking me?” Faythe tried instead.

“To look more presentable.”

Faythe had expected a torture chamber at the top of her list, so it was a surprise to be led to a ladies’ powder room.

A couple of timid younger fae approached in servants’ uniforms. “We’re to bathe you and present you for Her Grace,” one said.

Faythe didn’t know why she looked at Zaiana. The dark fae merely rolled her eyes and leaned against a far wall to wait.

A bath did sound glorious, considering she was still wearing her bloodstained camisole after days, and the nights had been so cold. Her only hesitation came when they removed Reylan’s cloak. But at her reaction, one red-haired fae smiled reassuringly, taking it with care.

The sunken pool of water steamed while the moonlight glittered outside the glass walls. She sighed pleasantly, the hotwater caressing her skin while the picturesque view of ice and snow surrounded her. It let her forget war and bloodshed in this tranquil contrasting embrace.

She didn’t mind the sting of the soapy water against her Magestone wounds as she basked in the beauty for a while. Faythe found Lakelaria to be the most beautiful kingdom, second only to her own. She thought about how she could make her own mark on the castle by taking inspiration from here, imagining bathing with a full open view of the sun splitting over crimson-peaked mountains. It brought a joyful sting to her eyes to think of what could be if they won the war and earned their peace.

Being scrubbed of the dirt and blood cleared a fog in her mind. Every time the Magestone in her wrists was even slightly knocked, it seized Faythe with pain, but she was learning to grit her teeth and bear it without a sound by now.

“You’re very brave,” one fae whispered, cleaning over her shoulder. She had pale red hair and beautifully freckled cheeks.

Faythe felt compelled to take the young fae’s hand at the timid fear in her eyes. “Bravery isn’t in what we can endure, but in the way we keep fighting even when we’re terrified. And often the bravest fighters are the most silent.”

Her smile lit up in her beautiful brown eyes. Faythe caught Zaiana watching her by a slip of her gaze, seeming to have manifested a sense for when the dark fae’s attention was on her.

“Hurry up,” Zaiana said coldly, pushing off the wall and stalking out of the room.

“She’s terrifying,” the red-haired fae whispered, helping Faythe dry off.

“And she hasn’t even done anything,” another added.

Faythe actually smiled. “She’s not that bad.”

“Is it true you won in a fight against her?”

“No. I don’t think I could have. Some powers can’t win against each other—they can only destroy each other.”

They watched her in awe but didn’t falter in their routine of tending to her before leading her toward an ornate, silver-rimmed vanity.

Faythe’s hair was styled, and she was dressed in a white-and-blue gown. This was a far cry from the torture chamber she’d first presumed the Spirit would summon her to. While Faythe was immeasurably glad to feel her skin refreshed, she couldn’t settle her stomach that the price was about to be revealed to her.

Just as the fae around her began to relax and Faythe was starting to enjoy their kind company, the air in the room shifted. It was subtle at first, like the brief silence before a storm. Then she saw it—just a flicker in the mirror’s reflection: the fiery glow of Marvellas. Faythe’s stomach dropped, and icy fingers of dread crawled up her spine, freezing her in place. Marvellas’s presence swallowed the room, and the fragile moment of comfort shattered, leaving only the pounding of her pulse in the stillness.

The servants bowed to the Spirit, and their gentle presence escaped through the door, replaced by the suffocating air of battle and dominance.

Marvellas didn’t speak, and Faythe had no words either. She watched Marvellas approach with hateful eyes, but the Spirit’s neutral expression didn’t shift. Marvellas moved with the grace of water, keeping her anticipation sharp. The last thing Faythe expected was for the Spirit to pick up the servant’s abandoned hairbrush.

So it had all come down to this. Not a rage-filled power struggle, nor hateful words, but finally being alone with the Spirit of her nightmares after all this time. Marvellas began combing her long chestnut tresses with the convincing tenderness of a mother.

“You used to love it when I brushed your hair,” she said, her voice so peaceful she hardly recognized Marvellas right now. “It was our favorite way of bonding.”

“I’m not her.”

Faythe wondered if she should stay silent and let Marvellas play out her delusion, but her resentment prevailed over her self-preservation. She would rather her wrath than this sick pretense.

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