Page 11 of The Oracle of Dusk

“Your Highness?” he asked as they broke off from the main group.

“Once you can relay a message to Boreas, contact my spies. I need to know what Orithyia knows about Drakon’s fated prey and the hero. How Drakon was defeated in the past, what became of the heroes who sealed him away—everything. I don’t like any of this.”

Sure, there were legends and myths, but all of those were missing key details and embellished for the sake of plays and songs. She needed facts—quickly.

“It will be done,” he assured her.

Whatever it took, Phaedra would protect Aurora. If that meant toppling temple lies and a certain high priestess, all the better.

She held onto that anger through the hours of gruelling riding that followed, her wild magic whipping up the desert sands as the night dragged on. By the time the sadistic, holy sword-wielding task master allowed their ragged party to rest, Phaedra didn’t know who looked worse—the poor lopers, or their saddle-sore riders. Aurora nearly collapsed the moment her feet hit the ground. Once the much-reduced imperial tent had been pitched, Phaedra led Aurora inside, her friend’s legs shaking the whole time. One of the guards helped her eat and wash up, her lids heavy and face pale. The second her head hit the ground and a blanket pulled atop her, Aurora fell asleep between one breath and the next. But while her friend slipped into oblivion, the princess’ anger reached a fever pitch.

How dare that bastard pretend he didn’t know the answers to her questions. No one stonewalled a princess of Viridis. He had to be a fool a hundred times over not to even inquire about the heroes of the past. He’d travelled with Orithyia from Boreas, and never once had the thought crossed his mind? Lies. It was time to get some real answers.

Phaedra gently extricated herself from Aurora’s side, waiting until the sounds of the camps dimmed, the soft snorts of lopers and the snores of the guards and paladins competed with the crackle of the fire. She palmed the knife in her boot and crept out of the tent. The knife was just for show though. If she shed even a drop of his blood, Justice would punish her for it. But the avatar didn’t need to know that. All he needed to know was that she was serious—enough that she would court a goddess’ wrath. Soft as a whisper, Phaedra made her way to the false hero’s tent. She’d partaken in many a midnight rendezvous, enough to know how to open the tent flap without a sound. But whatever else he might be, this man was a warrior. She would have to pin him before he woke.

“You’re not my type,” he said lazily, his eyes never opening as he turned away from her.

Her jolt of surprise was quickly replaced by fury.

“No, because your type is impressionable and imperilled, isn’t it Sir Hero?” she hissed.

“Your words, not mine.”

Goddesses, this man was infuriating.

“I came for answers. If you’d like to be anyone’s type in future, you’ll give me the truth.”

He sighed and turned onto his back, looking at her with a baleful glare.

“Go to bed, Your Highness. Sunrise isn’t that far off.”

This.

Fucking.

Asshole.

Phaedra lunged at him then, blade in hand. But he was ready for her. Throwing his blanket at her, he moved with lightning speed. She barely managed to get one arm and her blade free before he trapped the rest of her body under his weight, wrapped and tangled by some filthy rag of a blanket. He reached over her, grabbing her wrist with calloused fingers, and pinched until her hand went numb and the blade fell from her grasp. He swatted it away.

“If I have to tie and gag you to get some sleep, I will, Your Highness. The choice is yours.”

Phaedra fought his hold, bucking wildly, but it was no use.

“Get off of me, you wretch!”

“Bound and gagged it is.”

She’d sooner allow herself to be torn apart by feral dogs. As he moved to carry out his threat, she reached for her wild magic. Woe to any who thought the air was the weakest element. She turned her head to see him better, and unleashed it. His eyes went wide, a hand at his throat. She threw him off her then, fighting her way out of his hold as he tried and failed to suck in a single breath. Retreating to the corner, blade in hand, she raised her chin as he doubled over. Point made, she pulled her magic back. And since she’d not spilled a drop of his blood, his goddess had no recourse to punish her.

He gasped, gulping in precious air, eyes watering. There. That’s who he was. His glare of hatred was fully unmasked now. No more impolite brush-offs or evading. Phaedra smiled in triumph.

“What happens to the heroes of the cycle of calamity?”

“I don’t know,” he wheezed.

“Lies.”

She stole his breath again, throwing up a barrier of wind when he lunged at her. She picked dirt from under her nails while he struggled. Once he was suitably exhausted by his vain efforts, she eased off.

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