Page 96 of Sanctuary of the Shadow
Red hair tumbling down her back, a blood-red gown pooling at her feet, Furie stared into the flames, muttering to herself.
With careful claws, Raith eased the glass open and climbed quietly inside the room, freezing in place, certain she would sense him. Black spots peppered his sight—the wound in his side continued to bleed steadily, and the blood loss was taking its toll.
Barely daring to breathe, he raised his blade and approached. He was a physical entity now, but he embodied the wraith he’d been in every other way. His every footstep was silence itself, his skin the shade of the blackest shadows, the talons at the tips of his wings poised and ready to strike.
He crept across the room, choosing each step with precision so no floorboard creaked. Passing the sitting area, he stepped onto a large rug. There, he hesitated.
Two more steps and he would be within striking distance.
Raith was an assassin, not a storybook villain. He was not going to approach Furie, put his blade at her throat, and then stop to speak a lengthy discourse. When he took those final steps, he would swing the dagger instantly, giving her no chance to engage her defenses.
So why was he hesitating now?
Curiosity ate at him. Furie’s nonsensical whispering was audible from where he stood, and he tried to make sense of it.
“My love…” Her voice shook as she rocked gently back and forth. “You’re so beautiful, so strong and fierce. My everything.”
Peering around her shoulder at the fire, Raith saw the object of her attention.
Images flashed in the flames, created by Fire magic. Images of a man. A warrior, with leather armor and a heavy broadsword, swinging it mercilessly in the throes of battle, roaring cries of victory. His skin was desert bronze. A thick black braid fell down his broad back. A jagged scar cut across his face, over one dark eye and down to his lip. He wore no helmet, and his arms were bare, powerful ridges of muscle rippling with strength as he wielded the sword like an extension of his arm.
The scene changed.
The same man was standing in a tent, unbuckling his armor, staring into the eyes of the viewer. He tossed the breastplate aside and tackled the viewer onto the bed with laughter in his eyes…
The image changed again.
He was in a bed. The viewer’s arms were out, tracing the defined ridges of his pectoral muscles while he looked on with a ravenous gaze. Feminine hands smoothed over his strong body with obvious adoration. They were Furie’s hands, Raith realized, recognizing the rings upon her fingers, and suddenly, it became clear.
These were Furie’s memories of her human lover, Ferron the Conqueror, the great warrior—the one Darya had killed long ago. The one whose death Furie had created the wraiths to avenge.
The reason the Seer line had been obliterated.
“You’re so beautiful, my love,” Furie cooed at the fire. In the memory, she was kissing her lover’s chest, working her way slowly down his body.
It was…pathetic.
The entire scene was so pathetic, Raith nearly turned and fled out the window the way he’d come. The powerful, immortal Queen sat alone and unloved in her tower, reliving ancient memories of her lost mate.
Worse, Raith knew exactly how she felt. It was how he felt.
If he had the power to conjure images of Harrow in the flames, he might have flown to a high tower somewhere and done exactly that. And he doubted his ability to ever recover from losing her, either. If Harrow was killed, the vengeance he would unleash upon the world would make Furie’s brutality look tame.
He…understood her. He related to her. He even sympathized with her.
But he was still going to kill her.
She’d wrought far too much damage for him not to take this chance. Maybe her death would take her to wherever her lover was now, maybe not. It didn’t matter, in the end, because he wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. Furie, alone, undefended, oblivious to her surroundings—there might never be a chance like this again.
He would do it for Harrow.
Fingers tightening around the dagger’s hilt, he lifted it high and took one step forward. Furie rocked back and forth, mumbling at the flames. He took another step. Still, she rocked.
He swung the blade.
His aim was true, his strength immense. The blade whistled through the air to connect directly with the soft skin of her neck. It was a clean, powerful strike. It would have beheaded any other foe in an instant.
Instead, the steel melted.
