Page 1 of Swift Wings Shadowed Heart
1
Rhea
My future was to be spent at parties with a husband of middling rank, a step up from our fading house. But when the cruel hand of fate stole my mother, and with her, my innocence, that path vanished, and I abandoned the thorns from our garden for the dagger and the expectation of a society wife for the swift, dark path to becoming a murderess.
I’ve fantasized about killing Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp many times, but it never once involved me wearing an evening gown. Yet, here I am, adorned in a lace-trimmed black dress, a dagger nestled against my thigh. The fabric shimmers under the candlelight, flowing like liquid silk from the waist down, while the bodice clings tightly to my torso, a tantalizing layer of lace hugging my arms, my neck, my breasts. A waste of a perfectly good dress.
Maybe the bastard will be too busy looking at my figure to notice his impending doom. Not a desirable prospect. I want him to know he’s going to die by the hand of one of the many people he has wronged, the Neutro who tore my life apart.
I stare demurely at the guests, realizing this is one of those momentous days that are pivotal in someone’s life.
A party. A murder.
An end. A beginning.
I mean to wipe the slate clean before theRite of Flighttakes place tonight. No old, moth-eaten baggage will weigh me down as I take the last step to fulfill my destiny.
The enormous hall brims with too many men in dark suits and not enough women in colorful gowns. We are but a mere splash of color against a sea of darkness. Socialites and dignitaries from every corner of Embernia are here. Even the King will make an appearance. We’re in his castle, after all. Flickering candelabra and intricate tapestries adorn the walls. The heavy scent of perfume and cologne hangs in the air, intertwined with the smoky aroma of the many candles. The buzz of chatter fills my head, an annoying backdrop to the whirring gears inside my mind.
Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp, my mark, arrived only moments ago. He’s as tall and spindly as I remember him, though the lines that mark his face are deeper, and he’s added a toupee that looks like a dead cat to the top of his head. One thing that hasn’t changed… my hatred for him.
He quickly engages in conversation with Commander Cora Voltguard. No colorful gown for her. She wears aSky Orderformal uniform, obsidian trousers and jacket, the cuffs and collar embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of dragon scales. An obsidian cloak, lined in red velvet, completes the ensemble, though she’s not wearing it at the moment. She left that at the door. She’s an imposing woman, tall, with her gray hair tied in a top knot as if she expects to mount her dragon at any moment.
I meander around the edges of the room, a glass of white wine in hand, pretending to admire the tapestries. I’ve never been to Castle Stonefall, and it’s a shame my attention must be split between admiring the decor and stalking my prey. But beggars can’t be choosers. Neutro Cindergrasp is a sort of recluse who rarely leaves his own, less-impressive castle. He only comes out for official events such as this one—the first of its kind I’ve ever been able to attend, just the reason the bastard is still breathing.
I’ve dreamed of killing this man since I was an eight-year-old child. Eighteen years is a long time for anyone to carry that sort of urge. It will be a relief to be rid of it, like the cool breeze from my window that soothed my fevered brow every night I woke up screaming as his hands strangled my happiness. Cindergrasp gave me those nightmares. Today, he’ll pay for every single one of them.
I glance at the massive skeleton clock tucked in one corner. Its exposed gears tick and turn. On close inspection, I notice rust eating away at some of the mechanisms, the way they say paranoia eats away at our King’s sanity.
The clock informs me the Rite of Flight will begin in a little over an hour. Sometime between now and then, Cindergrasp will have to use the facilities, his old bladder begging for a respite from all the wine.
My Academy mates hang together in a cluster, whispering behind their hands, wearing their nerves on their sleeves. Maybe I would share their anxiety about the ceremony if my mind weren’t otherwise occupied. Maybe not. I will be chosen. There is no other option. I’m the best in the class. TheScionswould be wrong to waste me.
The Scions know nothing about your success at the Academy, Rhea.
A party. A murder.
An end… another end?
This is also an equally likely outcome to the night if I’m not chosen.
Nonsense!
My gaze snaps from my mates to the Neutro. All my doubts about the Rite of Flight disappear. My hand itches, ready to reach for the dagger.
Minutes tick by. An ember of anger comes to life in my gut. I empty my glass in one gulp and set it on a circular table laden with colorful mini pastries. Some look like wrapped gifts, others like shiny coins or fanciful hats. I pop a tiny pumpkin in my mouth and distract myself trying to identify the flavors… cinnamon, clove, allspice?—
Cindergrasp pulls away from the Commander and heads out of the hall. At last, the privy calls. I make my way out through the closest door and slip out, unnoticed. I arrived early and acquainted myself with this area’s layout. I know exactly the path I need to follow.
As I go around the corner, Cindergrasp’s retreating figure grows smaller down the length of the long corridor to my right. The lady’s privy is to the left, so I hurry along before someone sees me heading in the wrong direction.
A servant carrying a tray topped with more mini pastries enters my path from a side hallway. He startles at my presence.
I put on a clueless expression. “The lady’s privy?” I ask demurely.
The young man blushes, points vaguely the way I came, then quickly disappears in search of hungry guests. I roll my eyes. Such stiffing propriety! We’re supposed to ignore people have physiological needs, especially women. We don’t sweat, don’t burp, don’t relieve ourselves.Ridiculous!I was cured of that notion at the Academy. Only women with top elemental abilities are admitted, while most of the spots are given to men. Four years of training surrounded predominantly by males—no matter how educated—made me as coarse as a Scale Coast sailor.
I hurry along the corridor, holding my dress up. My heart speeds up, restless energy buzzing in my veins. I throw half a dozen furtive glances over my shoulder, sure someone will see me, but I take the last turn with no one the wiser.
