Page 10 of She Who Holds My Wrath

I glance down at his shirt, brushing the faint shimmer of the fabric. “What is this?” I ask.

“Flamebeast scale,” he says casually. “Fireproof, tough as hell, and extremely protective. I have to make sure I’m safe from your outbursts.”

My stomach drops. I can’t help but picture one of the great beasts brought down just to make his armour. My eyes must give me away because he chuckles low in his throat. “They shed their scales once a year, hellflower. Relax. Nobody’s slaughtering your new best friends.”

“Oh,” I mutter, feeling a little foolish.

“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together just once. “Let’s not waste any more time. Come on.”

I follow him to one of the painted circles, my boots crunching on the gravel. He gestures for me to step inside first, so I wearily move forward, the boundary somehow feeling heavier than just a simple line on the ground.

“Do you want to start with your power,” he drawls, “or a sword?”

The thought of letting that wildfire loose again makes my stomach twist with so much unease, I almost gag. I glance towards the weapon rack, choosing the lesser of two evils. “Sword.”

He saunters over, picking up two blades. One is long with blackened steel and a silver-edged tip, the other slightly shorter with a faint red gleam along the fuller. He tosses the shorter one to me, and I panic, flinching out of the way so it clatters to the ground instead of impaling me. I scowl at him as he rolls his eyes mouthing the words ‘drama queen.’ Leaning down, I wrap my fingers around the handle, the weight nearly dragging my arm down.

“Gods, it’s heavy,” I mutter, fumbling for a better grip. I try one-handed, but the blade tilts dangerously, almost stabbing straight into my boot.

“Two hands for now,” he advises. “We’ll build you up. We don’t have the luxury of time, so we’ll work with what we’ve got, and hope war doesn’t come before you stop looking like you’re holding a tree branch.”

I grit my teeth and copy his stance, holding the sword in front of me with two hands wrapped firmly around the hilt. I wince in discomfort, my arms already aching.

“I want you to strike me here,” he says, pointing to the centre of his broad chest.

I roll my shoulders and lunge forward, swinging the blade towards him in a sloppy motion. In an instant, his own sword comes up, slamming mine aside with a ringing clash. The impact jolts up my arms, and before I can blink, the sword slips from my hands and his foot sweeps out, sending me flat on my back, staring up at the endless blue sky.

Air rushes from my lungs in a painful wheeze, my head hitting the dusty floor. “What the hell?” I gasp, propping myself up on my elbows.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to defend myself,” Maelkar says with a wolfish grin. “Get up. Try again.”

I grit my teeth and grab the sword, heaving myself upright. This time, I charge, swinging harder. My blade cuts through empty air as he vanishes into shadow. “What the—oomph!”

A foot slams into my back, sending me sprawling onto my hands and knees. Gravel bites into my skin as the sword clatters away. A growl builds in my throat. I glance over my shoulder to see him grinning like the Cheshire Cat, one hand on his hip, the other swinging his sword lazily in front of him like a serpent.

“That’s cheating,” I snarl, pushing myself up to my feet.

“You think The Divine Six and their little army won’t use magic?” he asks, raising a brow.

“But—”

“But nothing, Hellflower. You either adapt or die.”

I snatch the sword back up, panting heavily. My muscles are already trembling. Jesus fucking christ, I am unfit. “And how exactly am I supposed to beat shadow magic?”

He shrugs, smirking wickedly as his violet-ringed eyes twinkle in the early morning light. “Figure it out, queenie.”

Chapter 5

ARAN

I’ve been down here for what feels like days.

But judging by the meals that have slid through the little gap underneath the bars, it’s been less than twenty-four hours. Breakfast arrived a few hours ago. Lukewarm bread. Watery tea. A reminder that I’m not important here anymore. I’m not a guest; I’m not an assistant—I’m a prisoner. Sariya and Elyistria haven’t been to see me once since I woke, and Daisy hasn’t come either.

I lean against the damp wall, staring at the cold stone ceiling. Does she know I’m here? Does she think I’m a traitor, too? No. She wouldn’t. She’d ask for me, she’d demand an explanation. She’d…

I swallow hard and force the thoughts away, pacing the cell for what feels like the hundredth time. Whatever tonic they forced into me wore off just before dawn, my muscles no longer paralysed. And with it, came a restless energy that’s gnawed at my insides ever since. I don’t know which is worse—the drip, drip, drip of water somewhere deep in this dungeon, or the not knowing if my wife is alive. I’ve caught glimpses. Flickers in the shadows. But my Sight has always failed me when it comes to Velentha. Fate’s sick, twisted humour—true mates are blind to one another’s futures. If I’m truthfully honest, I don’t think my Sight has been the same since I came here. Maybe Saevyn messed with more than just my memories? I used to be able to see dozens of paths, countless possible outcomes for other people, but never Velentha’s. Never mine, either. It didn’t even show me his death. My best friend. My brother. I saw a dozen fractured possibilities for the coronation. Korithax bloodied, injured, the Divine Six interfering. But never his death. Never his body ripped from Daisy’s arms.