Abolisher
3.

He awoke, opened his eyes, and that small movement sent pain lancing through the vein at his temple.

The first thing he took in check was his raspy, shallow breaths, and then the burning they caused in his throat.

His vision was swimming, head pounding and aching.

His muscles were sore from having had his arms shackled up for … years? Centuries? He didn’t know—didn’t care. He was to be dead soon anyway.

He’d known his death would come, sooner or later, and had known it’d be painful as Saqa. He’d just always expected he’d die a glorious death on a battlefield, or at least beside someone he could call a friend. Not in a dull cell with nothing but pain with him—definitely not that.

He couldn’t perceive it in the dark, but he was aware his skin had grown paler than it’d ever been, having had spent so long in these dungeons. Could feel the mounting limpness as his body grew weaker and weaker each passing second, as life dwindled slowly from him, not only from the lack of food or the loss of blood, but his own fire was sucking on his life to survive, to just … exist.

The vicious fire—his fire—was impatient and rowdy, feral and dangerous. It wanted out from the confines he’d built around it, it wanted to emerge and burn its way out of the dresteen shackles binding him.

And he might have accepted the help—would have accepted the help, had it not been for the intents of the Queen of Cleystein.

She wanted to imprison his fire, wanted to clutch it and pour it in herself and be rid of him.

But fire was not water. Fire was not something to be contained. It was untamed—wild. It was deadly and extirpating.

And it was no one’s but Vendrik Evenflame’s.

And he would fight his very will to keep it from the hands of the queen.