Page 26 of The Wolf and Her Shadows

I briefly place a hand on her shoulder before lifting myself up into the new saddle. It’ll likely be a bit more uncomfortable to ride in tandem now, but it certainly makes mounting easier. And safer should we have to make any more daring escapes from a city full of guards intent on claiming our heads.

As an afterthought, I remove my dual scabbard from my back and tie the straps to those connecting the horse’s new breastplate to the saddle. I figure Vannaria will appreciate not constantly having to duck out of their way while she sits behind me. And selfishly, I want as little as possible between us while she does so.

After handing the stablehand what looks like a silver piece, Vannaria‘s arm brushes against my hip as she uses the saddle’s horn to swing up onto the horse’s back. I hold back a shiver at the brief contact, desperately fighting the urge not to lean back against her chest.

Last night had been the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages. Considering it’s also the first night I hadn’t awoken to the sounds of them having a nightmare, I imagine it might have been for them as well.

With one last wave, we leave behind the safety of the courtesan house stables and begin making our way down the well-worn path leading towards the next town, which will also put us one step closer to Farwen Forest.

Chapter Twelve

Aren

Smoke. So much smoke that my lungs scream at the need for oxygen. Heat. A heat so intense that with one's eyes closed it would be easy to imagine they were standing in the depths of the hells. Screams. Screams so loud, so pleading, that you know without a doubt the sound will linger in your soul for the rest of your existence. Flames. Fiery whirlwinds of magically conjured flames rising in columns from every direction, licking at everything in their path.

Consuming building and flesh alike.

Even stone begins to crumble under the fire’s hunger, its need to destroy.

All that is the first thing that always greets me when the memory brought back to life in my nightmares takes hold. The brief reprieve had been short lived it seems. Pity.

My own screams join in with the deafening shrieks surrounding me, unable to hold them back even knowing I’m in a dream. That it isn’t real. At least not right now.

A large calloused hand clamps over my mouth, the only thing able to stifle the noise. A hand that has almost always brought comfort, now adding to my terror. My father’s face, already dark skin now soot-covered and blistering on one side, staring down at me with determination in his piercing violet eyes.

With a gloved hand, leather scorched and smoking, he pulls a tattered piece of paper from beneath his obsidian armor, the only thing seemingly not affected by the flames. He presses it into my hands, forcing my fingers to close around the paper when they don’t immediately obey. Instinctually, I look down and see it's an intricately detailed sketch of a young human boy. I don’t need for him to give me further instructions.

Even though I’m not even to my seventh year yet, he's trained me well.

He doesn’t say a word until I’ve activated the runes he’d carved into my flesh two years prior. The burn of them now only a dull ache compared to the intense agony they’d first brought when used.

“Do not let anyone see your true face. Do not return here.” Tears well up in his dark red eyes. “Be strong, my daughter.”

Without another word, Lord Zarathi, King of Amzarath, my father, gives me a kiss on the top of my head that lingers long enough for me to know it will be the last time I will ever see him. And then he turns, running from the room.

My screams follow him. Even as his second in command, Sir Rynheim scoops me into his arms, throwing me over his shoulder before sprinting down corridor after corridor. The glass of every window we pass is either already shattered or raining shards of glass on us as he runs. My throat burns, torn raw by both my agonized screams and the heat of the flames around us both.

After what feels like forever, we make it to the stables. In my dreams it’s untouched by fire, the only difference from my memory. Reality had left it crumbled and charred, the horses blessedly having been set loose when the fires first began.

Save for one. My father’s war horse, Razoni.

Sir Rynheim snatches the reins from the stablehand I never learned the name of. A regret I still live with to this day. I’m tossed onto the large animal’s back before the warrior leaps up behind me, the horse already galloping out of the slowly collapsing barn before he’s even fully in the saddle. Sometimes, if I’m fortunate, the dream stops here.

Tonight, is not one of those nights.

The well-trained beast ignores it all. The flames licking at his feathered legs, his speed the only thing keeping them from catching fire. The burning bodies littering the streets, the smell of charred flesh so strong that if Sir Rynheim hadn’t been keeping his free hand covering my mouth I would have vomited. Instead, I’m forced to swallow down the bile, hoping I don't choke on it. Even as fiery debris falls in his path, Razoni expertly leaps and dodges it all.

Father had never allowed me to ride him before, no matter how many times I’d begged.

We don’t head toward the gates surrounding the palace, instead weaving our way to the small escape tunnel only my father’s inner-most circle knew of. Large enough for a single horse and rider to fit through. Enchanted to collapse after being used.

A final sob rips its way from my throat as we exit on the other side, the sound drowned out by collapsing stone and the creaking of iron. Razoni’s steps still don’t falter. Nostrils flaring, chest heaving, he carries us into the edges of the forest surrounding Amzarath. Galloping past tree after tree, moving so quickly I’m unable to truly focus my vision.

Until he suddenly slides to a stop, his front legs leaving the ground as a large wolf darts into his path.

No matter how many times I’m forced to relive this hellish nightmare, this memory, I can never hold back the terrified whimpers. Not when the lone wolf is then joined by another, and another. Each one’s fur more blood-soaked than the last. Each one snapping its sharp teeth at Razoni’s legs, dark blood dripping from their mouths as well.

A burst of light catches them off guard for the briefest moment. A large twisting horn now protruding from the center of my father’s horse’s head. His unicorn’s head. A legend, turned myth, now turned our only hope of salvation.