Crown of Cinders (Imdalind #7)(32)

Boring my eyes into him, I let a smile curl my lips back over my teeth, a look that leached into him with the tiniest of flinches.

“Yes, my king,” he whispered, bowing his head with one last glance before he ran back into the night.

“Where is Damek going in such a hurry?” Ovailia asked as she emerged from the cloud of ash and smoke Damek had disappeared into. “To get a pail of water?”

Even in flames and smoke, she was perfect. I had torn from the room, grabbing only my blood-soaked cape. She had dressed to the nines, complete with bright fire-red heels and skintight jeans.

I swallowed, gritting my teeth, keeping my magic restrained tightly against me unless she attempted something.

“I sent him to find the three bastards,” I growled, turning back toward the flames, away from her.

“The usurpers.” She spat the word with as much malice as I felt. “Do you think it was them?”

“Sight has shown me them standing in these flames, Ovailia. Do you really wish to question my ability?”

With one sidelong glance, I put her in her place. Her jaw tightened as she scowled at me, her steps slowing enough that I easily outstripped her.

“Why don’t you get a pail of water, Ovailia, if you think it would help?” I didn’t turn back to see her reaction, and I didn’t give her any other instruction. I continued forward, picking up my pace to a run as I caught up to the horde of people.

Hundreds were running around, pulling Chosen from the tents, attempting to heal them. They stood, ash covering their heads and shoulders, magic stretching in an attempt to extinguish the flames.

It was when someone really did run forward with a pail of water, throwing the tiny amount of water on the wall of smoke and flame that I knew what we were facing.

It wasn’t fire set with heat and tinder. It was magic, ignited with ability, shielded by a strength I hadn’t seen for a while.

It wasn’t fire meant to kill; it was fire meant to test the ability of those in the camp.

No, meant to test me.

Unsurprising, given with what the usurpers had been doing since I had marched the remains of Edmund onto that stage. Testing me. Testing my ability. Finding the cracks in a Drak.

Fools. There were none. I had been born from the mud. I was the perfection of power. It was a matter of time before they found that out.

They might have escaped the genocide I had staged in the hall, but they wouldn’t live long. All I needed to do was find the perfect way to attack, to teach them a lesson.

“Ovailia!” I called, standing still as screams and smoke and flame engulfed the air around me.

The heat of the flames licked my skin, igniting the strength of the magic within it. It permeated the air, the magic that controlled it hidden under the heat. I felt it in waves of anger and malice that matched my own, beating amid me in knots that tensed my jaw.

“Yes,” Ovailia spoke from behind me, out of arm’s reach, as if that would save her from my wrath.

“Come here.”

There was a moment of hesitation, the sound of screams and fire still echoing before the crunch of her heels against dirt and ash echoed over it. Her steps brought her right before me.

She stood with her hands firmly on her hips, her hair billowing behind her. Eyes flashing dangerously as she gazed at me, her disgust at being seen in such a state a dire warning that I let roll off my back with the tiniest of smiles.

I did love her when she was like that: defiant, angry, powerful.

This was beautiful.

This was the femininity that I desired.

“Do you feel it?” I asked her, prodding at her ability as I took a step closer, letting my magic free from where I had captured it, letting it run around her, taunt her.

She felt it at once, her hands tensing against her hips as her eyes narrowed. “Feel what?”

She wasn’t amused.

My smile deepened. I loved playing with my food.

“The power in the flames, the strength of the magic that has created them.”

Her eyes widened at that, the unexpected answer slapping her in the face.

Taking two quick steps toward her, I pulled her into me. Her magic continued to swirl through the air as she caught sight of what I and a handful of others had realized.

“Pekelny,” she gasped, exhilarated horror echoing back at me. “Fire bred from hell.”

“It seemed fitting that a devil would bring fire for me.” I kept my voice low as I leaned into her, my magic running wild in its attempt to connect with hers. Doing my best to control it, to keep it close enough to Ovailia that her better judgment was compromised, I pressed my lips against her neck. I trailed them over her skin before coming to a rest on the hollow of her ear.

“I want you to put it out.” The words were seductive, but she reacted as if they were poison, trying to pull away from me in shock, only to find my arm wrapped around her waist like an iron bar.

“You can’t be serious, Sain,” she retorted after recognizing her prison. “No one can put out pekelny.”

“I can,” I whispered, pulling away enough that she could see the power and warning in my eyes. I wanted her to feel it under her skin as my magic ran over her like silk. “But I don’t want them to know that just yet.”

Her eyes widened in further shock before the fa?ade she always wore slipped back into place. The disgruntled mask crumpled her features until she was nothing more than an old woman with a hatred for all things living.