Page 126 of The Incendiary

I sleep best when I’m dreaming of you. If I’m lucky enough, it feels like you’re here.

—UNSENT CORRESPONDENCE FROM QUEEN ARYELLA I TO THE BUTCHER OF NYRIDA

393 Years Ago

I was soaked from head to toe. Early winter rain battered down from the harrowing sky in icy torrents. Years ago, exhaustion from a trek like this through the northern Warrich mountains would have been remedied with a stiff glass of whiskey and a few hours of sleep.

Tonight, my back fucking hurt.

I was getting older.

It had been nine years since I last saw her, and time had done nothing to soothe the pain.

A part of me wished for the relief that death would offer. I didn’t want to age another year without her by my side. The moment I saw her, I knew that a life without her would be no life at all. The last nine years proved that true. They had been dull, empty, and altogether horrible. I still barely slept, having grown addicted to resting with her in my arms during the ten days we’d had together.

Her face flickered through my memory. Bright, smiling, and breathtaking. My chest warmed despite the chill. A stark reminder that I couldn’t dream about her if I was dead. I had to hang on.

I still spent a great deal of time convincing myself that I hadn’t imagined those four months of bliss. Her pure love and warmth and light and life. She made me feel joy so divine, I was convinced she was an angel. Subjecting myself to an eternity of remembering her—even if memories were all I ever got—would be better than never knowing her at all. She was my gravity. My reason.

Today, she would have been twenty-seven.

Only she wasn’t. Somewhere, fast asleep, she was nineteen, a resting portrait of angelic perfection and youthful beauty.

My stomach churned. She would always be perfect, but I was running out of time. I likely had already. The note he magically sent me years ago made that clear.

She is asleep at nineteen years old, and she will be for a very long time. Move on. Find someone else. It’s what she would want for you.

—SW

I didn’t move on, and the thought of having anyone but her made me feel sick inside.

I had yet to meet Simeon Whitlock, but I dreaded every correspondence he sent, each attempt to bribe me into giving up my wife. Now, after nearly a decade of hunting for him, I stood outside of a small log cabin surrounded by trees. I’d finally found him, which meant I was closer to finding her.

The crunch of wet snow beneath my boots propelled me forward. I didn’t bother knocking. Something told me he knew I was coming. I threw open the door, barged inside, and looked around. A small kitchen and table. A bed in the corner. A few chairs and a sofa next to a hearth.

The sorcerer sat unbothered in a chair beside the fire with a book in his lap. He had silver hair, nearly white, with spectacles and green eyes identical to my Ella’s. He looked poised and intelligent but thin and weak enough that I could snap him in half if I needed to, magical powers aside. Simeon paused but didn’t look up as he calmly said, “Hello, Smyth.”

“Where is she?” I growled.

He pondered for a moment before looking up and frowning. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction.”

“WHERE IS MY WIFE?”

My roar shook the walls of the small cabin. It took everything in me to not pummel him into a pulp, but he was the only one who knew where she was.

Simeon watched me in wary silence, like he was waiting for something. Eventually, he sighed like I was just a mild irritation. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed, then took the time studying him.

His resemblance to his niece was uncanny. I had never met Christabel, but I imagined she looked much the same. Bright green eyes. Silver-blond hair. The same mild widow’s peak I’d noticed while stroking my fingers through Ella’s hair as she slept. I had been too afraid to miss a single moment, so I’d memorized everything I could.

“I have to say.” Simeon tapped his fingers on his glass before pointing it at me. “I underestimated you. Nine years is a long time to search for some girl you barely knew.”

“Nine years is nothing,” I spat. “And she’s not just some girl. She’s my wife. Where. The fuck. Is. She?”

“Smyth.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands in his lap. “There are plenty of women in this world⁠—”

“There’s only one of her!”