Page 2 of Ashborne Phoenix

“Voski… please. You can trust me,” I whispered, hoping that hearing me would break the spell that was glazing his eyes and turning his limbs rigid.

And for a moment, I thought it had been the right thing.

Voski blinked and inhaled sharply, as if he’d come out of a trance. And his expression smoothed.

But then his face went blank.

As that tidal wave of terror reached its peak, instead of crashing over the bond, it disappeared.

In a blink, he went from chittering terror, to… nothing.

I frowned as he lifted his free hand to remove my fingers from his neck, and drew back, straightening, putting space between us, though we still held each other’s hands.

Yet, even with that link, I thought I’d lost him, was about to reach for him again, but he took a deep breath and everything that I’d sensed in him through the bond went quiet. Like a door had been shut on a noisy room.

“Voski, what—”

“I’ll tell you. All of it,” he whispered, but his tone was dead. “But I need you to listen to me, Grace. And not interrupt. I need you to just listen.”

I nodded, suddenly more afraid, because I couldn’t sense anything from him at all. As if the bond had been cut. Yet there was no pain. No tension. Just… nothing.

Then his Adam’s apple bobbed, and when he began to speak, all my confusion was erased.

Only to be replaced by sheer, soul-sucking horror.

All Hail the Heir

SOUNDTRACK: Innocence by Nathan Wagner

~ VOSKI ~

I was ten years old the first time I asked myself if I was evil.

Ten years of being smiled at by adults every time I stepped into a room.

Ten years of having my needs and desires prioritized over any other children present.

Ten years of education that centered on how special, unique, and powerful I had been made.

Ten ignorant, naïve years of being shown that screams were normal, silence was a virtue, and any behavior was acceptable in the pursuit of power if you could win.

My parents lived what they spoke. They used others to increase themselves—then used their power to provide for all… or so I believed. Through the eyes of a child, they appeared lauded, admired, and strong.

When I was five, I wanted to be my father.

When I was seven and still unaware of sex, I wanted to marry my mother.

So, at ten, when Mother spoke with an edge of thrill in her tone about the events planned for my birthday, and Father smiled as he commented it was time I received the things I deserved, I believed them.

I barely slept the night before, my head spinning with the carousel of gifts I might receive—I prayed it was the liver-chestnut stallion with the flaxen mane and tail I’d watched snort and prance at the cattle sale and begged my father to buy for me. Our herd manager, Torr, had heard my childish plea and laughed, chiding me that the beast was too much for a weak man, let alone a child.

But, I protested, I was special.

I was powerful.

And I was about to turn ten.

My father smiled, but shot one of his dark glares at Torr. It gave me hope.