“How do you manage to look glum even when you’re surrounded by the most beautiful women in all of Sōwilō?”
I impale a pickle with a small fork before casting a bored glance at my brother. Warwick is dressed in his finest regalia consisting of a cavalry jacket in our colors, a black minotaur fur capelet slung over one shoulder, and various other fineries from around the Kingdom. For the special occasion he doesn’t keep his wings hidden, as they’re magnificently splayed on his back, a vision of amber, bronze and imperial red.
I must be dressed in a similar fashion, though I can't be bothered to check. Minus the wings, obviously. As servants prepared us for tonight’s ball, my mind was everywhere but on the event that had the whole fort buzzing for days.
The annual mythical coalition council is being held in Sōwilō this year, with eminent leaders from all species and countries coming to forge alliances or attempt to overcome feuds. Father decided to start off with a bang, throwing a massive reception that shan’t fail to impress. He also has high hopes that Warwick and I will find ourselves a pair of fiancées tonight.
Yet in the three days since I wandered back from Sōlenz, I can count on one hand the times I’ve thought about the ball. My attention has been engaged… elsewhere.
Not on Thyra, the daughter the Ōþala King tried to introduce to me. I attempted to make eye contact with the one person who knows what it feels like to be human in a family of phoenixes, but her focus never left the floor. Most likely timid due to the rotten blow fate has dealt her. All it takes is a glimpse of that violet gaze, striking but churning with shame, to know that I don’t want to end up like her.
Yet the other prospects that are presented to me, each far better than Thyra, fail to catch my interest as well.
Strange thing, because I spent my whole life yearning for an opportunity like this. A chance to meet a woman worthy to be a phoenix’s partner. One whose mythical nature runs deep in her blood, whose beauty rivals all others.
One who can save me. Who can make me strong in Father’s eyes. Because she’ll have powers that inspire respect, a family lineage that will consolidate our state. With her at my arm, no-one would dare look down upon me again.
As I twirl my appetizer between my fingers, pondering about my strange lack of enthusiasm, Warwick nudges me and jerks towards a tall black-haired woman.
“Or from around the world, for that matter. Did you notice her? She’s the Princess of Nezemab, and she’s been ogling you for ten minutes straight.” He grabs some food from the banquet and promptly begins to imitate me with a devilish smile. “If I knew glaring at a pickle would capture the eye of a pretty Sphinx like her, I would’ve started sooner.” Warwick nudges me forward. “Go ahead! Talk to her.”
My brother’s shove is mighty enough to send me staggering to the woman’s side. Recognition strikes me as I take in her gold-spun gown and lapis lazuli jewelry, a turquoise more vivid than the southern shores of Sōwilō.
Tabia, the King of Nezemab’s beloved daughter and the uncontested goddess of the Nile.
I never saw her in person until now, but I certainly heard a lot about her. People whisper about Tabia’s mightiness as a Sphinx even beyond her Kingdom’s borders, and her beauty has become the stuff of legends. I can now attest that the rumors are true.
Because Tabia is majestic, simply put. Superiority is etched into every fiber of her being, from the proud tilt of her chin to the elegance with which she carries herself. She must be nearly as tall as me, a faint trail of leopard-like spots lead to claws that scream power, her unwavering golden eyes are unequivocally mystical. The slinky material of her dress clings to her curves, more full and tantalizing than I could dream of.
“I’ve travelled a long way here, and now it seems the trip may finally be worth it,” she speaks like a Queen.
I sheepishly scratch the back of my head, unsure of what to say. “Oh yes? How did you, um, travel?”
Tabia’s shapely brows shoot high as she appraises me coldly. “With the flow of the Nile, of course. Then we sailed through the Red Sea, and then the Dead Sea…”
“Dead?” I echo none too brightly. Something about her eyes puts me off. They’re like gemstones – vivid but dreadfully hard.
“Not because any massacre took place there, unfortunately,” she utters so calmly the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Its name comes from the fact that the lake has so much salt, plants and animals cannot flourish.”
“Huh.”
So the Sōlenz isn’t the only of its kind. I store the information away, only to realize Tabia is awaiting a more elaborate response.
She’s perfect. Everything I’ve ever yearned for. And Father has spoken many times of making an alliance with Nezemab, the long-standing beacon of the supernatural world in the Middle East.
Yet I find myself awkwardly bidding farewell and walking back towards my brother, my pickle still untouched.
“Nah,” I inform him hastily. “Not really my type, I guess.”
And is a scrawny human with hair as colorless as a kitchen mouse and curves as non-existent as the Barrens plains more your type?
I frown at the snarky little voice in my head. Isobel isn’t without charm. Her big brown eyes have a way of drawing a person in like a fish on a hook. Besides, since my bizarre and quite disastrous visit three days ago, I know what she feels like in my arms – beautiful.
And that makes me frown again. I shouldn’t be mooning after Isobel like I’ve been doing ever since she pushed me away by the lake. I shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place.
“Blazing ashes, Dane, do you ever stop scowling?”
I ignore my brother and finally stuff the pickle in my mouth.
“I get what you’re talking about though,” Warwick eventually sighs after a few sips of malt. “To be honest, I’m hoping to meet the real deal tonight.” At my quizzical look, he adds: “my mate.”
I raise a brow at that tidbit of information. “Really? That sounds very definite for someone who couldn’t stay faithful to one Cerberus dog more than a day.”
The memory makes Warwick chuckle. When he was little he owned a three-headed pet, but switched allegiances so often that our father had to give the creature away due to the rivalry it caused between the poor hounds.
“I just pass time,” he says with a wave of his hand. “But ultimately I want to find my mate. They say it can take centuries to run into that special one though, so I figured I’d make the wait less tedious.”
I nod slowly, my mind still on that pale, almost ethereal figure I spied in the lake while she bathed. There’s no denying Isobel does funny things to my brain. To my heart too. When we kissed I breathed more heavily than if I’d practiced sparring two whole hours, and sometimes the mere thought of her makes my chest feel tight. Could it be…?
No. The mere idea is preposterous. What I’m feeling is merely lust, induced by the fact that she’s the first female I’ve seen unclothed.
It sure was a pretty sight though.
“How do you think you know?” I grunt in a voice that’s a bit too husky to my ears. I clear my throat. “When you’ve found your mate, I mean.”
Warwick shrugs. “I guess you just feel it, is all,” he drawls as he fans out his wings proudly at a passing group of giggling women. “It’s part of our phoenix’s nature. It’s not a matter of knowing. It’s instinct.”
My stomach drops at the reminder of my current state. Uncle Thorsten gave me my refill of potion this afternoon, and I already swallowed half a bottle. Not that it changed anything.
I’m still Dane, as human as I’ve been since the day I was born.
Perhaps I’ll never have a mate, that pure love no mortal can experience. Human love, I’ve been told, is only a feeble copy of the absolute bond that ties two fated beings together. Humans can love someone, but they may also love another. However as far as mates go, there’s only ever one.
And perhaps there’ll come a day when I die, while my father, my mother, Warwick… They will stay perpetually the same, forever reborn from their ashes.
The humiliation of it makes me clutch my glass so tightly I fear it will crack.
“But ultimately,” Warwick continues unperturbed, “I’ve heard the one surefire way to know is when your mate’s in danger. If that person is truly your other half, the phoenix in you will sense the slightest threat, deep inside your bones.”
I let that thought settle in. After words that were relatively deep for my brother, Warwick’s seriousness drops as he casts an appraising glance at the party.
“I think I’ll save myself the trouble of putting every female in this room in a life or death situation though, and go have some fun anyhow.” Pointing a stern finger my way, he orders: “You too. Have fun.”
I’m halfway through an eye roll when a burly man invades my vision.
“Dane,” he utters in a booming voice, “Last time I saw you, you looked like you’d barely hatched out of the egg. Remember?”
My gaze flies to the tresses of snakes piled on his head. The sight gave me nightmares as a child, to my father’s dismay.
“I certainly do,” I rasp with difficulty.
“But look at you now,” the Gorgon King continues, “a proud rooster if I ever saw one.”
The bird analogies don’t sit too well but I let it pass, because arguing with a serpent shifter is never a good idea. Thankfully this descendent of Medusa wears his enchanted spectacles tonight, a recent invention that allows his kind to mingle with other species, or else I would be turned to stone the instant our gazes cross.
“I haven’t come out as a phoenix yet.”
He dispells my concerns with a great sweep of the arm. “That will come, no doubt about it! In the meantime, I’d love to introduce you to my daughter, Amaru.”
I haven’t yet had time to see the young lady in question when a funny feeling settles in my stomach.
This is it. This is what you’ve always wanted.
Because the serpent shifter looks at me like I’m used to seeing people look at my brother. Admiration. Interest. Respect.
Could it be my father is the only one who doesn’t see me that way?
Though I still haven’t become a phoenix, I’m not the same scrawny, skittish boy I once was. Now I can look at the slithering snakes in the eye, and they no longer make me want to crawl under the nearest furniture available.
“It’s my pleasure,” I say as I lay a customary kiss on the Gorgon daughter’s hand. “Amaru, you look stunning this evening.”
And it’s no lie. Her serpent hair, considerably more graceful than her father’s, is tressed into an elaborate plait. The frames she wears to thwart her powers are also much finer, more like a piece of jewelry than a shield against her curse. Amaru is a classic beauty for all but her reptilian mane and spectacles, with lush green eyes and an alluring grin.
But her skin feels cold where Isobel’s was soft and warm. Amaru’s hand is hard and unyielding. The fine bones of Isobel’s fingers are as human and brittle as could be, yet they were the ones I felt fluttering over me – my face, my chest, and down below…
“I’ve been desperately curious to meet the Sōwilō Prince they keep in the shadows,” the viper beauty susurrates. “All we ever hear about is Warwick. Does the King hide you away because he fears he’ll never marry his eldest son if we see you?”
Before I can tell her how far off the mark she is, the Gorgon King chuckles and excuses himself.
“I’ll let you two be then.” He walks away, but not without turning around one last time with a mirthful beam: “A serpent and a phoenix… That’s a great match, if you ask me.”
I turn my attention back to Amaru. She’s still smiling, but it doesn’t give me that strange, fuzzy feeling inside.
“Would you like me to show you the gardens?”
She winds her arm around mine. “Please. Let’s get away from the crowd.”
I lead her outside, but I soon realize that the greenery doesn’t interest Amaru in the slightest. Her emerald eyes are focused on me as I make small talk – or to be precise, on my lips.
“I’ve heard that the ones who manifest their natures the latest are always the most fierce,” she interrupts my tedious description of Østrōm’s waterwork system with an admiring glance at my build. “Judging by the strength you acquired as a human, you’ll make an incredible phoenix.”
Out of the blue, I hear Isobel’s quieter voice murmur those strange words weeks ago. Real strength is about how much hurt you can endure, and how you can turn it to your advantage.
I smile despite myself at the memory. “I still have a lot to learn,” I confess. “I’ve gained a lot of bulk because I train every day, but that’s only ever practice. I’ve never yet been in the arena. I’ve never been brought to the ground to see if I can stand up again.”
Amaru sends me a skeptical look. “When you walk into that arena, never let your brother bring you down in the first place. You’ve lost the battle the minute you fall, even if the victory goes to you once the points are tallied.”
I frown. I could’ve said the exact same thing, because falling can only ever be weak, and what matters is to never drop one’s armor in front of anyone to show what truly lies inside.
But maybe I’m a coward, because deep down I know I won’t be capable of snatching only victories without a single defeat. I’ve lost more than once – I lost to my brother in all ways that count since the day I was born. If I were a man like Warwick or our father, I wouldn’t ache so dreadfully inside with every disappointed look. I probably wouldn’t lose to begin with.
It’s at that moment that I realize I can’t think like Amaru does anymore, or like every person I’ve ever met, save for Isobel. Not because I believe that praising power above all is wrong, but because I’ve got too much to lose.
I’ll never be as mighty as I yearn to be. Even if my phoenix finally decides to poke its head out, all the years I spent in pain won’t disappear. I’ll never be as hard on the outside as my father, if inside I’m writhing and raw. That’s something I’ve tried to change, but I don’t think I can.
Because there was a time when I wasn’t battling a raging volcano in my chest. With Isobel. Our encounters, in all their outlandish, awkward, flawed glory, make me feel… right.
My considerations are cut short when I notice Amaru has approached dangerously. Her striking face hovers no further than Isobel’s did three days ago.
“You’re a bit tongue-tied. How about I help you untie it?”
I gulp, and there’s no denying the bolt of lust that courses through my veins. Amaru is the most attractive female I’ve ever seen up close.
But what if I go down this path, what if I taste her luscious lips, what if Amaru – or any other woman at this ball for that matter – and I became engaged?
She could wait years, and I wouldn’t become a phoenix. Eventually she would just become another pair of eyes with disappointment lurking in them, no matter how pretty the color.
Or even worse, judging by the power Amaru holds in that green gaze. For all my reluctance to stay human, I have to admit a mortal life is a step up from spending the rest of my years as a statue.
And even if I were to reveal myself as a phoenix someday. I can’t live my life dreading the slightest failure for fear of losing my partner’s love and respect.
I place my hands on Amaru’s shoulders and back away.
“I’m not too talkative most of the time,” I tell her in a low voice. “It didn’t mean anything more than that.”
The serpents in her hair actually hiss their tongues at me, and I barely repress a flinch.
“Nothing at all?”
Beneath the hard sheen of anger I see the pain of rejection in her jade irises. I wish I could comfort her, but I know that would only sting her pride further. Our kind is simply not raised to accept sympathy as anything but an insult.
“No,” I say firmly. “This isn’t what I was looking for tonight.”
Amaru jerks away and bats my hands off. Her fingers rest on her spectacles, and for an instant I fear that she’ll turn me to stone. I begin to shield my gaze, but she readjusts her eyewear a fraction of a second before it’s too late.
“Then I have no more time to waste with a chicken Prince,” she huffs before storming back to the fort.
And with her departure, I feel oddly liberated.
I also know what’s left to do.
I have to find Isobel. Now.
Since I’m already outdoors, sneaking into the forest isn’t difficult. I carefully divest my princely outfit until I wear no more than a linen undershirt and trousers, figuring anything extra isn’t fit for a midnight stroll through the woods.
As I stumble through the spiny branches in the dark, it suddenly occurs to me that Isobel probably won’t be too pleased to see me. Not only will I be knocking on her door at the dead of night, but she seemed royally annoyed when we parted ways. Last time I obviously went a bit overboard – thankfully having my backside thrown onto hard rock doused my ardor before I did anything to Isobel that she didn’t want.
I can still turn back… But no. Selfish I may be, but I desperately need Isobel right now. I need her because I gulped down half of my gourd of potion, and the agony of it still burns in my stomach as a result. I need her because she’s warm and bright, when everyone else tonight filled me with dread. I need her because I’ve finally realized what's wrong with my life, and I’m not strong enough to change it by myself.
But most importantly, I need to tell her that…
Is that Isobel?
I frown in consternation as I spot a slim figure on the roof of her cottage, the highest point visible for miles in the steppes surrounded by jagged cliffs.
“Isobel?” I pant the instant I’m within her hearing range. “What are you doing up there?”
Straw rustles and all of a sudden a pale face peers down at me. It’s contorted with outrage and her eyes look as large as a pair of eggs, but the sight makes my chest tighten.
“And you? What on Earth are you doing here at this hour?”
My pulse quickens when I notice she isn’t wearing her usual thick, sack-like dresses. She seems to be covered in nothing more than a thin nightgown, and I can glimpse the subtle swell of her breasts in the moonlight.
“I had to see you because…” I swallow with difficulty. “Last time, I said I came to show you my wrist. It wasn’t true.”
I know I’m not making much sense, but is it so bad that it makes Isobel’s face drop? My heart twists. I’ve witnessed hints of her sadness before, fleeting flashes of something deep when she talks at times, but I’ve never seen her look downright miserable before. She’s usually either sprightly, or miffed at me. Anything else just twists at my heart.
“Dane,” she sighs in a whisper, but in the silence of the Sōlenz I can capture her every word. “Why do you keep coming back? There’s nothing here for you.”
I find myself climbing the wall until I’m on her thatched roof. It isn’t too high up here, but I fret she may fall and break her neck. I catch her arm just in case.
“You’re here,” I respond simply. “Isn’t that reason enough?”
Her eyes grow more impossibly large, and there’s no missing the red splotches across her cheeks even in the dark. As I study her in silence, I wonder how I could conceivably believe she isn’t beautiful. I was probably trying to come up with excuses to stay away from her since she’s human, I eventually conclude.
And indeed, she couldn’t look more mortal at this moment, especially after all the supernaturals I saw at the ball. Isobel’s traits hold none of our preternatural perfection. There’s a slight asymmetry to her face, her eyes are way out of proportion with her trim lips and there’s a certain awkwardness to her nose that’s a bit too marked on her otherwise delicate features.
Yet the combination of all the things that make her, and especially that lively, sparkling gaze take my breath away. Isobel awakens me a thousand times more than all the statuesque beauties I saw tonight.
“Aren’t there any young women where you’re from who live in a place more respectable and accessible than a land everyone calls cursed?” She points to the scratches I sustained from the bushes in the woods. “Obviously coming here is an ordeal. There has to be a more convenient solution, or –”
I cut her short by putting my finger on her mouth. “That’s what I needed to tell you,” I mutter, yearning to taste the spot I’m touching with my lips instead. “That you’ve got it all wrong.”
When I take too long to finish my sentence, she frowns and presses in a muffled voice: “And what could that be?”
I force my gaze back to her eyes, melting inside at their warm brown hue. “You’re the one I want to kiss. Just you.” I let my thumb trail over her cheek, rough granite over silk. “You keep talking about other women as if I have a mountain of them pining after me back home, but that’s not the case. Or even if it were, I wouldn’t have noticed, because you’re the only one I can’t get out of my head.”
Isobel’s irises are steadfast on me, and I hate the doubt I see lurking in them. “But it’s not the same for me, Dane.” She gestures at the dark and deserted landscape around us. “You’re literally the only living thing in my world, aside from a few fish and shrimps.”
I think of the short but vibrant moments I spent with her – Isobel laughing, Isobel doctoring me with a fork and a few yards of gauze, Isobel coming up with a silly deal to kiss. Compared to the rigid, tense days I’ve led at Østrōm, it’s Isobel’s world that’s full of life and color. Not mine.
“I think we may be more similar on that front than you believe, minus the fish and the shrimps.”
And with that, I press my lips to hers for the second time.