Heir of Cinders [FADING EMBERS #1] - ON HOLD

25.1 - Mist

Curses! Faisuri spat in her mind. Curse this! Curse the world and its grandmother!

Everything had gone smoothly up to that point. The line had been cast and the king had taken the bait — hook, line, and sinker. All Faisuri had to do was reel him into the blinding light from the dark depths he had sunk — a light that he could mistake for the sun's brilliant rays, only to find that it had been her all along who held the torch.

She would be his friend, his trusted ally in the dark hallways where they loitered, maybe even his salvation. She recognized the cloud of loneliness that plagued the young king, to be surrounded with so many others yet feel segregated all the same. She knew the thoughts that ran through his mind that night. "I am the one and only king," he would think to himself. "The burden is mine to carry alone. Nobody else would understand because they are not the king."

Oh, she understood that very well. After all, she had been there herself.

Even after Jonathan had taken her hand and pulled her out of that nightmare, even when the Raines had taken her in, the scenes of that night were like scars on her mind — slowly fading over the years, but never vanishing. Like scars, they hold the subconscious memory of the injury that had been inflicted. Back when the wound had still been fresh in her heart, young Faisuri had been desperate for someone to be able to reach out to her and relieve her of the pain.

Jonathan, Daud, Aunt Farisa, Uncle Allister, her governess, her nursemaid Irayani... none of them could ever really understand her affliction.

Which was to be expected. They had never been in her shoes. Everyone knew the Mist was to be feared, that those who were swallowed by it were never seen again. She was the sole known survivor. A living contradiction.

And perhaps, even now, she was still walking down that lonely path, all on her own. The fact that she was here, again, was a testament to that.

Why now? She asked silently to anyone who would listen, robbed again of her voice in a frigid, shapeless world of torment. Did the gods even exist in this wretched place?

Faisuri had an inkling to the answer — one that she refused to acknowledge. Was this her punishment for trying to take advantage of another lonely soul (a king, no less) for her personal benefit?

No, it could not be punishment. She had been forcefully thrown into this place for as long as she could remember. Although, recently, she found herself back in this hellish realm more often than usual.

"She's back," the mouthless forms murmured. Their words were like acid dripping into her ears. "She can't stay away for long. She will join us soon."

There was a hint of vindictive pleasure amidst their morose voices, as if their personal suffering was slightly alleviated by the notion that she would join them in their not-so-merry band of woeful souls. Even after sixteen years of going in and out of this hazy world, Faisuri could not determine the nature of its dreary inhabitants. Whatever they were, one thing she did know for sure was that she did not want to spend eternity as one of them — as a formless being who knew no joy, bringing only negativity to those unfortunate enough to be there.

This time, however, anger fueled her resistance. The unseen claws that raked over her exposed skin no longer caused her to convulse. A sort of dark triumph blazed in her eyes. The formless creatures must have seen it, too, for their frozen grip on her faltered. Faisuri had never known a shred of respite, so their sudden vulnerability slapped her in the face.

In this seemingly endless tug-of-war that had gone on for sixteen years of her life, was she finally winning?

Just as she had started to dare to hope, the entire world tilted sideways, sending her tumbling onto the cold, hard nothingness below her feet. The 'ground', which Faisuri had always taken for granted, gave way beneath her. She fell, engulfed by the fog, drowning in it. Her invisible limbs flailed wildly, attempting to find something solid to latch onto for support. It was a foolish endeavor — there was nothing material in this accursed place. There was only the thick gray haze, swallowing her up whole.