Daughter of the Frozen Flame

THERE were whispers and hasty bows as Xylia and Taiden followed a small servant boy down the sharp hallways. Xylia hated feeling the eyes upon her, wishing more than ever that she had her cloak to hide under. She tried pretending that the bows and giggles were for Taiden, like they had been back in Lyris, but the Prince might have well have been invisible despite how closely he stayed by her side. His knuckles knocked against hers apparently unintentionally, but Xylia still glanced across at him each time it happened. Each time she was met with a stoic expression on Taiden’s face. It was then she remembered that he was used to all of this. He grew up at court, knowing when it was necessary to wear a mask of your own face and when it was okay to draw back the curtains and simply be yourself. Xylia was raw, vulnerable and doing nothing to hide that. She knew she looked as tired as she felt, and while Taiden looked every bit like the prince he was, she looked like the mutt she had grown up believing herself to be. She even expected to glance behind herself and see a trail of dirt where her new boots had tread.

By the time the young boy opened the double doors to a large dining hall, Xylia had absolutely no idea how to return to her chambers if she wanted to. The palace was like a maze, with hallways twisting into mirrors of themselves. The King of Fallycia stood to greet them, his crown upon his short and tidy chestnut hair, while the cloak of sapphire hung over a cream doublet. Allela and Julius followed suit, both void of armour and dressed in fashionably simple woollen tunics and trousers. Allela had a blue sash across her front, to which a silver dragon pin was affixed.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well?”
“It was a welcome rest, your majesty.” Taiden lied with a perfected smile, bowing as best as he could with the bandages still tight beneath his own clothes.
“I don’t even know his name.” Xylia whispered to Taiden, angling her head so no one but he could hear her awkward confession. “How am I supposed to look at him and think of him as my father when I don’t even know his name?” She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, rough fingers brushing the diamond scar there.
Taiden moved subtly, making it appear as though he was just guiding Xylia to her seat and playing the gentleman. “King Eirwyn Alesandre Alewyne, the third son of ice.” The last word came out in a breath, washing over her ear as he pushed her chair in gently beneath her.
Xylia gazed over at her father while Taiden took his seat beside her. Having a name didn’t make it any easier. The pieces didn’t magically fall into place like she had hoped. The man was still a stranger to her, even if he looked so much like her.
She heaped food onto her plate, but scarcely touched any of it.

“Perhaps we might go for a walk around the palace gardens? Just the two of us.” Xylia jumped at the king’s thick voice, and Taiden hovered in the doorway, his tawny eyes fixed on hers until she nodded at him to follow Julius and Allela.
“I’m still tired.” She tried, though it really wasn’t a lie.
“I understand, but it’s been so long.” She heard the footsteps on the marble, and then felt the presence at her back. “I’ve thought a million times about what I might say when I saw you again, but none of them feel quite right now.”
“I’ve never thought about it. My father was as dead as my mother was.” The words tumbled from her lips before Xylia could stop them, and she felt the disappointment resonating from behind her.
There was a silence in the air, thick and heavy, and she kept her back to the king out of fear of what she might see if she turned around. Would he have tears in his eyes? Anger? She felt angry, but it was quiet, humming low and deep inside of her.
“I understand you never knew about us?” When Eirwyn finally spoke again, those were the words he carefully chose. Us not me.
“None of it.” Xylia confessed in a whisper. “Not until my uncle wrote that letter.”
“You had no notion at all that you were different?”
She spun around then, eyes alight with sparks of fury. “Of course I did! I was raised knowing I was different, but I was told it was a bad thing. To be different in the village of The Draca is like being a dog with fleas. I was a sickness, a plague on the proud people.” She laughed harshly and then shook her head. “If they could see me now they would still find a reason to hate me.” Her hand came up to touch where Skandar had burnt her the day Taiden had come to the village. Thankfully, his grasp had not scarred her.
Eirwyn looked at her with such sorrow and grief that Xylia had to turn away again. She didn’t want his pity. That was not why she had told him her story. She was just angry. She had always been so angry, and now it threatened to explode out of her every pore if given half the chance.
“I am so very sorry that you had to suffer through that, Xylia. It was not the life I wanted for you.”
“Let me guess; you wanted jewels and gowns for me?”
He frowned, casting his gaze away from her and to the table where the remains of breakfast lay waiting to be cleared away.
“That’s not the life I want for me.” Xylia told him. “It’s not a life I can have.”
“How do you know that? You’ve never lived it.” He said gently, running his hand over the clothed back of the chair.
“Look at me. I’m scarred and coarse. I’m not built for silk and gems.” She pulled the dagger from the sheath at her hip. “I hunted every day for the last five years. I’m not built for balls and nobility.”
Eirwyn looked sadly at his daughter and let his eyes fall on the blade in her hand. A familiar look came over him and he reached out carefully. “May I?” He asked in a soft whisper.
Xylia relented, handing over her cherished dagger after just a moment’s hesitation.
“I gave this to your mother on the day she left for Lyris. A parting gift to keep her safe, though I hoped she would never find need to use it.” Eirwyn explained, turning the knife over in his hand, palming the hilt tenderly. “Kiava was fierce, just like you. She had a warrior’s soul, but a gentle heart. I am surprised to see this again.”
Xylia softened slightly. She couldn’t be angry when she saw the love in his eyes. “My uncle gave it to me. I’ve always carried it.”
“I could have lost both of you that night. I will never understand-“ He stopped, sighing, and handed the dagger back to Xylia. “No. I stopped dwelling a long time ago. Nothing can change the past.”
She slipped the dagger back in its sheath, comforted by the weight resting on her sharp hipbone.
“I understand that this must be difficult for you, Xylia. Changes cannot be expected of you overnight.” He walked towards the door slowly. “But you are the heir to this kingdom, and the people have been waiting for you for seventeen years. Sooner or later, you must rise to your position as Phryensh’a. I will guide you as much as I can, but like me you must learn to let go of the past. It’s a prison cell.” He left Xylia alone in the room to think about his words, but she only felt her resolve harden.
There was no chance of her giving up on the past. Lyris needed defending. Devanna had to be removed from power, and now, she supposed, Empress Loreina was a problem, too. That was her battle, her fight, and there was no chance in all of the kingdoms that she was going to turn her back on that.