The burning hand, p.1
The Burning Hand, page 1
Other Works
The Twice-Cursed Serpent
The Twice-Cursed Serpent
The Shattered Star
The Burning Hand
The Twisted Sword—A Twice-Cursed Serpent Collection
Twisted Worlds
Within the Darkening Woods (2024)
Copyright © 2023 by Scarlett D. Vine.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Cover by Beautiful Bookcovers by Ivy.
Map by Dewi Hargreaves.
Promotional Art by @nox.benedicta.art, @mariamarcelw, @avoccatt_art, @jessamyart, and @bookishaveril
First edition 2023
Contents
Dedication
Fullpage Image
Author’s Content Note
Title Page
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
48. Chapter 48
49. Chapter 49
50. Chapter 50
51. Chapter 51
52. Chapter 52
53. Chapter 53
54. Chapter 54
55. Chapter 55
56. Chapter 56
57. Chapter 57
58. Chapter 58
59. Chapter 59
60. Chapter 60
61. Chapter 61
62. Chapter 62
63. Chapter 63
64. Chapter 64
65. Chapter 65
66. Chapter 66
67. Chapter 67
68. Chapter 68
69. Chapter 69
70. Chapter 70
71. Chapter 71
72. Chapter 72
73. Chapter 73
74. Chapter 74
75. Chapter 75
76. Chapter 76
77. Chapter 77
78. Chapter 78
79. Chapter 79
80. Chapter 80
81. Chapter 81
82. Chapter 82
Acknowledgements
Final Note
About the Author
To Samantha
Thank you for coming along with me on this journey.
Author’s Content Note
Much like the first two books in The Twice-Cursed Serpent Series, The Burning Hand is an adult novel meant for those over the age of 18. In addition to graphic consensual sexual content and harsh language, there is additional content readers may want to consider before proceeding. This includes—but is very likely not limited to—gore and death, including self-harm. Really, there is a lot of death, and everyone in the story is at risk. Torture, imprisonment, and abuse—both physical and emotional—are depicted, including in the context of a relationship. Sexual assault is referred to in non-graphic detail. There are also references to cannibalism and some rather disturbing things involving eyeballs and other body parts, including tooth consumption (not Bethrian’s finest moment).
However, any cats or dogs depicted in the novel live long and happy lives.
The Burning Hand
Scarlett D. Vine
Parker & Wilson Press, LLC
Prologue
Liuva
The first sensation I ever felt was pain.
I was not born of my divine mother’s body, or so she always told me. But that didn’t mean she didn’t labor for me. That I wasn’t any less treasured as a result. Instead, she brought me into this world piece by piece, forging flesh and bone from other mortals together with her own essence, crafting me strand by strand. Limb by limb.
I was still her child.
The awareness she granted me, a gift from her own soul, awoke at the very moment she fused my first bones together. Those tiny bones were merely a piece of what would become my finger. Unfortunately, even that little bit of connection was enough for me to wake in agony. I existed, and yet I was unmade. Incomplete.
I don’t know how long I existed in that state of agony. Of burning. Of a sense of being bent and twisted, pushed to the point of breaking.
All I remember was that the pain grew as more and more pieces were added to me, and thus gave me more places through which I could suffer. Did suffer. Those unlucky humans she harvested the pieces from were dead and beyond feeling any pain. But not me. Never me. There was no relief.
And then the pain was gone.
And then there was her. Shirla. My mother.
My mother was perfect. Golden. She never said as much to me, she just was. She was my maker—my mother. I was not made into a child’s body, but I saw the world with a pure innocence. I had a mature body with a child’s experience, and the experience of daily life constantly shattered my reality and reforged it. Seeing each animal, tree, and flower was new, each emotion was something I had not experienced before. And my dear mother—my goddess—taught me about each and every thing we encountered.
“Where are they going?” I asked my mother, watching little brown birds dart amongst the trees.
She caressed my shoulder from where she was braiding my long brown hair and took a moment to answer. In those days, gods took their time, because that was one thing they had in abundance. Time. And power. She may have taken a few minutes to answer me. Maybe an hour. It was impossible to know. “Looking for food, my sweet one,” she finally said to me. “Maybe looking for a new place to build a home.”
“Could we find a new home?” I asked. “If we need one.” Even in this idyllic world, I heard rumors that there were creatures and gods that were not our friends. That they would hurt me if they could. I did not understand, but I remembered the pain I endured before. I always feared the pain’s return.
“Do not worry,” Mother said, seemingly reading my mind. “Your home will always be with me. And I will always be with you. I will keep you safe.”
I do not know how long I spent like that, as a child but not a child. My appearance was that of a young human woman, fully grown and in the prime of health. But my inner thoughts were as slow to shift as the cliffs on a shore that were worn away by the tides. How long did it take for me to change, to be complete and mature? Decades? Centuries? Slowly—so slowly—my mind grew until it matched my body.
And through everything Shirla was there, the goddess who was my mother, but not my mother. In those days her relationship to me didn’t matter—I had her love. I had her. The world was a place for me to explore and experience, and I delighted in everything. I played with young gods and sang with the stars, their chorus audible through the clear night. Life in the goddess’s care was a perpetual summer.
And my summer ended the day I met Lyritan.
Chapter 1
Caes
For a god, Lyritan oddly loved humming.
As he rode, walked, ate, and dozed off, the same series of little upbeat tunes emanated from him, like he was perpetually surrounded by bees.
How did Caes know that gods were not normally hummers? Because she had her memories back. All of them. Unfortunately—or fortunately—she wasn’t able to access them at will. Finding the right memory took concentration and time, like digging through a long book for the answer to an obscure question. A book that was disorganized and possibly missing pages. Though things were better now than when she first awoke—thanks to Alair, she was able to focus and not lose herself in the who-what-why that otherwise flitted through her very tired head. She remembered what Lyritan liked—human food and songs, especially ones that involved clapping. And dislikes—he had an intense sense of smell and despised false praise. She needed to remember how to handle Lyritan, for their survival depended on it. For now, she had to ignore that he—and the two goddesses—had neglected to mention that she was likely going to die as a result of their schemes.
With the safety of herself and her friends at stake, she was ab
Emphasis on try.
“Tell me more,” Lyritan said from where he rode on his horse through the forest, pushing his long blond hair out of his angular face. After centuries of knowing him as a curly-haired golden warrior—and even more recently in her dreams—hearing his cadences coming out of a much slimmer body was unexpected. Granted it had only been around sixteen hours, but it was still an adjustment.
“You know it all,” Caes said from where she rode in front of him, shoving aside the rush of anger she carried from Liuva. She needed to focus. When he traveled from Reyvern, Lyritan had brought an extra horse for her, but instead, he insisted that she ride with him, her hands being too injured from her divine fire to handle reins. Of course, Caes would be one to have divine power and be unable to use it. With Caes occupied, Bethrian rode Caes’s horse—as a human, he would have slowed them down if he was forced to go on foot. Lucky Bethrian.
“I don’t know everything.” He gave her a wide smile that sent a stab of pleasure into her, one even Liuva’s anger didn’t dim. What Alair did to her new memories—sending them to a place in her mind so that her time as Liuva felt merely like a long and detailed dream—tempered her physical response. However, it was still there, built into her very nature as one created by the divine. Those crafted by the divine—like Soul Carvers and herself—craved the ones who made them. Even when that craving was extremely inconvenient. “I know you assumed my curse and broke it,” Lyritan said. “But that was merely a year. Only one year in a mortal life. Surely, more happened.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. I want everything from when you assumed my curse up until last night.”
“That is a lot.” She shyly smiled, even though she had turned away and he couldn’t see. Facial expressions affected words.
“Regardless, I want it all. Every detail.”
“You’ve heard it. Seen a lot of it.”
“Not from you.” His hot breath tickled her neck.
Cylis snorted from behind her, walking on foot through the woods. They had stolen horses from Fyrie, but the poor things were exhausted, so they attempted to spare them the extra weight. Caes ignored Cylis and the other men and women plodding and riding behind them, both Lyritan’s men and the rescued Soul Carvers. And Bethrian. One couldn’t forget Bethrian.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll try. Do you really want the details of my research?”
“That isn’t necessary,” the god said. Cylis snorted again.
Miraculously, with no further interruptions from Cylis or anyone else, Caes told Lyritan what had happened to her since she was taken to Malithia as a hostage and assumed the curse. From how she studied everything about curses and gods she could think of, spending countless hours in a dark library with only Soul Carvers for company, to how she earned the ire of Princess Seda, who had tried to murder her—but maybe Seda didn’t try to murder her, since at least one of those attempts was up for debate. Caes left out the details about how Flyntinia was potentially behind the murders and instead blamed jealous courtiers—why bother the god with mere suspicions?
So, her tale continued. She regaled the god with how she went to Lord Bethrian’s estate and found the words of the curse, but then Bethrian tried to kill her—again, that apparently wasn’t what happened. Bethrian enthusiastically shook his head during that part, but remained silent while the god glared. Caes assured the god that Bethrian was entirely safe to stay in her company—she didn’t want him dead—and instead went on to the rest of the story.
Regardless of the murder attempt at the estate, Caes explained how she had to flee into the woods with Cylis, of all people. There, she met up with Alair and eventually made her way back to Glynnith, Malithia’s capital, in time to break the curse. Which she did, by taking her own life.
But then she came back from the dead—the god remembered that part—and was promptly challenged by Seda to a battle for her life. Unfortunately, she won, so she ended up becoming a princess, revealed to everyone that her eyes were not exactly human, and set herself up for a lifetime of courtly misery. That was a long day. The night with Alair that followed was delightful, but that part she left out of the story.
After this, Caes’s attempt to summarize things became even more complicated, since the story veered too close to her dealings with gods. Dealings she didn’t feel like disclosing yet. So, she kept to mundane affairs.
I can’t trust him. He wanted to betray me. He would have killed me.
Quiet, she told herself. Liuva’s—her—hurt feelings wouldn’t help matters, despite how the urges and thoughts from who she had used to be had become harder to ignore in recent hours. Granted “hurt” was a bit of an understatement for what Liuva felt, but Caes had more pressing concerns. Like finishing the damn story.
Instead of telling Lyritan just how much Liuva/she hated him, Caes explained how she and Althain, the emperor’s son, went to Ardinan to allegedly put down a rebellion. This included a short summary of how she was engaged to Althain—again, Caes left out that Althain’s mother, Flyntinia, likely wanted to kill her. Arranged romance aside, Caes’s story veered to how, once back in Ardinan, Desmin, her former betrothed, betrayed her once again by killing Althain and imprisoning her. Though Caes hadn’t remained imprisoned for long, since she escaped Shirla’s/Karima’s temple and into Fyrie by pretending to be contrite, where she was rescued by her Soul Carvers. Once they were on the city streets, the Soul Carvers found her, and they all escaped and defeated some sort of monsters that Desmin had sent after them. Sure, in defeating the monsters Caes accidentally-on-purpose accessed her latent divine power and burned her hands as effectively as if she had rubbed them over an oven. But they lived. That was the important part.
And now, after all that, they were on their way to the Burning Hand for Caes to try to put this whole sordid divine mess behind her. If such a thing was even possible.
When Caes was done with her tale, Lyritan looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve left something out.”
“What do you mean?” Caes gripped the saddle’s pommel, ignoring how her blisters stinged.
“There’s something you didn’t mention, that is, someone.” Lyritan gestured to behind them, where Alair walked beside Cylis, his face as expressionless as the entire time they were in Malithia. A light sheen of sweat was on his face from the exertion, yet he carried himself as composed as a statue. Even now, her heart leapt to see him. Here. So close to her. But her joy was tinged with fear of what Lyritan meant.
Lyritan watched her, watched the torrent of words and plans that no doubt showed on her face. His own expression was unreadable. Did he want her to confess their love? Did he want her to apologize? Maybe it was something else? The horse’s pace underneath them made her struggle to keep her balance at the angle she was in, even as her mind fought for a solution.
“The Mind Melder,” Lyritan finally said. “I know how you feel about him.”
“I don’t—do you—” Shit. Caes paled. Alair had agreed with her plan in the woods just last night—they were going to tell Lyritan about their relationship, but not like this. Information like this needed to be delivered carefully. One couldn’t just tell a god that the woman he pursued over the ages was irrevocably in love with another.
Instead of smiting her, Lyritan smiled indulgently. “You’ve lived a mortal life, Caesonia. Surely, I cannot expect that you would not have formed other attachments. Would you prefer I call you Caesonia? I assume Liuva would be too strange for you.”
Caes nodded, at loss for further words. “Caes is fine,” was all she managed to say.
“How could I be upset that you experienced what pleasures you could? Besides, what is a mortal compared to me? Especially when we have the history of centuries between us.” Lyritan smirked, and Caes caught herself staring at him for too long. Couldn’t Lyritan have possessed someone a little less striking?
