Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Her hope almost makes me laugh—it’s so futile. But I nod instead.
“Thank you, Tanzy. You’ve been a true friend to me.”
“And you to me, my Lady.” She swipes more tears from her eyes and then she’s gone. The door closes behind her with a finality that feels like a coffin lid slamming shut.
I sit in the dark for what feels like hours, the stew untouched beside me.
Eventually, I lie down on the stone slab that serves as my bed and close my eyes.
At last, sleep steals over me like a thief.
50
ELAINA
I dream of fire…of soaring through a clear night sky…of wind beneath my wings.
I dream of freedom.
I’m flying—soaring through clouds lit by starlight, the wind rushing over my feathers and scales. No. Not my scales… someone else’s—someone powerful.
I look over and see a sleek black body below me, vast wings catching the wind, claws gleaming like obsidian. A black dragon flies beside me—Xaren’s Drake.
But he’s not whole—not anymore. His wings are tattered and his body is weak. I can see the iron collar still chained around his neck, dragging him down like an anchor trying to sink him.
He’s dying.
“Elaina…” His voice echoes in my mind. Rough and weary. “You must set her free…”
“Who?” I call back. “How?”
The clouds part ahead, and I see a second dragon.
She is beautiful.
Wings of pearl and silver stretch wide against the sky. Her body glows with soft moonlight. Her eyes—my eyes—are filled with pain and power.
“She is in you,” the black Drake whispers. “She always has been. She is your birthright… your power. Let her rise. Let her fly.”
“But how?” I cry. “How do I let her out?”
“Feel deep inside yourself,” he tells me. “You’ll find a way once you find her.”
51
ELAINA
A loud banging shatters the dream.
I jerk awake, my heart hammering. The cell door crashes open, and two guards march in with hard eyes and rough hands.
“Time to die, Princess,” one says, laughing coarsely, as though he’s made a funny joke.
I try to scramble away, my breath catching in fear.
“Wait—please, just wait—” I beg, but they’re not having it.
One grabs me, twisting my arms behind me and locking the iron cuffs in place. Inside, my mind is in turmoil.
The dream—it’s already slipping away.
The silver and white dragon. My dragon.
I have a dragon?
I try to hold onto the image, the voice, the feeling of flying, but it’s vanishing like smoke through my fingers.
They drag me into the corridor. I stumble, feet scraping on rough stone.
Above us, torches flicker. Around us, silence reigns. Probably everyone is already gathered in the square to watch my execution.
I don’t cry—I still can’t. But inside me, something stirs.
Not a tear…not a scream. No, it’s a flicker of flame.
It’s tiny and distant…but real.
Let her rise…
Let her fly…
The words echo in my head, but I still don’t know what they mean.
52
ELAINA
The early morning sun is too bright.
It stabs at my eyes as the guards drag me from the dim palace out into the open air. I blink furiously, trying to adjust, trying to breathe. My hands are shackled behind my back, the iron heavy and tight. The bite of the metal matches the ache in my chest, the place where I swear I once felt warmth—where I once felt him.
But that warmth is gone now—like a fire choked by ash or a bond fraying to nothing, it has all but disappeared.
Oh, Xaren…
The square is already packed. Nobles fill the tiers of stone seating that ring the platform in front of the Citadel, draped in their mourning blacks with glinting jewels at their throats. A sea of self-important vultures, pretending sorrow for a King none of them really cared about.
All of them here to feast on my execution.
And there, at the top of the dais on a golden throne, sits Dorian—the new King.
He’s no longer wearing mourning himself, I see. His golden robes shimmer in the morning light, embroidered in crimson thread that glitters like blood. A heavy crown rests crookedly atop his head, as though even the metal itself knows it doesn’t belong there. His mouth is curled in a smug little smirk, eyes bright with hate and triumph. Henri is nowhere to be seen—I wonder if the new King has decided to trade him in for a different lover. I don’t know and don’t care.
Beside Dorian, seated on a smaller, plainer throne, is Queen Virelda. Her mouth is pressed into a hard line and her eyes are unreadable. She’s dressed in dark gray instead of black and her expression is sour as milk left too long in the sun.
She hates this, I can tell—hates that she’s lost all her power to her precious, spoiled golden boy. But she can’t stop him. She’s created a monster and now he’ll do whatever he wants to the Citadel and the Kingdom.
I can’t bring myself to care. After all, I’m soon to leave this place in the most permanent way possible. And unless I hang around as a ghost, I’ll never see it again.