Chapter 8
Cion
Cion kept a close eye on Soren as they filed into the temple with the others. The dragons awaited their departure to training camp, but first, as she knew was tradition, they were to be blessed by the Sisters.
The narrow, dim halls were just as she remembered: plain and cloistered, void of any decor or art.
The Sister leading them was silent as she walked, as were the boy and the girl.
The boy was Ilav Thil, the son of a general, the girl, Elaana Mixt, the daughter of Lord Mixt, one of three responsible for overseeing the jade mines. And then, there was…
Soren.
Soren, with her slave anklet and plain wrap dress.
Her shoulders were still curved, as they always were, her eyes downcast—and she had been picked by a Vemon dragon.
Little did the girl know, Thessilnn was not just any dragon.
She had hatched centuries ago, rumored to have been alive before the Veil to the gods even shut.
There were whispers Aren had another ancient Vemon dragon in its fleet. In fact, she had met its rider.
Mòr Maslach.
Masked Death.
Few knew his true identity. Cion only assumed he was a man based on his voice and stature when he had been summoned to court three years prior.
Yet still, she remembered he had kneeled for her father just like everyone in Aren, a deadly pet with an even deadlier mount: Heles, the only other Vemon dragon currently under Aren’s leash.
Jealousy, hot and potent, poured through her as Cion walked behind Soren. Why would the gods choose to bless her with a dragon like Thessilnn? Her own dragon, Valhamnor, was graceful and cunning, but shouldn’t the Warrior Princess and heir be the one with the strongest mount?
She bit her cheek in frustration, the taste of copper flooding her mouth as they stopped in front of a simple arch. Through it lay the Chamber of Whispers, where speaking was not permitted by anyone but the Sisters. The Sister leading them walked inside, gesturing for them to follow.
Cion had been here once before, when she was barely eight years old, and had heard a prophecy about herself.
“Darkness rises, an ember to meet it. And you, warrior, will taste the skies in the last days.”
The words were still burned into her mind, even over a decade later.
The first phrase had always bothered her, though her father chose to blatantly ignore the warning.
Was the ‘darkness’ the war or something else?
And what did the ‘last days’ refer to? She had never gotten answers to either question.
The Sisters of the Chamber swung a pot of smoky incense around them. Elaana had closed her eyes, a stupid move in wartime. Any one of them could be spies. If slaves could be dragon riders now, anything was possible.
Oh gods, her father was not going to be happy.
The Sisters finished their circling, and she, Ilav, Elaana, and Soren were each approached. An ancient woman leaned in close to Cion’s ear and rasped, “A word for the wise, princess. Rumblings of the past are afoot. Keep your head.”
The Sister pulled away, smiling softly, the worn lines of her face crinkling. Unease snaked through Cion at her words. The past was often revered, but so much of it was unknown. The woman could be referring to the gods themselves for all Cion knew.
She glanced at Soren as a Sister stepped away from her. Her eyes were wide, her lips pale with shock. Cion was beginning to understand the reality of what was occurring. Soren had a part to play in all of this, and it made her deeply uneasy.
The girl knew far too much.