Chapter 52 Elaina
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.
My heart is thudding like a drum in my ears—not from fear, not anymore—but from desperation.
The dream… what was it? Parts of it keep coming back but when I reach for them, I can feel the dream slipping away from me like water through my fingers.
A dragon—black and dying. Another, white and silver. Wings. Fire. Me.
But how do I grasp it now? How do I hold onto a mere dream when they’re about to tie me to a stake and stack kindling around my feet? A dream should be the last thing on my mind, but somehow I can’t let it go—it feels too important.
The guards march me forward, boots thudding against stone, and the whispering begins.
Hushed voices all around, excited and scandalized.
The Nobles love a good execution—they’re always well attended, even though they take place so early in the morning and most of the privileged class prefers to sleep in.
“Look—there she is!”
“The murderous bride—if only the King and Queen had known how evil she was, they never would have brought her here.”
“I heard she seduced both princes just to get to the King so she could kill him and take the throne for herself!”
And so it goes—rumors and myths and misinformation. Every bit is lies, but they eat it up like candy and sweets.
I clench my jaw and keep my eyes straight ahead. I won’t give in to tears now—not after refusing to cry all night. I won’t give in to fear, either. I won’t beg or plead—it won’t do any good and I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
We reach the front of the dais where Dorian and the Queen are seated. The pyre is waiting—already stacked high with dry wood and kindling. The pole is thick and blackened from previous burnings. I stare at it, feeling numb.
Dorian rises from his throne, swirling his golden cloak with theatrical grandeur.
“Elaina, former Princess of the Citadel,” he begins, his voice booming over the crowd, “Traitor to the Crown, poisoner of our beloved King, and perjurer against your rightful ruler… today you shall face the justice of the Realm.”
I open my mouth—to speak, to scream, to curse his name—but then I see him…
Xaren.
He’s here! My knees nearly buckle when I catch sight of him.
He’s slumped at the side of the dais, between two guards. His body looks heavier somehow—like he’s collapsing inward. The collar is still around his neck, the thick padlock dangling almost to his chest. His arms hang limp at his sides. His long black hair covers most of his face.
But I see his eyes when he lifts his head…and there’s nothing there.
No golden gleam…no flicker of fire.
No Drake.
Oh Goddess of Mercy… is he really gone?
A tremor works its way through my chest as I call his name.
“Xaren!”
His big body jerks and for just a moment, I think I see something in his eyes. Is it recognition? Maybe even a memory of our time together?
I don’t know but my chest aches with my love for him. Then he looks down again and the moment is lost.
Dorian follows my gaze and smiles.
“I thought it fitting my brother should see your fate,” he purrs. “Let him watch as his little whore burns.”
I want to shout at him—to spit at him—but there’s no point. Nothing changes if I lose my dignity. So I keep my mouth shut and my head high.
The guards drag me to the pyre. The wood creaks under my weight as I’m shoved up onto the platform. They tie me tightly to the post, the rope biting into my arms and waist. The dry branches scrape my legs. My red gown flutters in the breeze like blood on the wind.
One of the guards lights a torch. The torch touches the kindling and the fire begins to spread.
No. No-no-no—this can’t be happening! In my heart of hearts, I didn’t really believe they’d burn me!
I squeeze my eyes shut—I try to ignore the flames, the burning pain—and remember the dream instead. I hold onto it like a lifeline.
The voice. The fire. The dragon. It has to mean something.
And then—I feel it.
Something inside me is shifting…there’s a coil tightening deep in my belly. Heat…rage…power…I feel them building up inside me. The fire is spreading around me but…it doesn’t hurt—not anymore.
The flames lick hungrily up my ankles, kissing my calves like an overeager lover, but instead of pain, I feel… warmth. A strange, powerful rightness. Like I’ve been cold for so long and now, finally, finally, I am warm again.
The crowd gasps.
I open my eyes…and see them all staring at me. But their smug, blood-thirsty smiles are gone. Their faces are white and horrified and their eyes are wide with terror.
Dorian is shouting something, but I can’t hear it. The roar of the growing fire is too loud. Or maybe it’s coming from inside me now. My blood is boiling—not with fear, but with change.
The Queen stands and screeches at the top of her lungs,
“Put her out! Put her out—the fire is making her Shift!”
The guards look at her and then at me, clearly at a loss. They start towards me but they’re too slow.
The ropes holding me to the pole burn away but I don’t fall into the flames. Instead, I look down and see that they’re far below me. How am I suddenly so tall?
Look deep inside…find her…free her, I hear the voice from my dream say in my ear.
Suddenly I understand—I’m taller and bigger now because I’m not Elaina anymore. I’m not just a woman…I’m becoming something else—something more.
I scream—only it’s not a scream. It’s a roar.
My skin peels away in layers of ash and silver light.
My bones bend…twist…expand. Wings unfurl from my back, vast and shimmering, white and silver and blazing with inner light.
My limbs stretch even more. Claws replace my fingers.
My face elongates, my jaw opening wide. My teeth have grown long and curved and razor sharp.
The pyre explodes beneath me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m rising—rising into the sky with wings that beat the wind into submission.
I am no longer just Elaina…I’m a Drake!
The crowd screams. Nobles scatter. Dorian’s mouth hangs open. The Queen is still screaming about putting me out.
Too late.
I sweep upward, circling high above the square.
Smoke comes from my nostrils and trails behind me, curling like a banner of victory.
Below me, Dorian’s golden throne looks like a shiny toy.
The people are nothing but ants but I find I can narrow my field of view and focus on them anyway.
I have the eyes of an eagle now—or should I say, a Drake.
And then I see him again—Xaren.
He is limp, unmoving and unresponsive though the people around him are screaming and scattering.
I dive.
My claws scoop him up as gently as I can manage, cradling his body to my scaled and feathered chest. He doesn’t stir.
No! No, don’t let me be too late!
I lift my head and see something completely new—Dorian is flying.
Or rather, trying to.
He has Shifted—but his pale blue Drake is small…
stunted…twisted. He looks like a mockery of a real dragon.
He’s small compared to my new form—as Tanzy told me so long ago, he’s barely the size of a small cottage.
And though I myself am much smaller than Xaren’s black Drake, I’m still quite a bit larger than Dorian’s pitiful beast.
He dives toward me, roaring, his little wings flapping as hard as possible just to keep him in the air.
Really, it’s a wonder he can fly at all.
And though there’s a thin trail of white smoke coming from his nostrils, I can somehow tell he isn’t going to have any flame to go along with it.
I don’t know how I know that, but I do. Call it Drake instinct, I suppose.
I, on the other hand, am filled to the brim with white-hot fire. I feel it boiling inside me, seeking a way out.
I open my mouth—and flame pours out—white-hot, pure, and cleansing.
Dorian shrieks as the fire engulfs him. His spindly wings shrivel and tear like old parchment. He spins in the air, flailing—plummeting like a falling star.
He lands directly on the dais—right on top of the Queen.
CRACK.
The sound is loud enough to be heard even from above. Bones snapping…Royal bodies crushed beneath the weight of their own greed. A puddle of blood begins to form, spreading out from the broken form of Dorian’s Drake. Some of it is black and some is red. Mother and son, together in death.
I wait to feel anything about that but there’s no pity in me—not for those two. I don’t regret what I’ve done—not for an instant.
I hover there for a long moment, breathing hard, watching the Nobles scatter like insects. A voice inside me urges vengeance. Burn it all—the Citadel, the Nobles—all of it.
But then I think of Tanzy and all the other innocent servants. I think of the cooks and the maids and even the men-at-arms, who are mostly decent, other than the Queen’s own guard.
They don’t deserve my wrath.
Beating my wings, I rise, leaving vengeance for another day. Instead, I fly higher…faster…farther away.
I leave my old life behind me.
But ahead of me—cradled in my claws—there is a new future.
Xaren… please come back to me.