Page 95 of Bride of the Black Dragon
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.
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.
