A Dawn of Dragonfire

ELETHOR



My brother is dead.

The thought clutched him like claws of ice. Fear for his father, his sister, and his friends filled him too, but all drowned under the flood of grief. Orin. My brother. My pillar of strength. Gone.

He stood in Gloriae's Tomb, a towering hall of marble, its ceiling domed, columns lining its walls. There were many places Elethor could have gone this night. He could have gone to the temples and sat by Mori's side. He could have stayed on the Oak Throne, gazing upon an empty hall. He could have flown over the city with Lord Deramon, waiting for danger in the dark. But he had come here, to this place of shadows and solitude, to think and to pray.

The statue of Gloriae towered above him. Carved of marble, the legendary Queen of Requiem rose fifty feet tall. She held a sword of stone, and her hair was gilded. Her stone eyes stared forward, brave and determined. Elethor stood before the monolith, gazing upon the queen who had defeated Dies Irae, rebuilt Requiem from ruin, and founded this city of Nova Vita.

"I am descended from you, my queen," Elethor said softly to the statue. "But I lack your strength." He lowered his head. "In the stories you are always strong, brave, and noble. Even when Dies Irae murdered your parents, you fought with fire and defeated your enemies. Lend me strength now."

The statue was silent, staring into the shadows of the hall, eyes forever strong, sword forever drawn. The true Gloriae was entombed beneath the statue, Elethor knew, her bones resting eternally in the earth of the city she'd built. Would her city now fall?

He clutched the hilt of his sword, seeking strength from the leather grip. Ferus was an old longsword, forged in dragonfire a century ago. Its blade was three feet long, pale and grooved. Its crossguard and pommel were dark, unadorned steel. Many lords of the court wore decorative blades, pieces of art that glittered with gold and jewels. Today Elethor had chosen a simple sword; a weapon meant for battle, not ceremony. He had trained with Ferus for years—every prince of Requiem learned swordplay from childhood—but had never swung it in battle.

Orin was the warrior. He should be the one standing here, preparing for war.

Elethor clenched his fists and lowered his head. The pain constricted his throat, and his eyes stung.

"My brother is dead. My father flew to war. Tiranor attacks, and… what if Solina is among them? What if the woman I love returns with fire and death?" His chest felt tight, and he could barely see the floor's tiles. "What do I do now, Gloriae? Give me advice, my queen."

A voice rose in the temple, speaking in exaggerated falsetto.

"Well, first thing, my lad, I advise getting a haircut and a shave. You look like a bloody sheepdog. I don't know whether to help you or pat you."

Elethor raised his head and frowned. From between the columns stepped Bayrin Eleison, a gangly young guard with large ears, a head of orange hair, and mocking green eyes. An impish smile split his wide, freckled face. He wore a steel breastplate engraved with the Draco constellation. A sword, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw, hung at his side.

"Bayrin!" Elethor said and grimaced. "How could you joke in a place like this, in a time like this?"

The young man shrugged. "The world is burning, my friend. What better time to joke?"

Eldest of Lord Deramon's children, Bayrin was nothing like his fiery sister Lyana. When Lyana would lecture, Bayrin would joke. When Lyana would drill with sword and dagger, Bayrin would sneak into the armory and draw rude pictures on shields. Lyana was a warrior, Bayrin a prankster. Ostensibly a city guardsman in his father's force, Bayrin spent less time patrolling the streets, and more time singing hoarsely in alehouses.

He's just as insufferable as his sister, Elethor reflected with a sigh. But he's also my best friend.

"Bayrin, you think every time is best for joking."

The young man gasped. "Me? Never in the bedroom. No, Elethor. That is all serious business in there." He looked around him. "But unless you plan on bedding a fifty-foot statue of a dead queen, I think we're safe." He stepped forward, and now his smile did vanish, and his eyes turned somber. He clasped Elethor's shoulder. "But I'm also sorry, my friend. Deeply and truly. I heard about your brother."

Elethor nodded and looked away, blinking. He did not want to cry in front of Bayrin, his friend who seemed to live for laughter, but couldn't help a tear from falling.

"I can't stop thinking that… that she did it. Solina." He looked back at his friend. "When Orin burned her, she swore that she'd kill him someday."

Solina. Queen of Tiranor. My love and fire.

"We don't know that yet," Bayrin said softly. "Mori is still sleeping; she's hurt and in shock, and might not wake for a while. We'll have answers in time. But come now, El. A fire burns in the south and the sky turns red. The city needs you."

Elethor nodded, eyes lowered, and they walked across the tomb to its towering doors. The weight of the sky seemed to hang on Elethor's shoulders. He forced himself to walk straight, to hold his head high, to square his shoulders, to be a prince of Requiem. Inside, however, he felt ready to collapse.

My sister is hurt. My brother is dead. My father flew to war. He clenched his jaw, eyes stinging and throat burning. Be strong, Elethor. Keep walking. The city needs you. There will be time for grief later.

They stepped under a towering archway, its keystone embossed with golden dragons, and exited Gloriae's Tomb. From atop the marble staircase, Elethor saw the city roll across hills below. Domes and towers rose from the birch forest, glittering with icicles. Towering walls circled the city, rising from among the snowy trees like a crown of stone resting in white hair. Lord Deramon's dragons perched upon the towers and walls, watching the south where red light glowed.

The fire of Tiranor flies there, Elethor knew. Stars protect you, Father.

Elethor had been born after the war with Tiranor. Orin had been only a babe. But he had heard the tales countless times. In his mind, he could see that old war as if he himself had fought it. Father, then a young brash king, had flown against the deserts of Tiranor, howling with rage and vowing to avenge the death of his brother, whom Tiran soldiers had slain with arrows. The Tirans had no dragon forms; theirs was a doomed battle. They fought in caves, in forts, in mountains, firing arrows and spears against the wrath of Requiem's dragons. They died. Their palace fell. Father himself slew the king and queen of Tiranor.

But he spared the young princess, Elethor thought, heart wrenching. Father had spared Solina. He returned to Requiem with scars, dark eyes, and a girl who grew to bring fire, passion, and unending sweet pain to Elethor's life.

Standing upon the stairs of Gloriae's Tomb, Elethor shifted, growing and hardening into a brass dragon. Bayrin shifted at his side, becoming a green dragon with white horns. The two took flight, fire flickering between their teeth, and dived over temples, cobblestone squares, copses of birches, and marble homes. Soon they reached the southern wall, a curving battlement fifty feet tall. They landed upon its crenulations between dragons of Deramon's City Guard. Before them in the south, firelight rose over King's Forest, and smoke billowed to paint the sky dark red.

"A forest fire?" Bayrin asked, frowning. His own fire danced in his maw. Scales clinking, he clutched the battlements so tight his claws dug grooves into the stone.

Elethor shook his head, scattering the smoke that rose from his nostrils. "It is the fire of Tiranor herself." He clenched his jaw, remembering the fire that had burned Solina, and how she trembled and cried in his arms.

A distant blue glimmer caught his eye. He stared. A dragon was flying from the south, a speck fleeing a wall of fire.

"Blue dragon," Elethor whispered. "Lyana?"

Bayrin stared, squinting. With a grunt, the young guard took flight from the wall, wings thudding. His tail snaked behind him, and his green scales turned red in the firelight. With a curse and icy fear twisting his gut, Elethor flew too. The wind tasted like smoke, too hot for winter. The two dragons, brass and green, flew toward their distant comrade. The farms of Requiem rolled beneath them: fields of wheat and barley, rows of apple trees, pastures of sheep and cattle. Fifty thousand Vir Requis lived off this land; in his mind, Elethor already saw it burning.

They reached the blue dragon two leagues from the walls of Nova Vita. It was Lyana, and she was hurt.

"Sister!" Bayrin cried and circled around her.

Blood splashed Lyana's scales. A burn mark ran across her belly and leg. Her eyes, large emerald orbs, were haunted.

"Bayrin," she whispered, voice trembling. Her wings shook. "Elethor. Help me to the city. Quick! The phoenixes. They're coming. Faster!"

Elethor stared into the southern horizon. From here, he could see the flames rising, thrashing the sky and racing across the land. When he squinted, he thought that the fire took the form of great eagles, dragon-sized, their wings like fountains of sunfire. The fire crackled and he could hear their shrieks.

"Where are the others?" Elethor demanded. "Where is my father, his five thousand dragons?" Horror pounded through him, shaking his limbs. Were they all gone like his brother?

But Lyana was already flying back to the city.

"To Nova Vita!" she called. "Hurry!"

Elethor cursed and followed. Bayrin flew at his side.

As they flew, Elethor watched the city grow closer. Its walls rose, white and craggy, defending temples, homes, and workshops. Three hundred years since the Destruction when the tyrant Dies Irae had razed this land, Requiem's dragons were recovering. Trees grew where once fire and war had raged. Vir Requis sang and prayed where once skeletons had lain burnt. A million dragons had once flown here; Dies Irae had killed all but seven, but now myriads lived behind these walls, a renaissance for their race.

I will not let Requiem fall again, Elethor vowed.

When they landed on the walls, they shifted back into human forms. When their wings and scales vanished, they stood panting on the parapets. Lyana faltered, and Elethor caught her.

"Lyana!" he said. "What happened?"

Ash covered her face and darkened her hair. Her armor was singed and bloody. Pain filled her eyes, and something else… a haunting fear.

"They're coming," she whispered through pale lips. "The phoenixes. Great birds of flame." She clutched his shoulders. "We must get everyone into the tunnels. Everyone! And barricade the entrances. They will be here soon."

Bayrin stared at her, slack-jawed. The gangly young man rubbed his eyes.

"Sister, who is coming? What are these phoenixes?"

She glared at him, five years his junior and nearly a foot shorter, but twice as commanding. "I'll explain later. Now fly over the city, both of you! Sound the alarm. Roar the call. I'll run between the houses. Go, you blockheads!"

With that, she ran down the wall's stairs, dashed across a street, and began pounding on house doors.

Elethor looked back south. He could see them clearly now—countless firebirds, huge eagles blazing with fury, flying their way. With a growl, he shifted back into a dragon and began circling over the city.

"People of Requiem!" he roared. The city streets and houses spun beneath him. "This is Elethor, son of King Olasar. On my command, leave your homes and head to the tunnels. Now! Everyone must enter the tunnels at once!"

Bayrin was flying too, wings churning the hot air, roars shattering the night. "Enemies at the gates! Into the tunnels! Into the tunnels!"

Below them, Lyana was banging on doors and helping people outside. Soon thousands crowded the streets, shouting and weeping.

Three entrances led to Nova Vita's tunnels. Originally a network of natural caves, the tunnels now held stairways, cobbled floors, archways, and bridges—masonry added over centuries. In those underground chambers, Requiem stored its winter food, its ancient books, its magical artifacts. They were secret places for kings, priests, and scholars. Today thousands raced toward them.

As Elethor flew, sounding the alarm, fear pounded through him. Nobody else was flying back from the inferno. Was Lyana the only survivor? Was his father… No. Elethor swallowed the thought. Do not panic, he told himself. Not now. Not until everyone is safe.

When he looked back south, he saw them closer. The phoenixes were only a league away. The farms outside the city kindled, and their fire raced toward the walls. Smoke unfurled like demons. The farmers were shifting into dragons, taking flight, and heading toward the city.

"Everyone move calmly!" Lyana shouted below, still in human form, herding the people into lines. "That's right, form lines, head into the tunnels one by one. Stay calm and move quickly."

Father, Elethor thought. Where are you? Why don't you fly here too?

Shrieks sounded behind him, and Elethor turned to see the phoenix army fly over the walls.

The inferno stormed with heat, sound, and fury. It felt like a sun exploding over Nova Vita. Fire howled around Elethor. He reared and flapped his wings to blow back the flames. He only fanned them. The phoenixes swooped, larger than him, wings crackling and beaks flowing with fire. Their claws reached toward him, shards of lightning.

Below him, the people screamed. They ran through the streets, blazing. Cries of pain and fear rose across the city, muffled under the crackle and shrieks of the firebirds.

Elethor blew fire. The jet spun and slammed into a phoenix. The great firebird screeched, unharmed; the dragonfire only seemed to enlarge it, as if it sucked up the fire's strength. It dived and slammed its claws into Elethor.

He screamed. It felt like hot irons pressed against him. He soared, spun, and swooped. His claws tore into the phoenix's head, and he cried in pain. Its fire blazed across his legs; he thought his scales might crack from heat.

"Elethor!" rose Bayrin's voice somewhere in the distance. "Elethor, come, into the tunnels!"

The phoenixes swarmed everywhere. Houses cracked in the heat. People fell burning. Some Vir Requis became dragons and tried to fly, only to crash into the phoenixes. A young girl ran from her house, shifted into a lavender dragon, and took flight. Before she could fly ten feet, phoenix claws tore her apart. She crashed back onto the cobblestones as a girl, her neck and chest slashed open.

Smoke unfurled and flames filled the night. Elethor flew, dodging phoenix claws and beaks. He crashed through one's flaming wings, and the heat seared him. His eyes and throat burned with smoke.

"Bayrin, where are you?" he shouted. He could see nothing but fire. "Lyana! Mori!"

He heard Bayrin's voice again; it rose from the flames below. "Elethor, down here, into the tunnels!"

Elethor dived through flames and flew down the streets, wings beating back fire. People were still running toward the tunnels, some of them burning. Many lay dead; Elethor could see their seared bodies through the fire. The phoenixes were swooping, burning the fleeing people. Some Vir Requis were shifting, taking flight, and fleeing into the night. The phoenixes flew at them, caught them in their talons, and bit with fiery beaks.

One phoenix surged between buildings toward Elethor and slammed into him. It felt like a furnace door opened and the flames knocked him back. He hit a building, cracked the stone wall, and howled. He clawed and blew fire, but could not hold back the phoenix. Could nothing kill these beasts? Around him, dragons soared, only to be slammed down and burned. Bodies littered the streets.

"Into the tunnels, go!" Elethor shouted to the people. "Don't try to fight, just run!"

A long, green dragon soared from the inferno, howling. Leathern wings beat back the flames. Bayrin roared and grabbed Elethor's shoulders.

"El, we must go!" he shouted. "Now!"

Elethor shook himself free. "There are still people in the houses! We must get them into the tunnels. We must find Mori!"

"We can't help anyone if we're dead!" The flames burned around Bayrin; his scales blazed red. "The phoenixes are—"

Three firebirds dived and slammed into them. Elethor shut his eyes under the flame. He felt weight and heat pushing him down. He crashed against a road, cracking the cobblestones. When he opened his eyes, he saw bodies everywhere. No more people ran through the smoke. Bayrin was gone. The phoenixes screeched above him, beaks and claws lashing him. Elethor leaped aside, dodging the flames, and soared.

"Mori!" he called. "Mori, do you hear me?"

Was his sister still alive? Had she managed to flee the temple where Mother Adia had taken her? He'd already lost a brother; if he lost his sister too, there would be no meaning to his life.

Elethor looked around, but saw only phoenixes, an endless swarm of them, and smoke, and fire, and bodies burning into bones. Nova Vita flamed. The smoke was so thick, and the light was so bright, he could barely see.

"Elethor!" rose a voice from the distance.

"Lyana!" he cried.

"Elethor, we're sealing the tunnels! Come on!"

Ten phoenixes soared toward him. Elethor cursed, snarled, and swooped. He shot through walls of fire. He crashed against a temple's column, cracking it. Bricks rained. The body of a child burned below.

"Lyana, where are you!"

"Elethor, here! In Benedictus Square!"

He could just make out the columns surrounding the cobbled square. Only yesterday, philosophers, priests, and scribes would wander this square between the birches, praying and singing and studying the stars. Today bodies and smoke filled it. Elethor dived toward it, the forge of phoenixes in pursuit. He barely discerned Lyana standing at an archway; beyond it, stairs led underground. Elethor hit the cobblestones and shifted into a human. He leaped into the stairwell with Lyana, then spun to face the archway.

Phoenixes landed outside, screeching. Their flames shot into the tunnel, forcing Elethor and Lyana to leap back several steps. The craggy staircase led into darkness below. Hundreds of people crowded the stairs, weeping and moaning and screaming.

"Quick, seal the doors!" cried a burly man in armor, his red beard singed.

Elethor recognized Lord Deramon, father to Lyana and Bayrin. He had never liked the man. A harsh soldier with a face like a craggy cliff, Deramon seemed to always scowl and mutter around him. Elethor's hatred had only grown seven years ago, after Deramon caught him kissing Solina in the forest. The lord had marched to the king, revealed the secret love, and doomed Solina to exile.

"There are still people out there, Deramon!" he shouted. "They're dying!"

The phoenixes scratched at the archway but were too large to enter.

"They're dead already!" Deramon shouted back. His face flushed as red as his beard.

Elethor wanted to run outside, to find and save whoever he could. Had Bayrin made it into the tunnels? What of his father and sister; where were they?

"You don't know that, Deramon!" he shouted and drew his sword.

He watched the tunnel entrance and grimaced. Before his eyes, the phoenixes shrank, twisted, and took human forms. Soon they stood as warriors in bright armor, golden suns upon their breastplates. The sun of Tiranor, Elethor knew. The Tirans drew sabres. The Vir Requis in the tunnel shrieked in fear.

Lord Deramon drew his own sword—a thick, heavy blade of northern steel. Lyana already held her blade before her; it was bloodied and darkened with ash. Flickers of fire still clinging to them, the Tirans ran onto the staircase and blades clashed.

Elethor parried a thrust, grunted, and riposted. He was no great warrior; his father and Orin were the fighters. Today everything his swordmasters had taught him vanished, and he swung his blade with blind fear and fury.

"You will die, weredragons," said a Tiran, a tall man with blazing blue eyes. A crystal hung around his neck, a flame trapped inside it. His sword swung, and Elethor parried, raising sparks. Deramon fought at his side, his thick sword slamming at the enemy's thin, curved sabres. The tunnel was only wide enough for two men to fight side by side.

A dagger flew over Elethor's head and slammed into a Tiran's neck. Blood spurted and the man pitched forward, hit the stairs, and crashed down between Elethor and Deramon. Standing behind them, Lyana slammed down her sword, finishing the job. Vir Requis guards were racing up from the shadows below, drawing their own swords.

"Get down into the tunnels, boy!" Deramon howled at Elethor, swinging his sword. "We'll hold them back."

Elethor cursed and grumbled. "You will not call me 'boy'. I am still your prince, Deramon."

The man growled. "You are a boy, and you will enter the tunnels. Make room for men to fight by my side."

As he parried blows from Tiran sabres, Elethor fumed. He was no warrior, but he was still these people's prince; how could he run and cower among the women and children?

"I'm staying here to fight and die, old man!" he shouted, parried a blow, and thrust his blade.

Deramon slew a man. The body crashed down the stairs into darkness. "I'm not risking your life, not until I know if your father is alive. We're not losing another prince. Down, into the tunnels! Take my daughter with you."

A blade flashed. Elethor parried. Blood spurted and the enemies crowded at the doorway; there seemed no end to them. Nova Vita's survivors wept and shouted behind in the darkness.

"You think I'll run and hide instead of fight?"

"You will do what I tell you!" Deramon shouted, still swinging his blade. "As you like to remind me, you're our prince… not our champion."

Lyana rushed up behind him and grabbed Elethor's shoulder. "Come on, El. He's right. With me, down into the darkness. We have to protect you."

A Tiran broke past Deramon, leaped three steps, and lunged at Elethor. Blades clashed. Elethor grunted in pain. The Tiran's sword sliced his shoulder. Lyana's blade thrust, the Tiran leaped back, and Elethor drove his sword into the man's neck. He stared, gritting his teeth, at the blood dripping down his blade. It was the first man he'd killed.

More Vir Requis warriors, clad in the armor of the City Guard, raced upstairs from the shadows. Their heavy longswords clashed with the Tirans' sabres. Blood flowed down the stairs.

"Come with me, El," Lyana said, voice soft. "You're hurt."

He stared at the tunnel entrance. Deramon and three of his men now fought there. Thousands of Tirans seemed to fill the night outside. With a curse, Elethor tore his gaze away and took several steps down into the shadows. Survivors crowded around him, reaching out to touch him.

"Our prince," whispered an old woman, hands patting his shoulder.

"My lord," said a child, bowing his head.

They filled the darkness around him, burnt, bloodied, and weeping. Their arms reached to him and their eyes shone. The stench of burning flesh and blood and fear filled the tunnels.

Lyana held Elethor's arm and led him deeper into the darkness. "This is where the people need you, Elethor. They need to see you, to know that you lead them. You need to be their leader, not their soldier. You will be our king."

He froze, grabbed her arms, and stared at her. "What do you mean, Lyana?" he said through clenched teeth. "My father is king." His voice shook. "King Olasar, son of Amarin, descended from Queen Gloriae herself." His fingers shook around her arms.

Lyana lowered her head. "Elethor," she said softly. "Oh, Elethor."

She embraced him, this girl who would steal his toy swords when they were little, who once peeked into the bathing chambers as he undressed, who always looked down her nose at him and Bayrin and scolded them for being immature, good-for-nothing layabouts. Today this girl, now a woman stained with the blood and fire of war, placed her head against his shoulder, shed tears, and whispered into his ear.

"I'm sorry, Elethor. I'm so sorry. He fell." She touched his cheek. "Your father is dead."

The flames roared outside. Steel rang and the screams of dying echoed. Elethor closed his eyes. A tremble took him and he could not breathe. It felt like a vise clutched his head, twisting and cracking his skull. He forced himself to breathe. His head spun and he had to hold the tunnel wall for support.

Calm down, he told himself. Don't panic yet. Not when these people need you… when Lyana needs you.

Breathing through clenched teeth, he opened his eyes, still holding Lyana. She looked at him with huge, damp eyes.

"I'm sorry too, Lyana," he said. He tried to sound strong, comforting, a powerful man who could protect her—but his voice cracked. It sounded to him like the voice of a frightened child. He took another deep breath.

The survivors in the tunnel jostled and moved aside. Bayrin walked through the crowd, heading upstairs toward Elethor and Lyana. Burn marks covered his arms, and his face was damp and red. He stared with cold eyes.

"I found Mori," he said. "She's in the wine cellars. She's banged up and a little singed, but she's alive."

Elethor inhaled shakily—a breath of such relief that his knees shook and he nearly collapsed. Thank the stars. His eyes stung. My sister is alive. Not all our family is dead.

"Thank you, Bay," he said, voice choked.

Bayrin stared back solemnly. "And El… my mother is waiting for you. Come with me. She's going to crown you."

Elethor couldn't help it; he made a sound halfway between gasp and guffaw. He stared over Lyana's head at her brother, his best friend since childhood.

"You've gone mad, Bay," he said. "Adia wants to crown me? Now, here?" He shook his head wildly.

Lyana held him and stared at him. A fire blazed in her eyes.

"Yes, now and here," she said, voice stern. Curls of her red hair clung to her face with sweat and blood. "The people need a king, Elethor. They need a leader." She sighed. "You might be a blockhead, but you're all we've got now."

He laughed mirthlessly. "You've both gone mad! Both of you. My father… my brother…" His voice cracked. "Oh stars, we haven't even buried them. I don't want a crown. I never wanted to be king. Find somebody else." He looked back over his shoulder at the fighting. "Get your father down here! Crown him; the people love Deramon."

He sounded like a child, he realized and cursed himself. But what else could he say? He had never served in the army like Orin. He had never dreamed of the throne like Orin. He had never gone to countless ceremonies and feasts and met with foreign kings. He was just Elethor, the younger brother who'd count the stars, or sculpt, or walk for hours through the forest with Solina, or…

But those days are gone now, Elethor, he told himself. He clenched his fists. You must do this. They're right. You can't abandon your people. They need you.

As soldiers raced up the stairs and blood spilled down, his friends pulled him deeper into the tunnels. The shadows spun around him. Everywhere hands reached to him, the wounded lay moaning, and the stench of death spun his head. He moved in a daze, eyes burning.

My father. My brother. Gone.

Mother Adia, Priestess of Requiem, rose from the darkness toward him. A tall woman, she looked nothing like her red-headed, light-eyed children. Adia's hair was black and smooth as the night sky. Her eyes were pools of darkness. She could have been one of Elethor's statues—pale, beautiful, her skin like marble. Ash and blood stained her white robes.

"Elethor," she said, voice as deep and solemn as her eyes, and took his hands.

She whispered prayers to the stars in a shaky voice. Around them the people answered her prayers, reaching to the ceiling. Elethor did not know if starlight could ever glow here—or in the world again—but he answered the prayers in a hoarse, low voice.

They had no crown to place upon his head, no holy oil to anoint him with. There were no lords and ladies, no songs, only this stench of burnt flesh and sweat and nightsoil and death.

"Requiem!" Adia called, voice rising and shaking. "May our wings forever find your sky."

The words of their fathers, their people, their life. Those were the words the first kings had spoken when building temples in King's Forest. Those were the words the legendary Queen Gloriae had shouted in battle against Dies Irae the Destructor. The survivors in the tunnels repeated the prayer. Elethor spoke with them, his voice finally finding some strength.

"Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Mother Adia turned to the crowd in the tunnels. Voice trembling, she said, "Kneel before King Elethor Aeternum, Son of Olasar."

Those who could, knelt, and Elethor looked over the survivors, his eyes dry. They filled the narrow tunnels, disappearing far into the darkness. Lyana knelt before him, holding her sword drawn, her eyes lowered. As Elethor looked at her mane of curls, he realized that by the law of the land, he had inherited not only his father's throne, but his brother's betrothed. If they survived this war, Lyana and he would be wed.

"Rise," he said to the people. They rose and wept, blessing his name.

Lyana looked at him, eyes huge and haunted. "My lord," she whispered, the first time she had ever called him that. "There is something more you must know."

Elethor stared at her, silent. His father and brother were dead. He had inherited the throne, and he was now betrothed to the girl who would torment him throughout his childhood. His city burned above him, and hundreds—likely thousands—were dead. What more news could she give him?

"Speak," he said.

She stared at him steadily, holding his arm. "Elethor… the leader of the phoenixes, and the one who killed your father and brother, is Solina."

He stared at her. The memories of Solina pounded through him: her kisses, her naked body against his, their forbidden love in secret forests and chambers. His world burned. He saw nothing but fire.

He spun around and began marching upstairs to the tunnels' exit.

"I will speak to her," he said, voice strained, fists clenched to stop them from trembling.

For the first time in seven long, aching, lonely years, he would see her again. He had dreamed of this moment. Today it chilled his belly and filled his throat with bile.