Forged in Dragonfire by Daniel Arenson

Author:Daniel Arenson [Arenson, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NLA Digital LLC
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ELORY

When Elory stepped into the chamber, Meliora was already awake, sitting by the window, staring outside at the first light of dawn.

Surely the princess had heard the door open, had heard the guards announce Elory's entrance, had heard those guards leave and the door close again, and yet Meliora did not turn around, did not stir. She faced the light, staring between the columns of her balcony, her back to Elory.

The princess of Saraph was perhaps half Vir Requis, but she had the swan wings of a seraph. Those wings now draped across her back, dipping so that the tips rested on the floor. Meliora's hair flowed down between them, a waterfall of molten gold, topped with a thin halo. Elory could not see her sister's face, but she could see ugly burns stretching across her arm.

"My lady?" Elory whispered.

For a long time Meliora did not reply, only sat with her back to Elory, gazing out between the columns. The dawn's light rose, glowing around her like a second halo. Elory's heart quickened; soon the rest of the palace would awaken. What if Tash noticed her absence and reported it? What if Ishtafel heard? Elory stood still, pondering what to do. Should she speak again? Should she flee this chamber? Should she step forward, walk around Meliora, and face her?

She was still debating when finally Meliora spoke, her back still to Elory.

"You are a slave." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You are a weredragon."

Elory winced. She hated that word—weredragon. It was what the seraphim called her kind, what the enemies of Requiem had called her kind for thousands of years. She was Vir Requis, a proud child of Requiem, not a monster to kill or enslave. And yet how could she explain this to Meliora, to a woman who thought herself the purebred daughter of seraphim royalty?

"Yes," she simply replied. "I've come to—"

"You should leave. You're in danger here. No slave is safe around me."

Slowly, Meliora turned around, and for the first time in her life Elory gazed upon her sister's face.

Elory couldn't help it. She took a step back, heart thumping.

He lied. Her eyes watered. My father lied. He lied to me. All my life, he lied to me, trying to comfort me, telling me I have a sister in the palace. Lying. Lying.

Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, Daughter of Queen Kalafi, Lady of Grace, Great of Praises, looked like the purest seraph, not a drop of Vir Requis in her.

Her cheekbones were high, her forehead tall, her skin pale gold. A noble face, the face of a goddess, immortal, impossibly fair, ringed with soft light. No slave had such flawless skin, such full lips, such ageless grace. And yet more than anything, Meliora's eyes scared Elory.

Seraph eyes.

The irises gleamed golden, shining with inner light, and her pupils were shaped as sunbursts. The eyes of immortality, the eyes of a fallen angel. Eyes that had never gazed up at the sky, seeking stars, had never stared down at the dust, seeking the shackles and blood.

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