A misconception. A misunderstanding. A belief that she held— firmly, completely, unshakeably— and that no one corrected. Because there was no one to correct it. Raven did not correct it. Latina did not correct it. The princess did not correct it. Because the misconception was useful. Because a woman who believes she serves a dragon will serve with a fervor that no human loyalty can match.
She hovered.
Above the palace. Above the courtyard. Her white hair streaming. Her yellow eyes— slitted, dragon— looking down. At the courtyard. At the knights. At the sorcerer. At the dragon woman below— the other dragon woman, the one who had come through the rift, the one who served the same master.
She rushed down.
The descent was not slow. Not gradual. Not the gentle lowering of a woman floating on air. It was a dive. A plummet. A fall. Her body dropped— from fifty feet, from a hundred— the air screaming past her, her hair whipping, her scales gleaming, her eyes locked on the target.
Grand Magus Corvain.
He reacted.
Instinctively. The trained, reflexive response of a Fourth Rank Mage who has been in combat. His staff came up. The crystal flared. The mana gathered— the full force of his power, the accumulated energy of seventy years of study and practice. The spell formed. Dragon’s Breath. The cone of fire.
He cast.
The fire erupted.
White-hot. Blinding. The cone expanded— fifteen feet wide, fifty feet long. The heat was— it was a wall. A wall of fire. A wall of heat. A wall of destruction. The marble floor beneath it cracked. The tapestries on the walls ignited. The air itself burned.
The fire hit Edda.
It did not touch her.
The flames parted. Around her. Like water around a stone. The fire— white-hot, Fourth Rank, the most powerful offensive spell that a human mage could cast— split. Diverted. Went around her. The heat did not reach her. The flames did not touch her. The mana— the energy of the spell— dissipated. Absorbed. Consumed by the scales. By the armor. By the dragon heart that beat in her chest.
Her descent did not slow.
She came through the fire. Through the flames. Through the wall of heat and light and destruction. Unharmed. Unscathed. Unaffected. Her white hair was not singed. Her scales were not blackened. Her skin was not burned.
She was moving.
Grand Magus Corvain’s eyes went wide.
"That is— impossible—"
He cast again.
Ice Lance. A spear of ice— crystalline, sharp, the length of a man. It formed. In the air. From the moisture, from the mana. It shot— toward her. Fast. Hard. The speed of an arrow.
She dodged.
Her body shifted. Sideways. A foot. The lance passed her— close, the ice grazing her scales, the cold radiating. The lance hit the wall behind her. The stone shattered. The ice exploded. Shards flew.
She was still moving.
He cast again.
Lightning Bolt. Third Rank. A bolt of electricity— blue-white, crackling, the energy of a storm. It shot from his staff. The bolt arced— across the courtyard, through the air, toward her.
She dodged.
Her body twisted. The bolt passed her— inches away. The electricity grounded— on a knight. The man screamed. His armor conducted. His body convulsed. He fell. Twitching. Smoking.
"WHAT— ARE— YOU—?!" Corvain screamed.
His voice was raw. His staff was shaking. His hands— steady for seventy years— were trembling. His mana was depleting. Not fast. Not in a single cast. But the rapid casting— Dragon’s Breath, Ice Lance, Lightning Bolt— three spells in five seconds. The drain was visible. The crystal at the top of his staff was dimming. The blue glow was fading.
She was in front of him.
Close. Ten feet. Five. She had crossed the courtyard in the time it took him to cast three spells. Her yellow eyes— slitted, dragon— were on his. Her white hair was settling. Her scales were gleaming.
She punched.
Not a spell. Not magic. A punch. Her fist— scaled, clawed— went forward. Toward his chest. Toward his sternum.
He raised his staff.
The wood— oak, bound with iron— caught the punch. The impact was—
CRACK—
The staff shattered. The wood splintered. The iron broke. The crystal— the mana crystal, the focus of seventy years of accumulation— exploded. The shards went everywhere. Into his face. Into his hands. Into his robes.
Her fist continued.
Through the broken staff. Through the shattered crystal. Into his chest.
The impact was not loud.
It was quiet. The sound of a fist on flesh. The sound of bone on bone. The sound of ribs— cracking. Breaking. Snapping. The sound of a sternum— caving. The sound of a heart— being crushed.
Corvain flew.
His body left the ground. His feet left the marble. He flew— backward, ten feet, twenty. His robe billowed. His white hair streamed. His arms went out— grasping, clutching, the hands finding nothing.
He hit the wall.
CRACK—
The stone cracked. The plaster shattered. His body hit. His back absorbed. His head snapped.
He fell.
To the ground. On his back. His mouth was open. His eyes were wide. His chest— the caved sternum, the broken ribs— was not moving. He was not breathing.
Edda landed.
Her feet touched the marble. The impact was light— a tap, a touch, the landing of a woman who weighs less than she should. Her white hair settled. Her yellow eyes— slitted— looked down.
At the sorcerer.
At the man who was dying.
Corvain gasped.
Not a breath. A death rattle. The sound of lungs trying to expand against broken ribs. The sound of a heart trying to beat against a crushed sternum. The sound of a body failing.
His eyes looked up.
At the sky. At the— no. Not the sky. The smoke. The black smoke. The smoke that was rising— from the palace. From the towers. From the watchtowers. From the Crown Prince’s wing. From the King’s wing. The palace was on fire.
The royal palace was on fire.
The flames were visible. Orange. Red. They licked the stone. They climbed the walls. They consumed the tapestries, the furniture, the wood. The smoke was thick— black, oily, the smoke of burning fabric and burning wood and burning paint.
His eyes looked down.
At the marble. At the blood. At his own hands— the shards of crystal embedded in his palms. At his shattered staff. At his broken robes.
"Why..." he whispered. His voice was a rasp. A breath. The voice of a man whose lungs are collapsing. "Why is this... happening...?"
Edda did not answer.
She walked past him.
Her feet— bare, scaled— on the marble. Past the body. Past the blood. Past the dying sorcerer. Her stride was steady. Unhurried. The walk of a woman who has a destination and who is not rushing because the destination is not going anywhere.
She walked toward the dungeon.
~ The Dungeon
The dungeon was beneath the palace.
Below the ground floor. Below the cellars. Below the kitchens. Below the storerooms. Below the places where the servants lived and worked and slept. Below the places where the food was stored and the wine was kept and the ice was packed. Below everything. In the dark. In the damp. In the place where the palace put the things it did not want to see.
The corridor was narrow. Stone. The walls were wet— condensation, groundwater, the perpetual dampness of a underground space. The ceiling was low. The floor was uneven. The torches— few, far apart— guttered in the draft.
The smell was—
Edda stopped.