The next moment, my head is being tilted back, my jaw gripped by firm fingers. A bitter burn splashes over my tongue, and I choke, spit, struggle. It’s no use. Strong arms catch hold of me, forcing me to the ground, pinning me in place. More of the brew is poured between my lips, and though I choke and writhe, the liquid burns its way down my gullet.
They let me go. I roll to one side, coughing, gagging. I think I vomit up some of it—it’s hard to tell the difference between the burn of acid and the bitter taste of the medicine itself. But some of it must have gone down, for when I lift my head, I see a series of swimming faces. Alderin is there. Philippa as well. Captain Norlan stands to one side, and several of my guards, vaguely recognized. Beyond them are the courtiers of Belanor, come to witness the spectacle—both the trial and their Dragon Princess.
“I thought I gave orders for her to be dosed before the trial began,” Alderin’s voice rumbles.
“Forgive me, my king,” I hear Philippa reply. “I did give her the dose as discussed.”
They’re drugging me. They’re rutting drugging me, and how long has it been going on? Just since last night, or did it start earlier? I try to rise, but my limbs are too numb, and I end up flailing uselessly. But at least now the three voices in my head have receded.
Alderin looks down at me, eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he says. “I suspected the arrival of your kindred would cause some disturbance in your mind, unused as you are to their presence. I took pains to prepare, but I could not haveforeseen how strong the reaction would be. We will be sure to modulate your new doses accordingly.”
I don’t try to make sense of this gibberish. And when disembodied hands grip my arms and drag me to my feet, I cannot protest. My knees buckle, my head whirls, and somewhere deep, deep down, I think I even feel the stir of fire in my core. But it’s no use. I can do nothing but sit where they place me, back in that cursed chair. Philippa leans forward and gently wipes my mouth and the front of my bodice before arranging my head so that I am looking down into the arena once more.
That’s when I see them. For the first time in sixteen years, I see them: dragon spawn.
They do not look like dragons in this particular moment. An unknowing gaze would think they were merely three young men of various ages. The oldest looks to be no more than my age, the youngest barely more than a child of thirteen, maybe fourteen, years. Is he even old enough to manifest his dragon form? I don’t know—my lessons in dragon lore are all muddled just now.
Dully, as though the thought is coming from someone else, channeled to me from a distance, I think:So, this is the final challenge. My champion must slay a dragon.
Then, even smaller, more of a whispered feeling than an actual thought:My brothers.
And suddenly I know. I know what last night should have confirmed, but which some small part of me wanted to resist even after nearly burning alive in my own flame. I am the Dragon Princess. I am the very person I’ve been denying all this time. I am Mhoryga’s daughter, Alderin’s protégée, the gods-rutting hope of the world. I am all this and more…
I am a sister.
Those are my brothers down below me, huddled together ina group, bound inmeorisechains. Mhoryga’s sons, born in hellfire, with living magma flowing in their veins.
“Take out the smallest one,” Alderin calls down into the arena. “We need only two for this trial.”
I watch in numb fascination as the long chains are yanked and the youngest dragon spawn is pulled away from the others toward a cleft in the wall. The older two howl and roar, straining against their bonds, all to no avail. One of them calls after the youngest, his voice ringing loud against the stones, “Courage, Rhyo! Courage, my lad!”
Tears pour down the boy’s face, and he cries out what might be the names of his brothers, his voice choked and incoherent. Then the chains drag him through the dark cleft, out of the reflected sunlight, leaving the other two alone in the center of the arena. Alone, save for the two champions.
I turn my gaze from Taigan to Warrick and back again. Taigan shifts on his feet, rolling his shoulders, keen for action. Warrick remains solemn and still, but there is tension in his stance. I cannot bear to look at either of them, however, and turn my attention again to the two young dragons. Was it their voices that were in my head? Was it their clamorous terror I heard last night, when they first arrived in Stromin Palace, captives bound for a dire purpose? Their fear had felt as real as though it were my own.
I’ve only ever seen dragons one other time in my life. On the night when the dracori attacked my home village, dragon spawn swooped from the sky, raining fire down on the rooftops. They had seemed like such nightmarish hellbeasts then, but now? Now they look so human. Mhoryga’s creatures, perhaps, born of hell and flame…but is that their fault? It’s not as though they asked to exist in the first place! I cannot know whether they areinnocent, cannot know how they have been used by our mother or for what dark purpose. But I saw the way they tried to shield and comfort their youngest brother, how they fought not to let him be taken from them.
They are my brothers. And now, I will watch them die.
“Unchain the dragon spawn,” Alderin commands.
By some magic or mechanism I don’t understand, themeorisechains binding their limbs fall away and are dragged from the arena, leaving the two young men standing there in a pool of sunlight. They are both without armor or weapon of any kind, stripped to the waist, and barefoot. Both are strong-looking fellows, one a little broader and darker, the other fair and freckled. Despite these differences, they are unmistakably brothers; even from this distance, I can discern their flashing gold eyes. Eyes like mine.
Alderin stands at the rail, gazing into the arena below. “Champions,” he calls, his voice a boom of thunder, “this is a trial of courage. You must show no fear in the face of death and fire. You must prove yourselves ready and willing to fulfill the mighty task which the gods have ordained for you. This is your final test, the culmination of everything you have fought for. Surrender your lives, offer up your hearts. And may the best man win.”
He lifts one hand above his head. We all wait, poised in that moment of suspense in which he holds us captive. “Champions,” he cries, then brings his arm swinging down sharply, “commence!”
Instantly, both Taigan and Warrick leap into action, rushing to the center of the arena. The dragon-spawn brothers stand back-to-back, watching their approach. I want to scream at the unfairness of it as I watch those two armor-clad men hurtling with blades and shields at two unarmed, unprotected souls. But theholabellaholds me in firm submission, and I can do nothingbut watch. From the tail of my eye, I can just see Philippa leaning over the rail, unable to disguise her own feelings in this unguarded moment.
As the champions close in on them, one of the dragon men, the fair one, kneels and folds his hands in an attitude of prayer. His brother tries to get him up, shouting at him even as he circles him in a protective stance. But the fair young man seems cut off from the world around him, sinking deeply into a trancelike state, his eyes closed.
Taigan darts forward, sword flashing. He cuts the darker man across the upper arm. The dragon man staggers back, and green, sizzling blood drips from the wound.
The man looks down at his arm, as though it doesn’t belong to him. He stares at that seeping fluid, so brilliant and hot, it seems to dull the light of the reflected sun. Then he looks straight at Taigan—and fire sparks from his eyes.
The next moment, he opens his mouth, and billowing flame issues forth. Even as Taigan leaps back, putting up hismeoriseshield as a barrier, the dragon man’s body transforms. His neck elongates and thickens, his torso warps, his back arching until the bones of his spine burst through his flesh in razor-sharp spikes. His skin shreds away, revealing scales so dark, they look black from this distance, but they gleam with a green iridescence in the light of his own fire. His fingers curl, nails lengthening into talons, and two massive horns burst from his skull. Anyone watching must know in an instant thatthiswas the true reality of his being all along, that the form he wore up until now was nothing more than an illusion. Only a body and being like this could contain such an inferno of heat.
The dragon, now the size of a large cart horse, sinuous and coiling with a barbed tail, rears back his head and sends anothergout of flame spewing at Taigan. The prince once more catches it with his shield, but even from this distance, the radiating heat is so intense, I can’t help fearing Taigan will be roasted alive.
