Brighid sat upright. “The show is starting. Pay attention.”
The curtain shrouding the stage drew back to reveal darkness and fire. Father had taken me to countless plays—but I’d neverseen this one before. Actors took to the stage bearing torches, marching in a ritualistic procession, clad in burgundy robes.
Reese hopped over the bench and sat beside me. He shifted closer and braced a hand on the back of the seat, offering his shoulder for me to lean on.
This was because I was injured. Not for . . . for anything else. I reminded myself of that.
And that meant I had no reason to refuse. I let my weight fall against him, and the pain in my side lifted, if only a little. Brighid glanced back at me, ruby eyes filled with scorn. Flashing her a smile, I gave the stage my full attention.
I wouldn’t have been able to look away again, even had I wished to.
The torches flared and blurred together, overtaking the world in red and orange. I blinked, but the strange vision did not lift.
Then, it changed. The fire swirled into the shape of people and burned away, leaving dancing cinders in its wake. The stage vanished: a landscape of golden fields stretched as far as the eye could see.
I lost awareness of myself, of the people around me. It was as though I floated above a story playing out in the world around me.
And for some reason, I was not disturbed by this in the slightest.
I was engrossed.
The ballad told the story of Ellis, a Fireborn man with a mane of flaming hair. He held the banner of dragons aloft and marched against an enemy kingdom, their fields golden wheat, their buildings purest white. In the chaos of war, he commanded all the world’s flame. The world burned beneath his feet, enemy magic bent to his will.
At the height of their clash, he transformed into the dragon itself—becoming an enormous beast of flaming scales and jagged claws.
Men and women rallied to their king's side, dressed in light leathers with short tunics painted in every color of fire and ash. Reverence shone in their eyes, less like they looked upon a king and more like they followed the footsteps of their god.
But this tale was a tragedy. The white kingdom gained ground until those who remained of the dragon’s army were pushed into their last surviving city. The dragon held aloft his banner one final time and valiantly marched into a fight he knew he would not win.
His dying embers rose into the sky, emblazoning the dragon on the heavens.
The white kingdom claimed the dragon's city, but could not keep it. Flaming rain hailed from the dragon's dying embers, and lava burst from the ground, flooding the streets.
The invaders were entombed in obsidian with their foes; their dying screams rose as one.
And so the city remained for the next century: an inhospitable wasteland of ceaseless lava and burning skies.
I blinked, and the fire overtook my vision again, wrapping the actors and scene in its embrace.
Then it was but a stage in a Muirashin clearing, surrounded by a sea of white birch trees. A sole actor stood alone before the falling curtain and bowed.
The odd man with the beautiful purple cloak and strange half-mask.
The curtain fell, and I snapped from my trance.
Shaking my head, I turned to Reese, but he was staring forward, wearing a bored expression. Liam had joined us and stood behind the benches, hand on his hip. He raised an eyebrow and shot me an amused look.
My eyes snapped back to the stage, and I felt like my world flipped on end.
Several actors in elaborate costumes performed a play I’d seen several times before: The Ballad of Burgundy Rose. The lead actor was dressed like a rogue, pantomiming climbing into the prince’s room to steal his crown.
My head spun. I blinked hard and noticed Brighid looking at me.
She smirked and pressed a finger to her lips.
Had only we seen that?
Reese looked down. "Are you alright?" He whispered.
