Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
A boy cowered in the shadows of a cave, shivering, his breath ragged and fast. Terror curled in his small frame. I’d seen this child once before, on a quiet suburban street, practicing with matches. Now he was a little older.
Outside the cavern, at the edge of the same cliff where Taron had once dared me to burn him, stood an older man I recognized. His father, Julian. The Chains of O shackled on his wrists, the metal freshly cleaned.
I gasped, breath catching like a blade in my throat. Another memory. Another truth seen from Taron’s point of view, the bond no longer showing me echoes but forcing a confession.
The man turned his face skyward, frail and weak, and there I was, descending from the sky.
My jaw dropped. I’d never seen myself this way. Not from the outside. I epitomized a tempest, massive wings of shadow and crystallized smoke outstretched, my body a terrible amalgamation of woman and dragon. Summoned by the chains while in the midst of a fierce battle with shifters, crimson streaked my embergold scales and crazed flames danced in my irises. My red hair streamed behind me, turning black as twines of golden and blue fire bathed it. Smoke curled from my nostrils with every breath, rising to form horns in the air above me. I looked unstoppable. Terrifying.
Fear contorted the man’s expression, but he didn’t run. “Test me, Queen Olyssa,” he shouted, his voice almost lost in the wind. He raised his arms as if reaching for me. His wedding band caught the sunlight.
Thanks to the reports I’d gotten, I knew that he was dying. But seeing him, compassion had yanked me from my battle haze. Death clung to him with a tight grip, refusing to loosen its hold. I was his last chance to live.
There, in the moment, I let myself forget how much I despised the process. Stopped caring about the consequences of my actions. In the dream, I circled him, just like the wraithlings circled their field, hungry and relentless. Fire boiled in my gut, spilling power into my veins.
“Please,” he cried.
And I did it. I gave in to the urge to do exactly what he’d requested and test him, opening my mouth and unleashing his worst nightmare.
His screams, oh, his screams. They pierced the mountaintop as the inferno engulfed him, ceasing only when his body blackened and fell.
I didn’t stay. Didn’t give him a proper human burial or show a moment of remorse. Like the monster I had been, I collected the chains and left, too ashamed to face the horror of killing another Locke.
This time, I couldn’t leave. I was trapped in Taron’s memory. He sprang from the shadows and crouched at his father’s side. He was trembling, mute with grief. How had I never noticed him?
“I know you told me not to follow you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come back. Please! I’m sorry,” young Taron repeated. Little noises of mourning left him, but they soon became full-bodied, keening sobs as he begged the corpse to wake up, to fight, to come back. His sorrow was a living thing. Loud, raw, shattering.
And I watched, wanting to tear the dream apart with my bare hands. To wake and never see this memory again. But I couldn’t look away. His pain carved through me with the strength of dragonsteel.
I flinched, staggering back, but there was nowhere to run. Not from him. Not from what I’d done. From realization. Of course he hated me. Of course he had betrayed me with the shifter king.
For the first time, I saw myself as Taron had. A terror forged in memory.
A cry tore from my throat, and the mountains vanished. I blinked in real life, my breath ragged as the dream dissolved like smoke. Sunlight blinded me. It was morning, I realized. Frowning, I scanned. . . the first thing I saw was Taron. Shirtless. Sweating. Vibrant.
He stood in a shaft of golden light, splitting logs with fluid precision, each strike producing an echoing drumbeat. His muscles flexed with every swing, and a dark lock of his hair stuck to his forehead. He was in the middle of a speech, unaware that I’d woken.
“—going to be okay. My tonic is working. You’re healing. Understand, Lyssa? You’re healing.” His low, gruff voice carried the weight of command. “You might or might not be happy to hear I’m healing, too. Don’t worry. I stored the flower with the crystal. We need only one more ingredient. One. Then we can break the bond. You’re to wake up. And when you do… we’ll talk. Understand?” he repeated.
Lyssa. The nickname burned parts of me I’d long thought dead.
I lay wrapped in soft blankets inside a makeshift lean-to he must have built; the shelter set between two trees. We remained in the forest. We were past the ice, but still in the cold, yet I was warm and dry, my strength returning. Despite my physical progress, my insides struggled. I felt hollowed out. The anger and resentment I’d clung to like armor had vanished. As if the dream had scraped them from my bones. Only sorrow endured.