A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,21

mountainside. Screeches and howls rose in the night. Lyana was slick with blood, her eyes stung, and her knees shook. She had never killed before; tonight she had taken three lives.

No, she told herself and forced a deep, shuddering breath. There's no time for horror now. She allowed herself to count to five. That was all. One. Two. Three. She trembled, forced another breath, and clenched her jaw. Four. Five.

She leaped and shifted into a dragon.

I must save Requiem. I can feel no fear. No pain. Not now. Not yet. There will be time for pain later. A blue dragon, she flew north, heading toward the city of Nova Vita. I will warn them. I will save them, even if I can no longer save those left behind.

She shot through the night. Behind her, flames rose and all the horrors of the world seemed to cry for her blood.

ELETHOR

My brother is dead.

The thought clutched him like claws of ice. Fear for his father, his sister, and his friends filled him too, but all drowned under the flood of grief. Orin. My brother. My pillar of strength. Gone.

He stood in Gloriae's Tomb, a towering hall of marble, its ceiling domed, columns lining its walls. There were many places Elethor could have gone this night. He could have gone to the temples and sat by Mori's side. He could have stayed on the Oak Throne, gazing upon an empty hall. He could have flown over the city with Lord Deramon, waiting for danger in the dark. But he had come here, to this place of shadows and solitude, to think and to pray.

The statue of Gloriae towered above him. Carved of marble, the legendary Queen of Requiem rose fifty feet tall. She held a sword of stone, and her hair was gilded. Her stone eyes stared forward, brave and determined. Elethor stood before the monolith, gazing upon the queen who had defeated Dies Irae, rebuilt Requiem from ruin, and founded this city of Nova Vita.

"I am descended from you, my queen," Elethor said softly to the statue. "But I lack your strength." He lowered his head. "In the stories you are always strong, brave, and noble. Even when Dies Irae murdered your parents, you fought with fire and defeated your enemies. Lend me strength now."

The statue was silent, staring into the shadows of the hall, eyes forever strong, sword forever drawn. The true Gloriae was entombed beneath the statue, Elethor knew, her bones resting eternally in the earth of the city she'd built. Would her city now fall?

He clutched the hilt of his sword, seeking strength from the leather grip. Ferus was an old longsword, forged in dragonfire a century ago. Its blade was three feet long, pale and grooved. Its crossguard and pommel were dark, unadorned steel. Many lords of the court wore decorative blades, pieces of art that glittered with gold and jewels. Today Elethor had chosen a simple sword; a weapon meant for battle, not ceremony. He had trained with Ferus for years—every prince of Requiem learned swordplay from childhood—but had never swung it in battle.

Orin was the warrior. He should be the one standing here, preparing for war.

Elethor clenched his fists and lowered his head. The pain constricted his throat, and his eyes stung.

"My brother is dead. My father flew to war. Tiranor attacks, and… what if Solina is among them? What if the woman I love returns with fire and death?" His chest felt tight, and he could barely see the floor's tiles. "What do I do now, Gloriae? Give me advice, my queen."

A voice rose in the temple, speaking in exaggerated falsetto.

"Well, first thing, my lad, I advise getting a haircut and a shave. You look like a bloody sheepdog. I don't know whether to help you or pat you."

Elethor raised his head and frowned. From between the columns stepped Bayrin Eleison, a gangly young guard with large ears, a head of orange hair, and mocking green eyes. An impish smile split his wide, freckled face. He wore a steel breastplate engraved with the Draco constellation. A sword, its pommel shaped as a dragonclaw, hung at his side.

"Bayrin!" Elethor said and grimaced. "How could you joke in a place like this, in a time like this?"

The young man shrugged. "The world is burning, my friend. What better time to joke?"

Eldest of Lord Deramon's children, Bayrin was nothing like his fiery sister Lyana. When Lyana would lecture, Bayrin would joke. When Lyana would drill with sword and