retrieve. She ached for it. She wanted to die, to never more feel this impurity, but still she flew.
She still had a second brother in Requiem. She still had a father. I have to warn them. I have to survive. Whatever more happens, however more they hurt me, I must live.
She flew north with tears and ice, the fury and heat of Tiranor on her tail.
ELETHOR
He stood in his workshop, white columns rising around him, and stared at the statue. The woman was carved of marble, skin smoothed, body nude and flowing. Elethor had spent hours gently chiseling her full lips, her straight nose, her hair that cascaded like silk. And yet, for all his effort, he thought the statue fell from the true grace of Solina.
If only you were still here, Elethor thought, hammer and chisel in his hands. If only I could see your true beauty again, not content myself with this cold marble. If only I could caress your soft skin, and kiss your lips, and hold you one last time.
He sighed, laid his tools on the table, and sat on a bench. Around his workshop, six more statues of Solina stood, some nude, others clad in flowing gowns of stone, all beautiful and all painful for him to see. And yet he kept carving her, laboring for months on each effigy.
I will create one every year until I see you again, he thought. Seven statues. Seven years. Seven lost hopes of seeing his love again.
The sun was setting, he noticed; he had been working all day without sensing the time pass. He rose, lit an oil lamp, then stood between the columns of his workshop. The house rose upon a hill, commanding a view of Nova Vita. Elethor often stood here, between these columns, gazing upon the leagues of birches, the houses of white marble, and the herds of dragons that flew above. The city was still beautiful to him, even if sadness had dwelled here since Solina departed.
Soon the sun dipped below the horizon, and the stars emerged. The Draco constellation glittered before him, the stars of his forefathers, the light of his people. He was a prince of Requiem. Those stars blessed him, and the people of this city served him, yet Elethor would forfeit both for the touch of a hand, a breath on his neck, a whisper of her voice.
"Solina," he whispered. A woman of sunlight and a prince of stars. Solina. The fire of his night. The pain that coiled forever in his soul.
As he watched the night, he saw a slim, sapphire dragon flying toward the hill. The starlight glimmered on the dragon's scales. Elethor heaved a sigh.
"Perfect," he muttered. "A visit from Lyana. Just what I need."
The blue dragon glided through the night, fire flickering in her maw. Soon Lyana landed upon the hill beyond the columns, her claws kicking up grass and dirt. She gave her wings a last flap, tilted her head, and regarded Elethor.
"You were missed at dinner," she told him, baring her fangs. "Your father is upset."
"I wasn't hungry," he said flatly.
Lyana spat a flicker of disdainful fire. With a growl, she shifted. Her wings pulled into her back. Her fangs and claws retracted. Her scales faded. Soon she stood before him as a young woman. She wore silvery armor engraved with dragons—the armor of the bellators, Requiem's ancient order of knighthood. A sword and a dagger, their pommels shaped as dragonclaws, hung from her belt.
Elethor hated the sight of her. He hated that upturned nose. He hated those green eyes that always seemed so haughty. He even hated her curly red hair, if only because he knew she was so vain about it.
"Not bloody hungry?" the young knight demanded, chin raised. She was a slight girl, a good foot shorter than him, but always strutted around like a giant. "Elethor, I don't give a damn if you just ate a walrus. You are Prince of Requiem. With your older brother in the south, it's your duty to sit at court. Lord Deramon asked for you, and—"
Elethor groaned. "Lyana! I don't want to hear any more of your lectures."
The girl was insufferable; she had been especially bad since betrothing Orin last summer. If before she had boasted of her knighthood—which was bad enough—Lyana was now set to be a princess, then a queen someday. It had inflated her pride to intolerable levels. She was perhaps shorter than Elethor, and five years younger, but she still