Page 5

If it’s not the most flawless river rock I’ve ever seen—

My fingers brush over its surface, and the stone hums against my skin as if it bottled the electricity of a storm. I pause, my intuition urging me to leave it there. Or report it to the Padmoor council. But something else calls me to it, as if something whispers on a breeze.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Perhaps the buzz in my skin is a figment of my imagination. Would the council laugh at me if I took a riverstone to them and reported it as something else? Or perhaps they would pity me?

I’m probably overthinking it—wouldn’t be the first time.

I pull the stone free from the earth and cradle it’s cold, heavy weight in my hands. I brush a thumb across its glassy smooth curves, the black surface lustrous in the sunlight.

If it is a riverstone, it would make a nice matching set of earrings, ring, and bracelet. It might catch enough of a penny to keep us afloat with food and medicine for a considerable amount of time.

And if it’s not a riverstone?

I suppose it’s a risk I must take. Because if it is a dragon egg, I’ll spend my last seconds gasping for air with a noose around my neck. And my mother will be damned.

three

WILLARD

By the time I make it to the outskirts of Padmoor it’s after noon. Clouds skitter and dissipate, and harsh sunlight streaks across the angled rooftops of the town. I pull the hood of my cloak over my face, shading my eyes. Buyers bustle back and forth between the merchant carts lining the main road. Charred gouges shred the cobblestone street, edges of buildings blackened by yesterday’s attack.

Dragonfire is unlike regular fire. Fire burns everything flammable. But dragonfire scores its target, marring everything in its path.

As I walk further down the street, the frenzy of the crowd thickens. Each Arterian’s stare flicks over me with the same expression.

Wide-eyed.

Distressed.

Terrified.

It’s the first dragon attack here in years. And while it was only a matter of time, the event is enough to send people into a panic. Civilians stock up on what they can, in case another dragon comes. In case they aren’t as lucky next time around, and not even the King can save them.

Because dragons are ruthless.

Vicious and savage creatures determined to destroy anything and everything in their paths. They are loyal to none.

The King declared war on dragons long ago to save us from the wicked beasts. And we might have eradicated the dwindling species if sympathizers hadn’t split off for the Dragon Lands to our north.

Rebels: the more precise word for what most Arterians call sympathizers. They revel in bloodshed and worship the winged beasts of the sky. We’re encouraged to report any suspicious activity or persons to our town council. Turning in a rebel garners respect, and reporting someone you know? Honorable. It signifies you value your kingdom more than any loyalty to the people you love.

Besides, refraining to report a known sympathizer means a guaranteed execution. Especially since rumors began circulating in recent years that those same rebels were attacking the northern cities of Arterias. We are lucky we haven’t been targeted.

Yet.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

But it’s not something I can consider right now. I don’t have the luxury of time—we will probably die of starvation first. Unless some gods-assigned miracle saves us from this slow death.

I used to daydream a man would rescue us. On some fateful day, I’d be wandering the main street and bump into a handsome foreigner, his luxurious clothes pressed and lackingthe stains and tears of my own. In my dream, I was always puzzled at why he was so captivated by me. It certainly wouldn’t be my clothes, draping loose on my frame where I’d lost weight from malnutrition. Nor would it be the brown freckles dusting the red tinted blush of my cheeks, signifying my days in the sun. No, it would be my hair.

Definitely the hair.

I imagined the way his gaze followed the cascade of my silvery blonde hair down to my ribcage. He’d profusely apologize while helping me gather whatever I had dropped, and our eyes would lock. It would be then, in that moment, he’d fall head over heels in love with me, and I’d be whisked away to whatever castle he dwelled in. And I would never again have to gut, nor eat, another damn fish for the rest of my life.

A shoulder shoves against mine, and I’m clipped out of my thoughts.

“Watch where you’re going,” a familiar voice snaps.