Roses of Ash, Breath of Dragons

Elora's POV

December. The snow in Oakhaven was never white.

What fell from the sky was nothing but black ash and coal slag, spewed day and night from the alchemical workshops. I huddled in the shadows of the back alley behind "One-Eyed Grok's" beast shop, clutching desperately at the hole-ridden wool cloak wrapped around my shoulders. The wind cut cold, slicing across my face like a blade.

The ground was littered with puddles of filthy ice water. The soles of my old leather boots had long since rotted through, and the freezing slush seeped into my socks until my toes went numb, all sensation lost. Only my frost-purpled fingertips retained any feeling—a needle-sharp sting that refused to fade.

Yet that pain kept me alert. It reminded me I was still alive.

This wasn't my first time slipping into this reeking back alley. In this man-eating lower district, survival meant scurrying like a rat into Grok's basement, stealing moldy hemlock or discarded low-grade potions the mercenaries had thrown away.

But tonight, something felt different in the air.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sharp and insistent, while my stomach twisted tight with nerves.

"Don't shake, Elora..."

I breathed a puff of white vapor into my frozen palms, trembling as I fished out the sharpened wire I'd hidden deep in my boot shaft and worked it into the rusted lock.

Click.

The lock gave way. Like a cat, I squeezed sideways through the narrow opening.

The stench inside nearly suffocated me.

Rotting flesh, excrement, and dried blood from some unknown magical beast—all of it trapped in this sunless basement. Faint moonlight leaked through a high, narrow window, barely illuminating the cage at the far end, its bars welded shut with mithril alloy.

I stumbled forward, one unsteady step after another. The moment I looked inside, a searing ache flooded my eyes.

Collapsed in the cage was a small creature. A juvenile frostwing dragon.

It should have been soaring above the glaciers of the far north. Instead, it lay crumpled in the filth like a discarded rag. Most of its beautiful silver-blue scales had peeled away, exposing raw, bloody wounds beneath.

Most cruel of all, two thick mithril spikes had been driven straight through its wings, pinning them brutally against its ribs.

At the sound of my approach, it lifted its head with agonizing effort.

The instant our eyes met, the fragile wall I'd been holding up inside me crumbled.

Dull. Numb. Just waiting, lifeless, for death to come.

Ten years ago, on another snowy night, when the Inquisition guards kicked down our door and looped a rusted iron chain around my mother's neck, the last look she gave me wore that same expression.

Like a discarded object, utterly abandoned by the world.

"Survive, Elora... even if you rot in the mud, you must survive." My mother's dying whisper echoed again in my mind.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing the tears back. In this filthy lower district, tears saved no one.

"Don't be afraid," I whispered, my voice hoarse and trembling despite my efforts to steady it. "I'll get you out... I'll take you away from here."

I dropped to my knees in the ice water, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the wire as I jabbed at the copper lock. The cold made my fingers useless, and the wire slipped, carving a deep gash across my fingertip. Blood dripped steadily onto the keyhole.

Faster. Please, just a little faster.

The little creature seemed to understand I'd come to save it.

It let out a soft, barely audible whimper and shuffled closer, pressing its scarred, cold tongue gently against the back of my hand where it rested on the bars.

Cold as ice. Yet that single touch finally broke me, and hot tears spilled down into the muddy water.

Click. It opened.

I yanked the iron door wide, already pulling off my cloak to wrap around the dragon.

Then, from the stairwell, a dim yellow lantern flared to life.

"I knew it was you, you gutter rat!"

A harsh, grating voice exploded behind me, startling a cold sweat from my skin.

I whirled around, the harsh light blinding me. It was One-Eyed Grok. His bloated face scrunched into a mass of folds in the lamplight as he glared at me. Behind him stood two tower-like mercenaries, their long knives already drawn.

My legs went weak, instinct driving me backward until my thin shoulders slammed hard against the iron cage.

"Stealing a few worthless herbs, I could overlook—figured I was just feeding stray dogs," Grok growled, his boots sloshing through the muck as he advanced. His voice was thick and oily. "But tonight you've got some nerve, haven't you? Touching my dragon whelp? Do you have any idea how many gold coins this thing's worth?"

There was no escape.

But I didn't kneel or beg. I knew pleading would be meaningless—it would only invite crueler torment. I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to keep myself from collapsing.

"It's dying, Grok!" I shouted at him. "You take it to the underground beast pits looking like this, and the buyers will burn your shop to the ground!"

Grok froze for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Dead or alive, doesn't matter—I'll just boil its bones down for potions! But since you've ruined my merchandise..." His single eye raked over me with unmistakable malice. "You'll pay the debt yourself. Tie her up! Send her to the underground Blood City—sell her to the vampires as a blood slave. A tender little virgin like this will fetch a nice price."

The two mercenaries let out crude, leering laughs as they closed in.

Sold to vampires as a blood slave?

I'd seen the corpses they dumped in the drainage ditches—pale as paper, necks covered in bite marks, like broken dolls drained of their souls.

No... I won't go.

My whole body shook uncontrollably. One of the mercenaries stepped forward, his calloused hand reeking of unwashed grease from roasted meat as it reached for my throat like I was a chicken to be plucked.

In that instant, the taut wire inside my mind snapped completely.

Everything I'd buried for sixteen years—things I'd been too afraid even to touch—came roaring to the surface all at once.

Why? Why were we born only to be trampled like weeds? Why must even our most desperate will to survive be crushed without mercy?!

When fear is driven to the edge of a cliff, the fall transforms it into a madness that burns everything away.

"Don't touch me—!!!"

I screamed, raw and piercing, my hands instinctively shoving toward the shadowy figure of the mercenary.

BOOM—!!!

There were no arcane incantations, no glowing magic circles.

I felt something scorching hot detonate from the deepest part of my body. A mass of dark crimson flame, reeking of sulfur, erupted from my palms.

The fire burned red-black, deep as congealed blood. It didn't ignite the rotting wood nearby—instead, it moved with terrible purpose, lunging straight at the mercenary.

"AAAAAHHHHH—!!!"

The man's screams were inhuman, agonized beyond comprehension. The dark crimson flames didn't touch his clothes or skin—they ignited his soul directly.

In the blink of an eye, his eyes rolled back, and his massive body crashed into the mud, limbs convulsing violently.

The entire basement fell into deathly silence.

The other mercenary's courage shattered. His long knife clattered to the floor as he collapsed onto the stairwell, too terrified to move.

Grok's lantern smashed to pieces. His bulk trembled all over as he pointed at me like he'd seen a living ghost. "You... you're a monster... Dragonborn! You're a heretic who should be burned alive! I'm telling the Inquisition!!"

He scrambled away, half-running, half-crawling, his shrill shouts echoing through the long night.

I stood frozen, staring down at my hands.

The dark crimson glow in my palms hadn't faded yet, coursing wildly beneath my pale skin along the veins.

Burning. Too hot. It felt like my organs were being roasted over an open flame.

I knew what this was. This was the "Covenant Fire" described in the Imperial Code—the kind that condemned you to be burned alive.

I bit down hard on my lip until the coppery taste of blood spread through my mouth, forcing myself back to clarity.

No time to freeze up. If I didn't leave now, by morning I'd be tied to a pyre.

I spun around and scooped up the small dragon from the cage. It was heavier than I'd expected, its broken scales cutting into my wrists until blood ran freely, but I didn't care.

I tore off my ragged cloak, bundled the creature tightly against my chest, and bolted out of that foul basement, my feet crunching over shattered glass.

Outside, an endless black night and a raging snowstorm awaited.