Seraphina's POV
I woke to silence.
For a moment, I didn't remember where I was. Then the chains on my wrists burned hot against my skin, and everything came rushing back.
The fire. The screaming. Draeven's golden eyes. Flying through the night in a dragon's claws.
Everyone was dead.
I sat up slowly, my whole body aching. I was lying on something soft—a bed. An actual bed with blankets and a pillow.
That couldn't be right.
I blinked and looked around. Stone walls surrounded me, but they weren't dungeon walls. Morning light streamed through a window, showing mountains and sky. Shelves lined one wall, filled with books. A small table sat in the corner with a chair.
This wasn't a prison cell.
But the door was locked. I could see the heavy bolt from where I sat.
And the chains were still on my wrists, burning constantly like a reminder of who owned me now.
I stumbled to the window and looked out. We were impossibly high—so high that clouds drifted below the tower. Mountains stretched in every direction, black and jagged and beautiful in a terrifying way.
No escape. Even if I could pick the lock, jumping would mean certain death.
I was trapped.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass. I looked like a ghost—pale, covered in ash and dried blood, my nightgown torn and singed. My hair was a tangled mess. Dark circles shadowed my eyes.
I looked exactly how I felt. Broken.
"Why didn't he just kill me?" I whispered to my reflection. "Why bring me here?"
The door's lock clicked.
I spun around, heart hammering. Someone was coming in. A guard maybe, or Draeven himself, ready to—
A child walked through the door.
At least, he looked like a child. Maybe twelve years old, thin and nervous, carrying a wooden tray. But scales dotted his cheeks like freckles, and when he glanced at me, his eyes flashed with an inner light that wasn't quite human.
A young dragon.
He froze when he saw me standing by the window. The tray shook in his hands.
"You're awake," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to run at him, to push past him and escape. But he was just a child. And even if he wasn't, where would I go?
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Zephyr." He set the tray on the table with trembling hands. "Master Draeven sent me. He said... he said you need to eat."
I looked at the tray. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. A cup of water. Simple food, but more than I'd usually gotten at the manor.
"I'm not hungry."
"Please." Zephyr's voice cracked. "Master Draeven said I have to make sure you eat. If you don't, he'll be angry, and when he's angry—"
He stopped, looking terrified.
I moved closer to the table. Not because I was hungry—my stomach was twisted in knots—but because this boy looked genuinely scared.
"He'll be angry at you?" I asked quietly.
Zephyr shook his head quickly. "No! Master Draeven never hurts me. He saved me. But he's been... different since he came back last night. Colder. And he gave very specific orders about you."
I sat down at the table. The chair was hard but sturdy. Everything in this room was simple but well-made. Not luxurious, but not cruel either.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"The Obsidian Fortress." Zephyr stayed near the door, like he was ready to run at any moment. "Dragon Lord Draeven's home."
"And I'm his prisoner."
"Yes." Zephyr's scales seemed to darken. "The last Ashencroft."
The way he said my family name—like a curse, like something poisonous—made me flinch.
"I didn't do anything wrong," I said quietly. "Whatever my family did, I didn't know about it."
"That's what Master Draeven said you'd say." Zephyr looked at me with confused eyes. "But you lived in that manor. You must have known something."
"I lived in the servant's quarters." The words tasted bitter. "My family hated me. They never told me anything important. I was just... just a mistake they tried to hide."
Zephyr tilted his head, studying me. "They treated you badly?"
"They threw me in the mud last night for spilling wine." I touched the chains on my wrists, wincing as they burned. "In front of everyone. They laughed while I cried."
Something shifted in Zephyr's expression. "That's... that's cruel."
"Yes."
"But they were still your family," he said, though he sounded less certain now. "And your family killed dragons. Lots of them. Even younglings like me."
My stomach turned. "Younglings?"
"Baby dragons." Zephyr's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Ashencrofts didn't just kill adult dragons. They took children from their nests. Experimented on them. Master Draeven's hatchlings were—"
He stopped, his eyes going wide like he'd said too much.
"Were what?" I asked.
"I can't." Zephyr backed toward the door. "I shouldn't have said anything. Please, just eat. The Council meets at dawn tomorrow, and Master Draeven wants you strong enough to stand before them."
"The Council?"
"The five eldest dragons." Fear flickered across his face. "They're the ones who judge crimes. They'll decide what happens to you."
"What do you think they'll decide?" I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear it.
Zephyr's silence was answer enough.
"They're going to kill me," I said flatly. "Aren't they?"
"I don't know." He gripped the door handle. "But your family committed the worst crimes in dragon history. And you're the last one left to answer for them."
He started to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm sorry. You seem... nice. Nicer than I expected an Ashencroft to be."
Then he was gone, the lock clicking behind him.
I stared at the food on the tray. My hands shook as I picked up the bread and forced myself to take a bite. It tasted like ash in my mouth, but I chewed and swallowed anyway.
If I was going to die tomorrow, I wouldn't do it weak and starving.
I ate slowly, mechanically, while my mind raced.
The Council would execute me. That was certain. The only question was how. Would it be quick? Or would they make me suffer the way Draeven promised?
I stood and walked to the shelves of books. Most were in languages I didn't recognize—probably dragon languages. But a few were in common script. I pulled one down.
A History of the Dragon-Human Wars.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Maybe if I understood what my family had done, I could... what? Apologize? Beg for mercy?
No. There was no mercy for an Ashencroft. Zephyr had made that clear.
But I needed to know. Needed to understand why Draeven's eyes held such hatred. Why an entire race wanted me dead for crimes I didn't commit.
I was three pages in when the door opened again.
I looked up, expecting Zephyr.
It was Draeven.
He stood in the doorway, still in human form, looking exactly as terrifying as he had in the burning library. His white hair caught the morning light. Scales shimmered on his neck. His golden eyes found mine and held them.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"You're reading," he finally said. His voice was carefully neutral.
"You have books about my family's crimes." I held up the volume. "I thought I should understand why you hate me so much."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe.
"And what have you learned?"
"That my family were monsters." My voice shook. "That they killed dragons for sport. That they kept them in cages and—"
I couldn't finish. The words on the page had been too horrible. Detailed descriptions of torture and experimentation. Of magic stolen from living dragons. Of children taken from their parents.
"And?" Draeven stepped into the room.
"And I'm sorry." Tears blurred my vision. "I know that doesn't mean anything. I know sorry won't bring back the dragons they killed. But I'm sorry anyway."
"You're apologizing for something you didn't do."
"I'm apologizing for existing." I set the book down before I could throw it. "For being born into a family of murderers. For carrying their blood. For—"
"Stop."
Draeven's command cut through my words like a knife.
He moved closer, and I pressed back against the bookshelf. But he didn't attack. He just stood there, studying me with those terrible golden eyes.
"The Council meets at dawn," he said quietly. "They'll ask why I kept you alive. Why I brought you here instead of killing you in the manor."
"What will you tell them?"
"The truth." His jaw clenched. "That I wanted you to suffer. To understand what your family did before you died."
"And now?"
He looked at me for a long moment. "Now I'm not sure what I want anymore."
Before I could respond, he turned and walked to the door.
"Draeven," I called after him.
He paused but didn't turn around.
"Did they really kill children?" I asked. "Dragon children?"
His shoulders tensed. "Yes."
"How old were they?"
"My youngest daughter was barely fifty years old." His voice was hollow. "In human years, she would have been six."
The air left my lungs. "I'm sorry."
"So you keep saying." He opened the door. "Get some rest, Seraphina Ashencroft. Tomorrow, you'll need your strength."
He left, locking the door behind him.
I sank to the floor, the book falling from my hands.
Draeven had lost a daughter. A six-year-old daughter.
And my family had killed her.
No wonder he hated me. No wonder he wanted me to suffer.
I pulled my knees to my chest and cried—for Draeven's daughter, for all the dragons my family had murdered, for the fact that I was going to die for crimes I never committed.
And somewhere deep in the fortress, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.
Roaring. Dozens of voices raised in rage.
The Council had arrived.
And tomorrow, they would decide my fate.