Page 55 of Dragon Heir

With that, he closes the door, plunging me into complete blackness.

“Sinetar!” I shout as I bang on the wood until my fist aches. He doesn’t answer. I’m alone in this room, alone and blind. My heart races, my mind reeling with fear. Is he one of them—a traitor? Is he working for the Sun King? Did he take me down a long-deserted hallway and shove me into a closet where no one will ever find me?

I reach for the wall behind me but find it smooth and featureless. Panic rips through me, and I stumble forward blindly until I bump my shin on the edge of a shelf.

I grip another shelf, wincing through the pain. Sinetar didn’t say it was time for me to die. He said get claws. Which means this must be some kind of test.

Nice of him to tell me the rules before shoving me in here.

I grope along the shelf, looking for… Anything really. A key, a torch, a set of instructions.

Instead, my fingers find something leathery and cool, something that my hand wraps around perfectly. It’s a grip, the handle of some kind. As I slide my fingers past it, I find cool steel. Great. Sinetar threw me in a dark room and let me blunder around with a bunch of weapons. Clearly, he does not know me well.

By some miracle, I didn’t chop my leg off when I stumbled into the shelf, so I let my fingers explore more. I find more swords, daggers, scimitars, even an ax. Am I supposed to chop my way out?

As I’m creeping along the shelves, touching everything, I keep being drawn back to the place I started, as if I shouldn’t go further. Staying put where I first hit the shelves becomes more and more appealing the more weapons I touch. And then a thought occurs to me that stops me cold.

Maybe there’s something in here I’m supposed to kill.

That image nearly sends me into a panic again, and I scurry back to where I started, my heart hammering. I reach lower, finding another shelf, and below that, the one where I hit my shin, which still throbs. On that shelf, I find more of the same.

My fingers explore this one, a sword with a double-edged blade. I find that out the hard way when I slice my finger open. Towards the hilt, the sword has two vicious hooks, along with intricate carvings etched into the steel. Beyond the grip isn’t simply a pommel to keep my hand from slipping, but a shape. As I explore it, it becomes clear in my mind, and my heart begins to hammer. It’s the shape of a crown.

And then I realize I’m not just seeing it with my mind. A soft bluish-white light has begun to glow from the blade in one spot, like a glowfly. But it’s not a glowfly. It’s my blood.

Okay, not weird at all…

A minute later, the entire length of the gleaming blade has begun to glow with an irresistible light. I take it down, only to find an exact replica on the shelf behind it. I take that one too before I stand. Facing what I think is the door, I stride forward, using the swords to guide my way.

If I’m supposed to cut my way out of here, it’s not going to be easy. I still don’t see the door, and my arms have begun to tingle. I circle the room, which is filled with more weapons. Trying not to panic, I take deep breaths.

“Think, Vynessa,” I say, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here. That’s when my swords start to burn.

The grip has become so hot that I think my hands will blister. I halfway expect my skin to be glowing when I look down, but it’s just the swords. Swearing under my breath, I rush to replace them on the shelf. But I can’t release the hilt. I yank my hand back, and the sword comes too. I scream and try to pry my fingers open, but nothing happens. The skin on my arms is crawling as if alive, as if waves of insects are racing up my arms. I bite back a scream, watching in horror as the heat bubbles my skin into blisters.

The blisters grow into hard ridges of silver, sliding out from my skin.

Scales.

As realization dawns, I stop fighting, and pure agony takes over. My body stretches and contorts, writhing, bones snapping and reforming. I want to rip off my skin, but when I reach up, metal slices into my skin. The next jolt of pain knocks me to my knees, and something begins to rip out of my back. My bones snap, muscles tear, skin bubbles into scales. I scream until my voice breaks.

I must black out for a minute, or my dragon brain takes over, I’m not sure. Whatever it is, when I open my eyes, it’s over. My arms aren’t arms, they are forelegs. My body is smaller than I expected. I expected something big and prehistoric like True. The thought makes me smile—can dragons smile?—and a soft plume of heat comes out my nostrils.

I gaze back at myself, marveling that this is me. I have a long, thin, serpentine body covered in shimmering silver scales.

I can see all the way around my head without turning it, which is an advantage I wouldn’t have thought of as a human. My swords are gone, as are my clothes. It’s just me, a gleaming silver dragon. When I step forward, I can see that between my scales, my skin is gold, the way an animal might have a different color skin under its fur.

My staring is interrupted by the door panel sliding out. I’m glad I didn’t try to hack it down with a sword because it’s not exactly where I thought it was. It’s hard to keep track of your surroundings in the pitch dark, with no doors or windows or markers to guide you.

“Wow,” Sinetar breathes, gaping openly.

I look up at my teacher, growling low in my throat. Even though he’s watching me with obvious admiration, I’m tempted to blast him with fire. He did me dirty, but I don’t actually want crispy tutor legs for dinner. That, and I have no clue how to use my fire. Last time it came out, it burned down my washroom.

Sinetar holds up both hands. “I can explain, Princess, but not here. We need to go.”

He extends his arm over a wall, sending a plume of red runes in the air. A second later, one entire wall of the armory slides open to reveal a tunnel that stretches into the distance. The tunnel was clearly built for dragons, as the marble corridor is probably fifty feet tall and just as wide.

“Go.” Sinetar waves me into the space.