Page 10 of Cursed with the Dragon Prince
Maledictum
Reina
It is the dead of night when I next stir. The darkness is thick like a blanket, stiff and heavy. The sea’s cold mist penetrates my skin. I’m covered in countless blankets—Drakon must have kept piling them on.
Despite the cold, for the first time since I woke on the beach, I feel alert. I piece together the events of the day, shuffling scattered details into order, attempting to make sense of it all. I’ve stumbled into something strange, something dangerous.
The fresh wave of terror makes me shiver, except the emotion has become fatigued, no longer overpowering. I’m wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and there’s no immediate danger. Muscle by muscle, I coax my body back into sleepy relaxation.
Kaliyah said we would talk in the morning, only that’s hours from now. If I can, I’d like to gain my bearings between now and then. I need to reclaim my sense of self.
My mouth is dry, but Drakon left the water nearby. I sit up, letting the blanket slouch as I take a long drink.
Drakon watches from the edge of the dais, and while he cocks his head, watching me, he does not approach.
I run my hands against my feet, testing them. I’m sore, but nothing stings. The fae salve works better than human remedies, and already, I think I can walk.
Wrapping a blanket around myself, I rise from the nest. Drakon stands too, keeping his distance. I suspect I can trust him—he’s given me his oath—but I can’t never forget who or what he is. Dragon fae. The male who chased me into a cave.
I can’t leave everything up to others—I need to learn what I can.
With cautious steps, I approach the source of the sounding waves, where the sea breeze whispers into this giant cave. I pass through a short grand hallway behind the throne, and discover a balcony large enough for several dragons. It overlooks the vast, empty ocean.
The stars twinkle above, and reflections of the two moons glitter in the sea. It’s a steep drop to the black-sand beach where waves crash against obsidian cliffs.
This balcony is one of many, all carved into the volcanoes. Each is large enough for a dragon to land, though I stand upon the grandest one.
The balcony has no banister—dragon fae don’t need one—so I walk as close to the edge as I dare and turn around, taking in the isle.
Wisp is composed of countless volcanoes; the entire island seems to be made from them. Craggy canyons form between the rough peaks. Many are still and quiet, but several volcanoes are active.
Lava, a mixture of bold reds and ruddy black, streams from their peaks. Even in the dead of night, it’s luminous. The molten river streams down the volcano’s side, only darkening where it meets the beach. The island expands as the lava becomes stone—I’m watching the isle grow bigger.
If escape is my goal, this balcony isn’t my route. The beach is far beneath me, and I’m in no shape to descend. Even if I reached the beach, where would I go?
I’m marooned. On Wisp.
Wisp.I’ve heard of it before, on the village’s maps of the sea. The island is tiny, practically a speck, barely above the Rift but separated from the other Isles of Fae. Even if I could scale these cliffs, there is nowhere for me to swim. Without help, I will be trapped here.
My village never concerned itself with Wisp. What mattered most was staying south of the Rift—who knew what fae sea monsters lived north of the division—and my family focused on the mundane.
Yet I was curious. As a child, when I first saw the map, I pointed and asked, “Who lives on Wisp?” Nobody knew, nobody cared, and my question was soon swept aside for more practical concerns.
During adolescence, I would consider that mysterious island, knowing better than to ask. Eventually, as an adult, I put the question aside, my life filled with practical concerns too.
Based on the moons’ positions, I suspect this balcony faces south, and I’m looking toward my home. If I squint,maybeI can see the landmass of the human continent.
It’s the only home I’ve ever known, even with a family that named me cursed. I’ve never been so far away, and my gaze is drawn to the familiar.
My fingers brush my purple scaled birthmark. When I was young enough to wonder about Wisp, I also hoped these scales were special. Another belief stricken from me, particularly when my barrenness confirmed I was cursed.
With a deep breath, I absorb the endless horizon for a final second before turning my back to the sea. I return to the great cave. Drakon follows, still keeping his distance. He remains silent as a shadow.
Next, I inspect the golden throne. I’ve never seen so much gold in a single piece, but despite its value, the throne doesn’t seem rich or splendid. It’s misbalanced and inconsistent. Brokenin small places. While some patches gleam, others are marred. Filigree details have been rubbed smooth.
The worst of the damage is a red gash clawed across the throne’s back.Dragon fae claws.There, the throne is a deep bloody red, shifting with the same texture as lava.
The scar shifts, as if it’s breathing. I suppose if it is a true fae throne, it is alive, in its way. The stories say the Isles are alive, divinities who share their powers with the fae, connecting to their inhabitants through their thrones.
