Chapter 1
A Bargain Struck in Iron
ELORA
Elora leaned against the hailstone bars, grateful for the faint blue glow they provided in the otherwise dark and grim dungeon. Her mind was veering from one thought to the next like it usually did on the long, cold nights she was imprisoned here. It wasn’t like there was much else to do but sit. Exist. To stew on her own persistent survival.
The saddest part was: this was perhaps the most peaceful moment she had experienced in years. Andthatrealization soured her. Made her feel ashamed. Because how much had Elora given up that she was actually finding herself grateful in this moment—and for what? Simply because the torture had ceased? That she’d found herself in new captors’ clutches, uncertain of what they were going to do with her?
Sheshouldbe worried. Fearful that they were going to do something spectacularly awful with her, just waiting for her guard to finally drop.
And tonight it had.
Down the torch-lit corridor, Elora heard the heavy screech of the dungeon door opening. She listened to the footsteps that echoed, marching closer, as she tried to deduce if it was one setor two among them—if a guard was simply doing their rounds or if they were bringing another prisoner to their new home.
Elora only noted one set of footsteps though. And it wasn’t until they halted before her cell door that true dread started to churn in her chest.
Keys jingled in the man’s hand. Elora’s back stiffened, alertness crashing down on her like a tree.
“You’re coming with me,” the guard said, cracking the door open enough to toss a pair of manacles inside. “Put these on.”
The light blue shackles glowed faintly at her feet. More hailstone. So that even while she would be taken out of one prison, she would still be contained by another.
Elora did as she was told, slipping her frail wrists through the holes and latching them tightly. She held her bound hands out for him to inspect. He eyed them warily from every angle before opening the door farther and gesturing for her to come out.
No longer did Elora have it in her to ask questions or argue. She had learned years ago that it served no purpose. So she did as she was commanded, stopping just outside the hailstone cell as the guard instructed so that he could make a final examination of her restraints.
He reached out with a shaking hand, and clutched in his fist was a single white flower—they always chose the white ones. As if those were the only buds that could be tested against herimpurity.
The guard pressed the delicate petals against her grey skin and flinched, preparing for the worst.
Nothing happened. It never did and never would. Not as long as they had their hailstone in place and had her too scared to do anything as reckless as trying to break away from its magic.
Relaxing a bit, the guard threw the flower to theground and grabbed Elora by the underarm. Distantly she wondered where he was taking her, what he would do to her once they arrived, but part of her didn’t care. Everything had already been done. Asphyxiation, drowning, branding, breaking. There was no new torment they could inflict upon her that her previous Caeloran captors hadn’t already forced her to endure.
Elora allowed the guard to drag her out of the dungeon and into the cool night air.
She nearly cried at the first inhale. Flowers and the rainfall from a recent storm; it was the first whiff of fresh air she’d had in who knew how many years, and she could’ve stood there forever, trying to discern the different aromas and which species of flora they belonged to, if the guard hadn’t tugged her along.
It shattered her heart to think that this could be the last time she ever smelled something so beautiful and vibrant ever again—that was until he marched her through the garden itself. It was large enough that Elora could’ve spent a dozen afternoons in it, wandering the winding paths as her thoughts drifted in and around every corner. She lost count of the number of blooms they passed by, but knew there were enough to fulfill every color of the rainbow tenfold.
She wanted to linger like she would’ve back at home. But that was a different life. A different Elora.
They emerged on the other side of the hedges before she could blink, and then she was being led into the cold, stone castle of Irongate.
Now the worried beating of her heart became erratic.
She had never met the royals of Irongate, but she’d heard the rumors of their ferocity, the cold iron that seemed to flow through their veins and for which their kingdom was named for. Their castle was much the same: cold, dark, and unmoving. Previously, when Elora had been a prisoner of Caelora, she’donly been brought into their castle once—to face a hasty and biased judgement from their king before being thrown into the dungeon and left to his torturers. She had never been shown proof of her wrongdoings, read her rights, or anything. Mostly because the citizens of Caelora didn’t view her as human or worthy of rights at all. They didn’t view the Ashen that way. Especially not ones from the royal family, who were villainized and blamed for the resurrection of dragons and the chaos they had once wreaked upon the kingdoms. Some claimed they’d even seen her and her brethren riding atop the massive beasts as they stormed through the southern regions, incinerating everything and everyone. But how in the Hollows would the Ashen ride dragons when their touch alone would’ve killed them? Just like it did with every other living thing.
The Caeloran people had never wanted reason though. Only someone to blame.
And she had been one of the poor souls to have carried that weight.
So when Elora had been transferred to Irongate, she wasn’t surprised to face no trial there either. She’d simply been bagged and dragged into the dingy dungeon, left there to rot for years.
The guard holding her now nodded to one of his brethren standing post outside two large double doors. The other man opened them, and Elora and her jailor entered. The room was so dark inside that it took Elora’s eyes a moment to adjust—despite years of captivity—as they walked down the lengthy path and came upon a dais with a throne and a queen perched inside.
To be completely honest, Elora had forgotten Irongate had procured another queen. Yet there she was, cradled in a throne of slate spires as sharp as the cold look in her obsidian eyes.
