Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Read Free

streaming down her cheeks.
    And now you return
to us, Elory thought, shedding her own tears. Now you're back among your
people.
    Ishtafel raised the
corpse above his head. His voice rang across the pit, deep, sonorous, a voice
of dark beauty tinged with menace like a panther lurking in a shadowy forest.
    "I took a slave
from among you!" the seraph cried. "She is used up."
    The slaves cried out as
Ishtafel tossed the corpse down into the pit.
    Elory winced and
scurried backward, chains rattling. Her heart thrashed against her ribs. Her
belly churned. One of her buckets tilted, nearly spilling the sticky clumps of
bitumen.
    Her friend's body
slammed down onto the rock beside her, bones snapping.
    Elory wanted to look
away, to close her eyes, to do anything but look. And yet she found herself
staring at that corpse, her eyes wide, her breath frozen.
    Bruises spread across
Mayana's face. Rough hands had torn at her clothes, and fingernails had dug
into her flesh. The marks of fingers wrapped around her throat, leaving raw
welts. Somebody had beaten her. Slowly. Inch by inch, finally strangling her.
Elory had seen death before. When you worked in the tar pits, you saw death
every day—death by whip, by starvation, by exhaustion. Yet here was a
different sort of death, something more meticulous, something wrong, something
that should never have been.
    You will serve in a
palace now! Elory's own voice echoed through her mind. You're blessed,
child.
    Elory forced her gaze
away. Slowly, fists trembling, she turned back to stare at Ishtafel.
    The Prince of Saraph
still stood on the hill, but even from this distance, it seemed to Elory that
his golden eyes stared into hers, his gaze haughty, amused. Across the pit, the
slaves and overseers knelt as one, heads bowed, trembling in Ishtafel's
presence. Yet Elory forced herself to stare into his eyes.
    I am a daughter of
Requiem, she thought, fingernails digging into her palms. If not for my
collar, I could become a dragon. I am descended from a great nation, blessed by
starlight. I will not cower before you, false god.
    From the distance, it
seemed as if he smiled—a thin, knowing smile.
    "Slaves, step
forth!" he cried, never removing his eyes from hers. "I will choose a
new servant from among you."
    Across the tar pit, the
stone refineries, and the fields of brickmakers, the lesser seraphim—the
overseers—straightened and cracked their whips.
    "Up, slaves!"
they roared. "Rise before your lord! Heads bowed. Rise! Stand still."
    Elory struggled to rise
to her feet. The noon sun blazed overhead, searing hot, burning her skin. She
had been laboring in the pits since before dawn, and she hadn't eaten or drunk
in that time. Straightening cracked her back and made her limbs shake with
weakness. The yoke still hung across her shoulders, chained to her collar, its
baskets of bitumen threatening to rip off her arms. Their fumes spun her head.
But she forced herself to stand as straight as she could, to stare at the deity
ahead. To hate him. Never to fear him. Hate was better than fear.
    Yet as Ishtafel beat
his wings, soared skyward, and then descended toward the valley, cold sweat
washed Elory, and her heart twisted with that old feeling, the feeling that
even now, broken and whipped so many times into this lingering wretch, she
could not crush.
    Fear.
    The Prince of Saraph
landed in the dust, yet it seemed that no dirt could ever cling to him. Not a
scratch marred his armor. Not a speck of sand clung to his sandals, his flowing
golden hair, nor his snowy wings. He walked among the slaves, towering above
them, seven feet of light, of gold, of immortal beauty. They said that Ishtafel
was centuries old, that he had lived and ruled even back on the Day of Burning,
the day when Elory's ancestors had been captured and taken to this land. And
yet, as he drew nearer, Elory saw that he seemed ageless. His face was smooth;
at a glance, it seemed no older than the face of a thirty-year-old man, the
skin