Elara's POV
The bucket of filthy water tips over, and I watch three hours of scrubbing wash away in a gray flood across the marble floor.
Clumsy idiot! Cook's voice cracks like a whip behind me. That's coming out of your dinner rations!
I don't look up. I learned that lesson the hard way looking up means they remember I used to be someone. Better to stay invisible.
My knees ache as I soak up the spill with rags that smell like rot. This is the grand ballroom. Three months ago, I danced here in a blue silk gown that cost more than most families earn in a year. Now I'm scrubbing the same floor on my hands and knees, wearing a dress so threadbare I can see my skin through the fabric.
The bucket refills. The brush goes back in my hand. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.
Hard to believe she was almost part of the family, someone whispers near the doorway. I recognize the voice Sarah, one of the other servants. She wasn't whispering three months ago when she served me tea and called me Miss Elara.
I heard she begged Theron not to leave her, another voice answers. Cried right there at her own engagement party.
My hands clench around the brush. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I stood there frozen while my whole world collapsed.
But I don't correct them. Let them think what they want.
Girls, stop gossiping and get back to work! Cook shouts, and their footsteps scatter.
I scrub harder, trying to push the memories down. But they come anyway, like they always do.
Three months ago. The ballroom packed with guests. Golden lights everywhere. Me in that blue gown, smiling because tonight Theron would officially announce our engagement. My parents glowing with pride because their daughter was marrying the mayor's son.
Theron taking the stage, so handsome in his black suit. His smile wide as he cleared his throat.
Thank you all for coming tonight, he said. I have an announcement to make about my future.
My heart pounded with joy.
I'm engaged, Theron continued. To the beautiful, accomplished Isabelle Ashenvale.
My cousin stepped onto the stage beside him. My cousin, with her perfect golden hair and her father's fortune still intact. She wouldn't even look at me.
The room gasped. Whispers exploded. Every eye turned to me, standing there like a fool in my expensive blue gown.
Theron finally looked at me then. No hard feelings, Elara. You understand I need a wife who can actually contribute to my future. Not someone whose family lost everything because her father was too stupid to see a bad business deal.
Laughter. Actual laughter from some of the guests.
I wanted to disappear. To sink through the floor and never come back.
But the worst part came after. My father found me in the garden, and I thought I actually thought he'd come to comfort me.
Pack your things, he said instead, his face hard as stone. You embarrassed this family tonight. Theron was right to choose Isabelle. At least she's useful.
Father, please
You're no daughter of mine.
That was the last time he spoke to me.
The manor gave me a servant's position out of charity. My room is a closet in the attic. My meals are whatever scraps the kitchen doesn't throw to the dogs. My family lives ten minutes away, and they haven't visited once.
The brush scrapes against marble. My fingers are raw and bleeding, but I don't stop. If I stop, I'll think. If I think, I'll remember that I used to matter.
Elara! Cook's voice again. Mayor wants to see you. Now.
My blood goes cold. The mayor never calls for servants. Especially not me.
I stand slowly, my knees cracking. The walk to the mayor's office feels like walking to my execution. Other servants stare as I pass. Some look curious. Others look sorry for me.
The office door is heavy oak. I knock twice.
Come in.
I step inside. The mayor sits behind his massive desk, and he's not alone. Theron stands by the window, arms crossed. When he sees me, something flickers in his eyes guilt, maybe. Or satisfaction.
Elara, the mayor says. He doesn't tell me to sit. I'm sure you've heard the rumors.
I haven't heard any rumors. I'm not allowed to talk to anyone.
The Dragon King has made a demand, the mayor continues. He wants a bride. If we don't send one in seven days, he'll burn the village to ash.
My stomach drops. Everyone knows about the Dragon King. He lives in the volcanic mountains north of here, in a castle surrounded by storms. They say he's cursed. They say every bride he takes dies within a year.
We're holding a council meeting tomorrow, the mayor says. To decide who we'll send.
Why are you telling me this? My voice comes out scratchy. I haven't used it much lately.
Theron speaks from the window. Because we wanted to give you advance notice. He actually sounds kind. It makes my skin crawl. The council will likely choose you, Elara. You have... no family to object. No prospects. And someone needs to go.
The room spins. They're going to send me to die.
Think about it, the mayor says. You could save the entire village. Hundreds of lives. Children, families all safe because of you. Wouldn't that give your life meaning?
Meaning. As if my life doesn't have meaning now. As if I'm already dead, just waiting for someone to bury me.
You don't have to volunteer, Theron adds quietly. But if you don't, the council will pick someone else. Maybe the baker's daughter. She's only fifteen. Or the teacher, who has three children. When you think about it that way, isn't it better if it's you?
They planned this. This whole conversation is designed to trap me.
I should scream. I should fight. I should tell them exactly what they can do with their choice.
But I look at Theron's face, see the calculation there, and I know the truth: I was always going to be their sacrifice. They just want me to make it easy.
I need to think, I whisper.
Of course, the mayor says. Take the night. We'll talk tomorrow.
I leave before my legs give out. The hallway is a blur. I make it to my attic room, close the door, and slide down against it.
They're going to send me to the Dragon King to die.
And the worst part the absolute worst part is that some tiny, broken piece of me wants to say yes. Because at least then I'd matter. At least then people would remember my name for something other than being the girl who got dumped at her own engagement party.
I press my hands against my eyes and try not to scream.
A knock on my door makes me jump.
Elara? Marcus. My brother. Can I come in?
I don't answer, but he opens the door anyway. He looks terrible dark circles under his eyes, his guard uniform wrinkled.
I just heard, he says. From the mayor's office. Elara, you can't
Can't what? I snap. Can't volunteer to die? Or can't make you feel guilty about it?
He flinches. Good.
I'll talk to Father, Marcus says desperately. I'll make him take you back. You don't have to do this.
Father made his choice. I stand up, suddenly exhausted. He chose his reputation over his daughter. You all did.
Elara
Get out, Marcus.
He hesitates, then leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I walk to my tiny window. From here, I can see the northern mountains, dark against the sunset. Storm clouds swirl around the peaks, lit from within by lightning.
Somewhere up there, the Dragon King waits in his cursed castle.
Seven days until he burns the village.
Seven days to decide if I want to die a servant or die a hero.
I'm still staring at the mountains when I hear it a sound that turns my blood to ice.
Wings. Massive wings, beating against the wind.
I press my face to the glass and see it: a enormous shadow passing over the village, blocking out the sunset. A dragon, silver scales gleaming, circling once before disappearing into the storm clouds.
The Dragon King himself.
He's watching us. Making sure we know he's real. Making sure we know he's waiting.
And somehow impossibly I swear those silver eyes looked directly at my window before he vanished.
My hands shake as I step back from the glass.
Seven days.
The choice is already made. I just don't know it yet.