Elara's POV
The wine glass shattered against the marble floor, and everyone stopped talking.
I stared at the red liquid spreading across the white stone like blood. My hand trembled. I hadn't meant to drop it. But when I looked up and saw Father watching me from across the banquet table with those cold, calculating eyes, my fingers had simply... let go.
"Elara, darling, are you unwell?" Prince Adrian's voice was smooth as silk beside me. His hand touched my shoulder, but there was no warmth in it.
"I'm fine," I lied, forcing a smile at the two hundred nobles packed into the Great Hall. They were all here for me—for us. Tomorrow, Adrian and I would be married. I should have been the happiest woman in the kingdom.
So why did I feel like I was drowning?
"A toast!" Father stood, raising his goblet. His smile was perfect. Too perfect. "To my beloved daughter and our future king!"
Everyone cheered. I reached for another glass with shaking hands.
That's when the doors exploded open.
Guards in black armor poured into the hall like a dark wave. Their boots thundered against the floor. Women screamed. Men jumped to their feet. Adrian's hand tightened on my shoulder, but not protectively—like he was holding me in place.
The captain of the guard marched straight toward me, his sword drawn.
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, trying to sound brave even though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed my wrist so hard I gasped.
"Elara Thorne, you are under arrest for high treason against the Crown."
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. "What? No, there must be some mistake—"
"Take her," Adrian said.
I spun to look at him, certain I'd misheard. My fiancé. The man I was supposed to marry tomorrow. He was standing now, his handsome face cold as winter stone.
"Adrian, please, I don't understand—"
"Don't touch her roughly," Father interrupted, rising from his seat. But his voice wasn't worried. It was... sad. Disappointed. "She may be a traitor, but she's still my daughter."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "Father? What are you—"
"I discovered the truth three days ago," he announced to the room, and his voice carried that awful ring of sorrow that made people believe anything. "My own daughter has been conspiring with dragons. She planned to murder His Majesty the King and place the dragons on the throne of Astoria."
"No!" The word ripped from my throat. "That's insane! I would never—"
"We found the letters, Elara." Father pulled papers from his coat. Even from across the room, I could see they looked like my handwriting. "In your own hand. Arranging meetings. Promising them access to the palace. Planning the assassination."
"Those aren't mine! I never wrote—" The guard twisted my arm behind my back, and pain shot through my shoulder. I bit back a scream.
"Father, please, you have to believe me!"
For just a second, something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? But then it was gone, replaced by stone-cold certainty.
"Take her to the dungeons," he ordered. "The interrogators will get the truth."
The interrogators. Everyone knew what that meant. Torture. Pain. Breaking.
"No, no, no—" I fought against the guards, but there were too many. They dragged me backward, my feet sliding across the floor. "I'm innocent! Father, I'm your daughter! Adrian, we're supposed to be married tomorrow! Someone help me!"
But no one moved. Two hundred nobles watched in silence as I was hauled away. Some looked shocked. Others looked satisfied. Like they'd always suspected I was too good to be true.
My half-sister Isolde stood near the front, her pretty face wet with tears. But she didn't speak up. Didn't defend me.
She just watched.
"This is a mistake!" I screamed as they pulled me through the doors. "I've never even seen a dragon! I'm innocent!"
The doors slammed shut behind me, cutting off the light and warmth of the Great Hall. The corridor was dark and cold. The guards' grip on my arms was bruising.
"Please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Please, you have to listen—"
"Traitors don't get to talk," one guard growled.
They hauled me down spiral stairs that seemed to go on forever, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the palace. The air grew damp and smelled like mold and something worse—old blood and fear.
Finally, we reached the dungeons. Iron doors. Stone walls. The distant sound of water dripping.
And waiting in the shadows were three men in leather aprons, their hands stained dark.
The interrogators.
"No," I breathed. "No, please—"
The guards threw me forward. I hit the ground hard, my palms scraping against rough stone. Before I could get up, cold iron clamped around my wrists. Chains. They were chaining me.
"Wait!" I twisted to look at the captain of the guard. "I have a right to a trial! You can't just—"
"You'll get your trial," he said. "After you confess."
They left. All of them. The door clanged shut with a finality that made my chest tight.
I was alone with the interrogators.
One of them stepped into the thin light from the corridor's torch. He was holding something that gleamed silver and sharp.
"Now then, Lady Elara," he said softly. "Let's talk about these dragons you've been meeting with. Starting with their names."
"I don't know any dragons," I whispered.
He smiled. It was the cruelest thing I'd ever seen.
"You will tell us everything. Everyone does, eventually." He moved closer, the silver instrument catching the light. "The only question is how much you'll suffer first."
The first interrogator raised his tool, and I saw it clearly now—a thin blade, designed for precision pain.
But before he could touch me, a voice echoed through the dungeon, ancient and resonant, speaking words I shouldn't understand but somehow did:
"She bears the mark. Touch her, and the Destroyer will come for you all."
The interrogators froze, their faces draining of color.
And in that moment of silence, I felt it—a heat blooming in my chest where none should be, and the impossible scent of smoke in the damp dungeon air.