Black Reign

Ellette

The throne's armrests are cold beneath my fingers and the velvet cushion warm against my back and thighs. Frayed edges tickle my skin as I shift, uncomfortable. The air is thick with heat and humidity threatens to suffocate me. My fingers lift from the cool gold to my throat where they wrap around it's curve. I swallow.

They are coming, my queen. The man's voice is distant yet still, I would recognise it anywhere. Thorne. He has breached the front gates. The general holds them off but I...

His voice drifts off, lost in the conundrum of voices and shouts. Of screams of terror. Some are cut off easily. Others with more strain.

It takes more effort than it should for my head to lift. For my eyes to meet his. What would usually calm me would be just a glimpse of his always-calm stormy eyes, yet now that steadiness is gone. That calculated tranquility that had always remained in his gaze vanquished and replaced by fear.

He does not believe we will make it out. And truly, I do not either.

There is a sharp bang as something slams into the door with the strength of a thousand men. Another sounds and chips break from the grand doors.

My fingers tighten around the armrests until my fingers go white. I swallow.

Barricade the door! Someone shouts. It could have been Thorne, but I am not paying attention. Instead my eyes are latched onto the swaying curtains covering the windows. The smell that comes from them.

Fire.

There is a fire.

They are burning my city.

I jump up on instinct and run to the first long, narrow window to my left. I duck beneath the rippling scarlet fabric, tuck my hair behind my ears and stare, dumbfounded, at the chaos raging outside.

Houses burn, smoke curling off the few thatched rooftops in the city. The embers spring from one area to the next, marring baskets, shelves, clothes...

From the corner of my eye a flicker of movement catches my attention but disappears before I am able to do anything. It could have been an animal or a person. A beast, maybe, but the daylight bathes the ground and no beast other than our drakes would dare stroll the streets in the light. My eyes search the areas before me frantically. I see straw toys on fire, shirts left to dry burned to ash.

Everything stills then. Everything seems to calm as I hold back my soaring nerves and scan, really scan, my surroundings. I do not see soldiers. I do not see an army.

I see nobody and nothing but orange and red flickering and strengthening in the daylight.

But then, abruptly, a man slides in front of the window. Features simple yet stunning, his skin is pale but highlighted gold in the sun. The armour he wears is that of kings, a beautiful breastplate made of gold crested with elegant swirls. His arms are covered too, as are his legs. He carries no other weapon than the sword at his side. It is nothing special, nothing fancy. Just a simple black hilt with an elegantly curved blade.

With little warning, the man slams curled fists against the glass. I jump backwards, cobalt gown hissing. My heart quickens to a galloping pace as I recognise him. The golden man from my dreams.

Once more his fists collide with the glass. It ripples but does not break. It does not break. But he doesn't stop. He keeps pounding against the glass over and over and I keep backing away, away, away, feeling his garrotte around my neck once more.

My hands fly to my neck absently and begin to claw. I can feel my airways being cut off again. I can feel the rough texture of the garrotte's wire squeezing my skin. Turning it a fiery red that matches the temperature of my breaths as I struggle and struggle to inhale. To draw in the smallest, cool breath.