Fireborne (The Aurelian Cycle, #1)

by Rosaria Munda

Because in the wake of the Revolution, to be dragonborn is to be wanted for dead. I was born Leo, son of Leon, dragonlord of Stormscourge House and Drakarch of the Far Highlands—but, since the orphanage, I’ve been Lee.

She is hunching again: Always, on the ground, Annie hunches, as if hoping to take up less space. It’s a jarring contrast to her confidence in the air.

If it comes to a choice, I need to choose according to my conscience and my vows. Friendship will not justify treason.

The white knuckles, the silence, the bowed head: Lee isn’t planning to defect. He’s steeling himself to stay, as I should have known he would.

“Oh, spare us the class-iron propaganda sheets,” she snaps. “It was an inside job. Who do you think poisoned the dragons? Farmers and fishermen? The Red Month came about through servants, advisors, courtiers. Atreus’s peers, the patricians who speak Dragontongue. The mob was only let in at the end.” At the end means Palace Day. Pressure is building in my temple.

And as she turned, it was revealed by her tread that she was fireborne.

It’s strange how you can fight your way to a door, even through it, without thinking about what lies on the other side.

The virtues of the old houses and their dragons are shorthands we’ve grown up knowing: Skyfish House, known for their moderation and mercy; Stormscourge, for their discipline and strength; Aurelian, for their judiciousness and learning.

“So you have learned Dragontongue in school.” There is unmistakable skepticism in Mithrides’s tone. Lee nods.

Their hubris was the Aurelians’ downfall, and it will be yours, too, if you keep showing off.

When I reach my arm out and lay it on her wing joint, she turns to look at me. Her horned face fills my vision, blocking out the ramparts and the city below and the pink horizon. And as I stare into her golden eyes, the memory rises, like a vision: my father, his voice flowing in my memory from another lifetime, gruff with an accent that my own voice lost long ago.

I felt how those words tasted, yes, sir to a dragonlord’s son, sour and familiar, like old milk turned. And I realized that if I don’t like how those words taste, it’s up to me to do something about it.

“You are the future of this country, Lee. A leader chosen, not born. There can be no compromise on that.” What would you say if I told you I was both?

Even if some fools are misinterpreting it—how could Atreus allow such a thing? He enrolled the Fourth Order riders in this course. He quotes the Aurelian Cycle in class with us, effortlessly. Clearly he shares my love for its beauty, its tradition—

“Much of what you’ll be doing, as Guardians, will be deciding which is the lesser evil. Who lives, who dies. It will be—it should be—a terrible burden.

“Times may come when you question yourself. On those occasions, remember that these decisions are better made by you than someone else. If everything goes to plan, you’ll be the most rational, the most well-trained, the most fit to rule. It will be your duty to make these decisions, to bear the guilt of them for others’ sakes.”

These are not my people; I am not one of them. Not anymore. These people understand justice only as revenge. They are undeserving, ignorant, and cruel.

“Think about it this way,” she said. “Even if they’re bad, we’ll be the ones with dragons in the end. We’ll make the rules. And we’d never be bad, would we?”