I held my mother’s hand tightly as the priest droned on, talking about the afterlife and how it was the job of the living to honor his memory. I could barely think about his words, just like the first time, but not because I couldn’t understand then, but because my mind was elsewhere. My mother was alive, warm and breathing next to me.

  My eyes shifted to the people around us, members of my father’s family and the few friends he had, their faces etched with grief and solemnity. I knew now that many of them would disappear from our lives in the coming months, their support dwindling as the weight of survival pulled them in different directions. Some would offer empty promises of aid while others would pretend we had never existed at all. A widow and her son had little value to those who had their own lives to worry about, especially for a village so far south.

  We barely lived in the borders of the Naeran Empire, the eternally frozen wastelands of Driria only a day’s walk away from our little town. It meant that despite the occasional aid from the Marquess, our town was always struggling to get by. Without my father’s income, my mother and I would be left to fend for ourselves in a town where survival was already a struggle. I knew exactly how that would play out—how she would take on whatever work she could, how she would smile and tell me everything would be fine, even when her hands bled and exhaustion lined her face. But winter was coming, and there would be no work for her to do.

  I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around my mother’s fingers. She didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on the priest, her face carefully composed, but I could feel the slight tremor in her hand, the way she held herself too still. I had never understood her grief before. I had been too young, too lost in my own sadness to realize how much she had suffered. But now, standing here once more, I could see it—the unbearable weight pressing down on her shoulders, the same weight I had carried for five years in my past life.

  I turned my gaze back to the priest, but I wasn’t listening to his words. Instead, my mind raced, clawing at memories, trying to piece together the fragments of what came next. My tenth birthday had just passed, which meant I had less than a year before my dragon abilities began to manifest. It would start with my eyes; when my emotions run too high, my eyes will change to a brilliant shade of gold, glimmering like two molten puddles. It would be shortly after that my horns would start to manifest and it was then that my mother could no longer hide what I was.

  I clenched my jaw, forcing down the surge of anger that rose in my chest. I had been too young to understand the Marquess’s interest then, too na?ve to question why a noble of his standing would suddenly offer my mother work in his estate. She had been grateful—relieved, even—thinking it was an act of kindness. But now, with the weight of my past life pressing against my mind, I saw it for what it was.

  Marquess Blackwood had known exactly what I was before I did. He had seen my dragon blood as an opportunity, a weapon he could forge and wield for his own ambitions. We had been blind to it all until it was too late. By the time I understood his intentions, my mother was already ensnared in his household, trapped beneath his control. And in the end, it had cost her life.

  Not this time.

  I glanced at my mother again, watching as she stared down at the soft grass beneath our feet. It was a fever that had taken my father, a fever brought on by his foolish choice to work despite the winter storm. My mother tried, but he didn’t make it more than a few days into summer before his body gave out. I remember the morning, the clatter of the bowl as it bounced off the floor, spilling soup that no longer had anyone to drink it. The way my mother had frozen, her breath hitching as she realized he had stopped breathing. The silence that had followed was heavier than anything I had ever known. A silence that stretched through the days that followed, through the funeral, through the long nights where my mother sat by the dying embers of the fire, staring at nothing.

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  The priest finally finished speaking, signaling the end of the ceremony. The people around us began to murmur soft words of condolence, offering my mother hollow reassurances that they would be there for her. I knew the truth. Their words meant nothing. They would help for a time, but soon, they would forget us. They would turn away when my mother needed them most.

  She turned to me, her grip tightening on my hand as she forced a small smile. “Are you ready to go home, sweetheart?”

  I nodded, but I had no intention of going home. My chest ached as I looked at her, at the exhaustion in her eyes, at the quiet strength she carried even now. She had given up everything for me, had fought for me, had worked herself to the bone just to keep us afloat. I swallowed hard and turned away, stepping back as my mother turned to speak to one of my father’s cousins. I let go of her hand, took a deep breath…

  And I ran.

  I tore through the tall grass that surrounded our town, the familiar landscape blurring past me as I pushed myself forward. My breath came in ragged gasps, my legs burning with exertion, but I didn’t stop. I knew the way to Driria, had been a few times with my father when he went to trade with one of the villages. If I crossed into Driria, my mother would have to give up on me, and no one would dare venture there to look for me. They would assume me dead, and I would be able to protect her from afar. No one would learn I was a Draconid, and the Marquess would never set eyes on my mother.

  The tall grass beat against my face, and I cursed my smaller legs as they struggled to carry me fast enough. My breath hitched as my chest tightened, but I forced myself forward, ignoring the stitch in my side. The cool wind bit at my skin, the scent of damp earth filling my nose as I sprinted away from the village, away from my mother, away from the fate I refused to repeat.

  My foot caught on a loose root, and I stumbled, barely catching myself before I hit the ground. Gritting my teeth, I pushed forward, weaving through the dense grass, my breath ragged, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear my mother calling after me, chasing me into the grass, and I wanted to scream for her to stop. All she had to do was let me go, and she could be safe.

  Tears stung in my eyes again, and I closed them, doing my best to wipe them away as I pushed forward, forcing my legs to keep moving. If I let her catch me, if I let her bring me back, then everything would happen just as it had before. The Marquess would notice me, my mother would take that cursed job in his household and eventually, she would die because of it.

  The tall grass whipped against my face, the damp earth shifting beneath my feet as I ran. My lungs burned, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, but I didn’t slow down. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the landscape, and I could hear my mother’s voice growing fainter behind me. My heart ached, but I forced myself to keep going. It was better this way.

  And then I hit something—someone.

  The impact sent me stumbling backward, my momentum slamming me onto the ground. Pain shot through my back as I landed hard, the breath knocked from my lungs as I sprawled against the damp earth. My vision blurred for a moment, the shock of the impact rattling through my small frame. I blinked rapidly, shaking my head to clear it before I scrambled onto my elbows, ready to push myself up and keep running.

  “A little late to be playing.”

  I froze, my blood running cold as the voice washed over me like ice water. It was a man’s voice, but it was a voice I knew I could never forget. It was calm, quiet, and yet it carried the weight of command, of someone who was used to being obeyed.

  My hands balled into fists before I could stop myself, my rage causing my body to shake while I fought not to look up. To not let him see the hatred and anger on my young face as I forced myself to breathe. My mind screamed at me to run, to push past him and keep going, but my body refused to move. It was as if the weight of five years of hatred, of vengeance, of death itself had suddenly settled back onto my small shoulders, pressing me into the earth.

  I didn’t need to look up to see who it was. It was the same man who stopped my rampage, who stopped the rampage of the first evil dragon.

  The Crown Prince of Naera.