We Three Heroes (eBook)

One

Delucia was dreaming again.

Tonight, it was a good dream. She was flying on the back of a mythical draekon, high up in the sky, the sun bathing her skin and reflecting off the crimson scales beneath her.

Glancing down, she could see the whole of Tryllin laid out, from the harbour all the way up to the palace and beyond. If she squinted past the glow of the shining city, she could almost see the balcony of her bedroom jutting out from the eastern tower. But she cast her eyes away. Right now, her life at the palace didn’t exist. Here and now, she had no responsibilities, no duties, no obligations. Soaring high above the city, she wasn’t a princess—she wasn’t the heir to the human throne of Medora. She was nothing. She was no one.

She was free.

Then the clouds swept in, stealing the sunshine, and suddenly the draekon beneath her vanished.

With the powerful beast no longer keeping her aloft, Delucia began to fall.

An endless scream left her lips as she plummeted towards the city that was no longer shining, but shadowed by darkness. Fire—there was fire everywhere, smoke rising to the heavens. It burned her skin and clogged her throat, choking her screams, allowing the cries of others to reach her ears as she fell closer and closer to the ground. The city itself seemed to be screaming in pain—along with all those trapped within it.

People—those were Delucia’s people.

And they were dying.

A thunderclap sounded, the noise so loud it pierced Delucia’s ears and drowned out the screams. Lightning streaked all around her, so bright it was blinding, taking with it the vision of the burning city. All that remained of her senses was the ringing in her ears, the scent of smoke, the wind tearing at her body, and the scorching heat of the embers that were now nearly within reach.

Her sight cleared just in time to see the single image, one almost as shocking as the end of her beloved Tryllin.

It was a man—a man standing at the steps of the palace, a crown of golden hair atop his head, eyes blazing like the fires surrounding him.

His face—Delucia had never seen such a face. He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. And yet, she could feel the emotion pouring from him, the disgust, the loathing. It was like oil coating her skin, suffocating and poisoning her from the outside in. Because somehow she knew that this beautiful man considered her amongst what he detested. Like the city dying around them, he wished for her to suffer the same fate.

And as she fell close enough for his golden eyes to lock on hers, the last thing she saw was his satisfied expression as he witnessed her death.

Delucia sat up with a gasp, her hand flying to her pounding chest. Panting loudly, she tried to steady her breathing, allowing the early morning light streaming into her bedroom to soothe her.

“It was a dream,” she whispered to herself. “Just a dream.”

But… it had felt so real.

Her doubt was enough that she pushed back her covers and rose on shaking legs, staggering towards her balcony. Only when she looked upon the beauty of Tryllin laid out across the horizon did she utter a sigh of relief.

No smoke, no fire, no shadows, no storm.

Indeed, there was not a single cloud overhead, the rising sun hinting that it was going to be a glorious day.

Finally, her heartbeat began to calm. Unable to help herself, she let out a quiet laugh, wondering what had possessed her to think it had been anything other than a fantasy conjured by her sleeping mind.

“Something amusing, Princess?”

Startled, Delucia spun around to find her stern tutor at the entrance to her room. The bushy-haired woman had one grey eyebrow arched and was clearly waiting for an answer.

“Just a dream I had, Mistress Alma,” Delucia said, fidgeting with the edge of her nightgown.

“A dream?”

Delucia knew better than to answer truthfully, the warning in Alma’s voice enough to prompt caution. But she couldn’t help herself. “I was flying on a draekon, until I wasn’t, and then I saw a man, only he wasn’t a man at all.”

Alma’s eyebrow arched even higher, enough that it was like a baseless triangle resting above her eye. “A man who is not a man? What madness is this you speak?”

Delucia bit her lip as she considered the swiftly fading dream, the vision losing clarity the longer she was awake. Given the ending, she didn’t want to recall most of what she’d seen, what she’d felt. But fading or not, she still felt certain enough of her answer to say, “I think—Mistress, I think he was a Meyarin.”

Alma’s second eyebrow rose to meet her first. “Draekons and Meyarins? Gracious, child. You’re thirteen years old—such nonsense should be beyond you.” Her forehead crinkled, the lines deep with age. “I take it Master Ying is to blame for filling your mind with such tales of whimsy?”

“It was only a dream, Mistress,” Delucia said quietly, feeling a stab of worry. She didn’t want Master Ying to get in trouble—not again. It wasn’t his fault she was always begging for stories from the time when Meyarins and draekons had ruled Medora. Millennia may have passed since either of the immortal races were last seen, but unlike most humans, Ying was not as quick to dismiss or forget legends of the past. And since he was charged with educating Delucia on the history of their world—amongst other things—he was the best chance she had to learn what no one else would teach.

Of course, it helped that Ying himself was just as fascinated by the ancient immortal beings as Delucia was. She knew he would love to hear about her dream, unlike the strict Mistress Alma, who was looking at her with clear disapproval.

“Princesses do not dwell on dreams,” Alma said. “What you envision while sleeping is no one’s business but your own—and it’s to stay that way. Do you hear me?”

Delucia decided not to remind Alma that she’d only been answering the question asked of her. Instead, she ducked her head and replied, “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good,” Alma said brusquely. “Now get dressed, child, or you’ll be late for breakfast.”

As Alma turned and left the room, Delucia looked out at the view again, a sense of melancholy settling over her. While the latter half of her dream had turned into a nightmare, the beginning had been wonderful. The sense of freedom she’d felt while soaring the skies—oh, how she longed to close her eyes and return to that moment.

But… the joy of her memory was fleeting, overshadowed by the horrors that had happened at the end—horrors that were still affecting her, since her pulse, while much calmer, had yet to ease into a resting heart rate. The man—the Meyarin—the way he’d looked at her… Delucia had felt his hatred. Just as she’d felt his pleasure when she’d met her end.

Shuddering, she turned from the view, determined to let go of the lingering dream.

This wasn’t the first time a vision had affected her so. She’d been a vivid dreamer for as long as she could remember, and she often awoke with clear memories of what her subconscious mind had experienced while sleeping. It was just… lately, her dreams had left her feeling… different. Not necessarily a bad kind of different, just different. Especially on the days when her dreams were… more than dreams.

Delucia hadn’t told anyone, but at least three times so far over the summer, she’d had dreams that had come true. Small, inconsequential things, for the most part. Like when she’d dreamed that Warden Cassidy would be retiring from her position as head of the Shields, with Commander Nisha promoting Warden William into the role. That had happened in real life not two days after Delucia had already seen it—in her sleep.

Then there was the time she’d dreamed about Advisor Jaxon scolding his grandson Declan for wearing a wrinkled shirt while visiting the palace, with Jaxon so lost in his tirade that he’d missed a step and tripped down the stairs, breaking his ankle. Delucia had never liked the surly advisor, but she’d still felt bad when that dream had come to pass, wondering if perhaps she should have sought to warn him.

Lastly, just three days ago, Delucia had dreamed that a small delegation would be visiting the palace from the coastal city of Harovell—and indeed, that very morning, she had awoken to hear the news from her father that guests would be arriving that evening and staying with them for the following ten days.

Delucia wasn’t sure what to make of her dreams—of her premonitions. Once was a fluke, twice was a question mark, but three times? And with each occurrence offering such specific detail? She was beginning to wonder if she should tell someone. Not that she knew who, exactly, she should share her concerns with.

It wasn’t a question of who might believe her; she was a princess, after all. No, it was a question of who might fear for her sanity. That was why she had remained silent so long—that, and the niggling doubts she felt about her own recollections.

If nothing else, she found comfort in knowing that her most recent dream...