The Dragon Slayer's Queen
On it sits a woman who is both stranger and mother, regal in a way that makes Zayla feel like a child, tall, skin the color of polished onyx, hair braided in a severe crown, her eyes a cold green that could cleave mountains.
The Queen—her mother, who left them—raises a hand, and silence devours the hall. The guards snap to attention. No one moves, not even the air. Zayla’s voice wants to crack. She crushes the urge.
“Approach,” says the Queen. Her voice is honeyed venom, every syllable rehearsed for effect. The group marches forward to the base of the dais. Only when they kneel does Zayla sense the first ripple of emotion from the throne: curiosity, calculation, and something like pain, quic