Page 119 of Cursebreaker

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I press the blade to my palm, prepared to slice, when I remember—I’ve bled here before. The night Will saved me from Owen, on Reckoning Day, he brought me here. My blood spilled onto this stone floor, and nothing happened.

He already knew, even then, I think. About the Relics. About my blood. About all of it. Is that why he brought me here that night?

The dagger slips from my grasp, clattering to the stone floor. What else could it be? If not my blood, then what?

I wish, now, that Titus were able to join me—wish our plan didn’t require him to stay behind. It was Titus who taught me how to access the passageways in Castle Grim—the magic Hildegarde used to seal them.

The passageways.

I drop to my knees, pressing my hand to the stone.

“Adonoc verash melor,” I hum, my heart pounding.

Click. The stones give way, just as they had in my room at Castle Grim, revealing a passageway at the foot of the statue.

I don’t hesitate to descend the steps into darkness, but the moment my head clears the opening, the stones seal back into place without my command, trapping me beneath the ground. Still, I don’t turn back.

The Key is here. It has to be.

Liv and Sylvie fly a few feet ahead, their pink and orange glows lighting the way. I expect the passage to cool as I make my descent, but the air turns warm, as inviting as a well-tended hearth. It feels as if I’ll never reach the bottom until finally, the stairwell opens into a massive underground cave.

Lined with torches lit with strange green flames, the vast stone room is unlike the secret cavern at Castle Grim. Above, the ceiling appears to glow with that same blue light I’ve come to associate with the sea, glittering like thousands of tiny sapphire stars. To my left, a flourishing garden of purple mystiks. I can just make out a heap of what appears to be glittering gold coins piled high among the flowers—enough coin to build a palace to rival Castle Grim, by the looks of it. To my right, bookshelves overflow with ancient tomes, their titles embroidered with symbols I don’t recognize. Trunks clutter the floor, overflowing with treasures of times long past: trinkets and gowns, jewels and daggers, porcelain dolls and wooden horses. For a moment, as I draw near to a collection of painted canvases, it reminds me of the vault in Hellion. But I know instinctively, as I inspect the illustration of a tiny thatched cottage nestled in a clearing beside a small oak sapling, who these treasures belonged to.

A low rumble to my left gives me pause. I turn slowly, my chest tight, heart pounding.

What I thought was a pile of gold coins now takes its true shape.

There, curled up like a giant dog atop the bed of mystiks, its glittering golden scales shimmering in the blue glow that emulates the stars above, is a Myth whose kind I’ve been told was completely eradicated hundreds of years ago.

The slumbering dragon stirs, and Liv and Sylvie dive into my pockets.

This is it, I think. I’ve come all this way to be eaten by a dragon. Or burned alive. I’m not sure which is worse. Either way, there’s no chance of escape. The dragon’s sapphire eyes find mine, sparkling with that familiar blue light.

The dragon gets to its feet, and my legs turn to water.

The legends spoke of a beast that guards the gates to Elysia, but there was no mention of a dragon protecting the final Relic itself.

I wet my lips as if to speak, but I can’t seem to make a sound as the dragon stalks toward me, its head low, intense gaze narrowing on me. My hand trembles, closing around the hilt of my dagger.

But I hear it, then, as clear and familiar as the voice of the water.

I’ve been expecting you, daughter of the sea, the voice says, as if speaking directly to my heart.

The dragon bends its front legs as if to kneel.

I must be dreaming. Say something, I think. And then, What do I say?

Perhaps you might start by telling me your name, the dragon’s ancient voice rumbles, soft and deep. Though I already know who you are, Aster Oberon.

My mouth parts on a gasp that, by the twinkle in the dragon’s eye, he must find amusing. How do you know who I am?

You know little of dragons, he says, as if that were answer enough. My name is Emrys.

I glance behind me, at the bookshelves and trunks. Were you a friend of Hildegarde?

I am a friend of Hildegarde, he answers simply.