The council doors are large, menacing things with ornate patterns carved into the wood. I can hear speaking just beyond it, but it’s muffled and faint. I pause outside, waiting until my breathing settles before I make my entrance.

I have never stepped foot in the council room before, and I have always wondered if it’s as grand as they say. I never imagined my first time seeing it would be…like this.

Certainly, it spoils the grandeur.

With one last aching exhale, I draw the doors open, taken aback by the sheer size of the room within.

On the walls hang long tapestries of ferocious dragons, hunted by man. The silky, crimson-black sheen of their fabric shimmers like metal in the candlelight. Candles flicker from alcoves, and stained-glass windows cast an aura of moonlight within. They paint the room in colors that remind me of Solie; iridescent hues bathe the elders who gather around a long table, engrossed in discussion.

The large hearth at the far end of the room bears a Draco Scintilla. He curls by the fire, chained to the mosaic within, occasionally spitting flames at the wood to keep the room heated.

The council are in deep conversation when I arrive. But at the sound of my echoing footsteps, they all fall silent and turn to me. Their gazes are heavy, their expressions callous and dark. I’m suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands—how to hold myself, who to look at.

I feel so out of place here among them. Old, stoic men who are known for their austerity. They wear particularly grim looks on their faces, and I realize that perhaps it is because I’m a woman. Women have never been permitted to attend a council meeting…until now.

And for a moment, I’m angry I was born a woman. Facing the cruelty of the day is not enough. I must be reminded that I don’t belong with those in power—the patriarchs of our society. I must be reminded that they will never take me as seriously as they took my father.

It’s an infuriating fact, but one I’ve known from the beginning. One Papa warned me long ago. You will have to try twice as hard to prove yourself, Arla. That is simply how this world works.

The ghost of his voice echoes in my head, and I close my eyes momentarily, holding onto it.

I’ll try, Papa.

With a deep breath, I approach the table. The men all watch in silence as I cross the room to them. Uncle Ivan is the only one who rises with even a morsel of kindness to greet me. He hurries across the floor to take my hand, his robes trailing on the flagstone. “I’m so glad you came,” he says. His whispers echo through the vast room, not a word held in discretion. Still, he promises quietly, “Everything will be alright.”

He leads me to the elders, stepping aside to introduce me to the entirety of the council. “This is Arla Severn. Daughter of Dragon Master, Thaddeus Severn.”

They say nothing. Their eyes watch, hooked on my every move as Uncle Ivan helps me into a chair beside his own. I want to believe that their attention isn’t simply due to their pity over my father’s death. I want to tell myself that these men respect who I am and what I’m soon to become.

But respect is something that must be earned in these parts. And as Papa said, I have to work twice as hard to earn it.

I force myself to straighten. To meet their gazes—each and every one of them. I feel a spark of confidence bloom within me, but it is faint, and it takes all I have to hold onto it. To project it outward. To pretend it is something much larger than it is.

Then I hear my father’s voice in the back of my mind. A lesson he once gave me on dragons, and how a master should face them. Never show them your fear, he said. Dragons feed on fear.

I swallow, feeling my mind slowly fall into alignment. I will not let these old, rotten men feast on my fear.

A gentle touch breaks me from my thoughts. Uncle Ivan’s hand finds mine beneath the table, gently patting the back of it.

The chancellor rises from the far end of the table and clears his throat. His voice is thin and weathered as he declares, “I will call the meeting to order, then.”

He begins by tuning his wrinkly old gaze on me.

“Arla,” he begins. “On behalf of the council, I wish to extend our sympathies for the loss of your father. Thaddeus Severn was a revered man in this village. Far more than a simple Dragon Master. He served Valles without compromise, and furthermore, he was a dear friend to many here. A dear, dear friend. He will be missed.”

My eyes are beginning to burn again, tears starting to well. I can’t do this. Not today. Not now.

Do not let one tear drop, I tell myself. Do not show fear.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod in response to the chancellor’s sentiments. Beneath the table, Uncle Ivan’s hand is warm atop my own. But my fingers are digging into the arm of the chair so hard, they ache. Then I realize—

Was this my father’s chair? Was this the place he would sit when he attended council meetings?

The thought of him here—the thought of his warmth on this wood, his scent in the air—it all hits me like a strike to the gut. I shift my feet beneath the chair, digging the hard edge of my heel into my shin until it hurts. Until the pain is enough to distract. To re-direct.

“Very well then. Thank you, Chancellor,” another of the elders says. “Now, before we get into the thick of it, I’d like to discuss the main purpose of this meeting.” His dark eyes rove around the faces at the table, lingering when they reach mine. There’s something icy in his gaze. “We have a matter at hand that needs to be addressed. The continued rebel threats are far too important to put off a moment longer.”

The table implodes with discussion. Two of the councilmen begin arguing over tactics. Another slumps back in his chair, looking worrisome.

One shoots up from his seat. “A rebel is said to be able to bond with a dragon—”

“Not just any dragon,” another elder cuts him off. “I heard it was Draco Ignatia!”

The chatter weaves off into a handful of different conversations at once. The elders are all talking over one another—the room too raucous to grasp any one of their conversations.

But it doesn’t matter. My mind is on Drago Ignatia. A Great Dragon. One my father spoke of many times. I had only witnessed the majestic beast through illustrations that he kept in his study. Though, really, there was no knowing just how accurate those illustrations were; no one had ever seen Draco Ignatia and lived to tell the tale.

A loud slam on the table brings everyone’s attention back to the chancellor, and the dragon-claw mallet in his hand. “Silence!” he shouts. The room falls quiet, the elder’s booming voice bounding from the walls.

I can’t take my eyes from the claw in his hand, a feeling of disgust filling my mouth. Surely a claw like that belonged to a beautiful dragon. Why on earth would someone take it and turn it into a thing of horrors?

“Might I remind you all,” the chancellor goes on, his voice quaking with anger, “that such claims are entirely unfounded! We cannot allow these baseless rumors to sway us. They serve no purpose.” His baggy, crinkled old eyes search the table. “All of you remember…” he says, passing every face and falling still, yet again, on my own. “Most of you, were here and remember what happened to Julius Greymore.”

Suddenly, it feels as if the hearth has gone out. The air turns frigid, a sudden chill cast upon the room at the very mention of the rebel’s name.

The chancellor continues, “Julius made the mistake of bonding with a Draco Ventaria, which was—and still is—forbidden.” His trembling eyes sweep from face to face with pressing intensity. “He threatened the peace we had worked so hard to obtain between human and dragon.”

I feel a scoff itching in my throat. My eyes shift from the severed claw in his hand, to the dragon in the hearth, held there by chains. Judging by his timid behavior, he’s probably been trained to know that if he lets the fire die, he will be whipped. This is what they call peace?

The chancellor continues, “Which is why bonding is outlawed. As it will remain.” His quaky voice lowers into something of a grumble. “The rebels will be dealt with in time. Which brings us to the main purpose of this meeting. To announce the new Dragon Master.”

My heart quickens. I sit up, and for the first time all day, I am fully aware of my surroundings. I take note of this particular moment in time. The feel of the chair beneath me, the warmth of the hearth, the smell of roasting wood. I collect it all in my mind and store it away.

This is the moment I’ve trained my entire life for.

I watch with great expectation as the chancellor folds his hands behind his back and declares, “We are pleased to anoint our new Dragon Master…Ivan Severn.”