A dragon and an almost-phoenix walk into a ball. Why "almost"? We'll get to that.

The ball, like many royal balls, is big and ostentatious, to the point where you either want to wrinkle your nose at so much of it getting shoved in your face or romanticize Cinderella until you ignore the tar on the steps. The tar being, like many royal societies in Deon, the down-trodden class forced to scrub their fingers raw.

But I'm not bitter. I'm just a waiter. I'm allowed in the ballroom when guests arrive because I've got their stone-pale skin. Even though I'm a scullery-maid for the rest of the time, and therefore have no people experience other than averting my eyes and scurryi...okay, maybe that's why I'm a waiter.

Wonder what that says about our king?

But again, definitely not bitter.

The almost-phoenix looks pretty bitter though, as she strides through the open doors to the middle of the room. Murderously bitter. She's a beacon of color among all the white (seriously, how much do you need? Even the instruments are white), in a dress that looks like it's from the royal seamstress - the real one - feathers dyed blazing reds and oranges sewn into the layered shirts, twisting around the strapless bodice. They're stuck in her hair, too, a crown of laurels in her thick bun, lipstick and sweeping eyeshadow matching the brightest shade. Beautiful.

She doesn't hide her scarred body, either, but augments the red of her scabs. This Cinderella rages against the name her abusers slapped on her and throws the tar in the prince's face. No magic but her will brings her here. She's not just gonna disappear after midnight.

The only reason I don't call her a full-fledged phoenix is because she isn't a literal phoenix. But damn does she look like she can raze this whole disgusting dynasty to ash.

"King," she calls over the shocked whispers. Her voice is guttural from dehydration. And, most likely, screaming. Those scars look deep, and not all of them are old.

King Mordias gnashes his teeth. Then he regains his composure, smoothing an amused mask over his fangs. "Look at you, all dolled up. Come to sing the songs of your people?"

"The sky changes color," she replies, head high, "as do the leaves and the grass."

The king laughs.

"Yet you seem content to see skin as the same color. Unchanging. Yet Royal Scriptures depict us as forming from the soil. How can anything that grows from the same place as the leaves and the grass, under the same changing sky, be one color?"

"Better fertilizer?" Mordias offers.

The crowd titters until she says with a scathing smile, "You were surrounded by more shit, then?"

I have to cover my mouth so I don't ruin this majestic evening with my stupid snorting laugh.

The dragon, however, rumbles her amusement. No, I haven't forgotten her - you can't exactly forget a dragon. She's got a shifting spell for human legs, but she always has her wings to remind the humans what they dare address. The tips of these wings are fleshy pink with a opalescent sheen, blurring into solid emerald green. She's shaped her human form to look meek and skeletal in comparison, because she likes to literally belittle others. Even her hair, brownish green like rotten seaweed, hangs thinly in its braid.

But this human phoenix has clearly made an impression on even her. I'm not surprised.

After concealing his fangs again, Mordias says, "Looks like you and the others got all the stains."

The woman tilts her head slowly. I gulp.

"We have the sun's favor," she says, "She is so ashamed of you, King, she burns your pale fingers if you disgrace her with your presence too long."

"Watch your tongue," the queen snaps, "It's bad enough you're interrupting our evening. Treasonous talk will have you burned like the others before you!"

"We are not a problem to sweep under your fancy rugs!" the woman bursts. "Choice should not be a luxury! We are human like you!"

"You," Mordias growls, "are not - "

"Oh, Majesty," the dragon drawls, "don't finish that sentence, or your hypocrisy will force my talons down your throat." She scoffs at the guards raising their weapons. "As if you idiots stood a chance. You, woman. What's your name?"

The woman's fingers clench briefly. Human reflex when faced with a dragon of any form. "Esi."

"Short, to the point. Good. So, Majesty, are you going to try arguing with Esi, even though you fawn over the idea of diversity in your court enough that you literally appease me, an entirely different creature, with gold so I'll attend your little parties instead of taking your castle?"

Esi quickly covers her surprise at the support to stare down Mordias.

Mordias glares back. "We've entertained you long enough. Burn this problem at the stake!"

Esi obviously expected this. But for a spare second, I see naked, human fear in her brown eyes as the guards rush her.

"If the sun loves you so much," Mordias sneers, "perhaps fire won't mind you either."

"Why wait?" the dragon asks. There's something strange in her expression, but that could just be the discrepency of 'dragon in a human shade.'

Then Esi is a pillar of fire.

And for a second, I'd thought the dragon was on her side. Should've remembered: dragons take their side. Maybe Esi's sentencing sucked the fun out of it.

Esi's raw throat tears itself apart with screaming. She writhes, recoils, collapses. Sobs like an abandoned child.

Some of the guests finally seem to remember what remorse feels like. Eyebrows furrow. Gasps are uttered. All too damn late.

The screams curl into nothing. The fire drums on for a minute longer before descending into ash and ember. Dragon fire's definitely more powerful than regular flame.

"That," the dragon announces, "is how your pale king deals with people he doesn't like."

She's peering at the remains, though, like she's expecting something. If I had the strength, she'd be expecting a roundhouse to the face.

Mordias has to repeat himself before I realize he's ordering me to clean up "the mess." I stutter about my tools. They're swiftly brought to me.

I teeter-totter to what's left of Esi. Never swept any life away except my own. The dragon watches my approach. She doesn't look impressed, and honestly, I wouldn't be either. Unlike her or Esi, I'm a wimp with a brush.

As I kneel beside her, I want to apologize to Esi. To this shining woman who only wanted her loved ones to get a fucking word in. I already know Mordias and his ilk will bury her memory in stupid gossip about white dresses and how damn wonderful the sandwiches taste. And I have to be the one that helps them.

Fuck, I feel sick.

"Hurry up!" Mordias snarls. The music is resuming over him, like nothing happened. Like I'm not hovering next to a murdered human being.

My brush drops. I touch the mound with trembling fingers.

The ash moves. I cry out, scrambling back.

The dragon grins. "Didn't think you'd let them destroy you." She laughs at Mordias' wide eyes. "You think phoenixes have to be all bird? What matters is the will to keep rising."

Esi does have wings, though, sprouting from two large scars on her back. Blazing orange and red. But the rest of her hasn't changed. She even looks as freaked out as I feel.

"I - " she pauses to gulp for air. "I didn't want to be a martyr. I. I didn't want them to steal anything else from me."

"You won't kill him, then," the dragon says, a tad disappointed.

"They'd make him a martyr," Esi spits, wings arching. Guests stagger from her.

The dragon sighs. "Of course they would."

Esi shudders to her feet.

The guards raise their swords. She looks at the pile of ash she rose from. Looks at them.

The fear is definitely still there. Now, though, she spits embers as she refuses to waver.

"No matter how many times you burn me," she says, a song humming in her throat, "I will not disappear, King. Not me, not my family. I have grown wings, and yet I am not the beast here. Until you are civilized enough to talk to us, we will rise again and again."

She takes a deep, free breath.

"So, King? What is your answer?"