Fáolan sat alone in the vast palace gardens of Lascridh. The air was crisp here, and sweet, and all the carefully cropped hedges and vibrant flowers were but a distant din of colour as he looked up at a giant statue of a dragoness, all dignity and detail befitting a true ruler. It was almost lifelike, save for its immobility and a vacant, frozen gaze. Each scale was carved individually, and eight yellow gems of four different shades dotted the marble dragoness’s white sides. The inscription on the pedestal read:


    IN MEMORY OF THE QUEEN LIGHTBRINGER


    CáONDAI áL DEALáI, THE CONQUEROR


    MAY UNITY’S LIGHT GUIDE HER ETERNAL PASSAGE


    417—512 A. U. C.


    Cáondai the Conqueror. Fáolan’s great-grandmother. The dragon who had forsaken him.


    “The useless generation”, she had called them. The late Queen Lightbringer had not been aiming the jab thinking of her yet-unhatched great-grandhatchlings, but the weight of it fell upon Fáolan’s and Taori’s wings regardless.


    She had deemed her mother, Dealái, the queen before her, a disgrace for adorning her own hide with gems while Cavria was content with what it was, a united but withering empire. Then came her reign, and her iron claw, bringing new highs of prosperity, and with it an expansion, annexing a large part of the forests of Vyl. This was Unity’s way, she’d claimed. To grow, to conquer, to claim the weak by the paw of the strong—such was a dragon’s nature.


    She had deemed her only son, éoghan, a soft buffoon, and refused to acknowledge him as heir. She had pushed him into a swift courtship, and his son—Fáolan’s father—was taken under Cáondai’s wing, and prepared to one day take the throne after her.


    So it came to be that every second generation of the Lasthúir would bear the mark of “useless”, and when Fáolan and Taori hatched, the Conqueror Queen refused to even attend their Naming. She had died that same year, and father had risen to succeed her.


    Fáolan did not like to think of himself as “useless”—everything determined before he had left the egg—but he and his sister were two little whelps of a new useless generation against the claims of the most revered ruler in Cavria’s recent history, eclipsed only by the old founder-king of legend, Dúlamán.


    ‘What are you doing out here by yourself, Fáolan?’


    He turned his head, more politeness than surprise. There, behind him, stood his mother, her beige scales as always pristine. She wore a set of bands on her forelegs—silver studded with topazes and heliodors, her accessing gems—and a mirrored pair of hornbands with fine engravings, denoting her status as Queen Consort. White and chestnut swirls spread across her body, similar to Fáolan’s gold ones, but larger, broader, set in different patterns than his own.


    ‘I don’t know,’ he said at length, then turned away from her to look up at the statue again.


    Mother came to stand next to him, and he leaned into her warm, comforting presence, and it was like all those times before—peaceful, right. She kept quiet for a time, let him bask in the small tranquility, then said, ‘You are thinking about it again. What she said.’ It hovered somewhere between a statement and a question.


    Fáolan breathed out, tapped a claw on the stone walkway, then he looked up and was met by the soft gaze of the dragoness standing next to him, and in that moment there was no Queen Consort of Cavria, no Ruari ál Asari di Lasthúir, only the dragoness he could call “Mother”, one who seemed to possess some power beyond accessing that always allowed her to know what was troubling him or his sister.


    ‘I don’t want to be useless,’ he said.


    She shifted, tensed; he felt it where their bodies touched. Her eyes grew focused, sharper. ‘Of course you are not, Fáolan,’ she said. ‘Aodhan did not try to make you think so, did he?’


    A subtle growl tinged her words, and Fáolan was quick to reply, ‘No. Not at all. But…’


    But what? He was not sure, and the sentence hung between them, unfinished.


    ‘Cáondai is dead,’ she said so sharply Fáolan whipped his head to look up at her again. ‘And she was a strong queen, yes, but that does not make her infallible. She did not know you, and even then, how could she judge you so harshly? She deemed her own son “useless”. Why?’


    It was known. Still, Fáolan found himself saying, instead of an answer, ‘I like grandfather éoghan.’


    Mother smiled down at him. ‘So do I.’ She went silent for a few heartbeats, then added, ‘Truth be told, had she paid more attention to me, the Conqueror would possibly call me “useless” as well.’


    Fáolan’s wings flared in indignation, almost hitting his mother. ‘You are not useless!’


    ‘Oh, but I would be to her, would you not agree? A mere double accessor? And a Brightsinger, not a Sundancer? That is not a suitable match for her grandson!’


    Fáolan considered this. He had never thought of the well-loved Queen Ruari as “useless”. Would his great-grandmother have considered the current Queen Consort the same as her own son?


    And if she would have, did Fáolan want to be anything else?


    She spread a wing over him, and he closed his eyes, breathed, and then they both made their way back inside, leaving the marble statue of Cáondai behind.


    ‘One between the two of you will be chosen to inherit the throne after me.’


    Fáolan shifted uncomfortably under Father’s gaze. The king’s white-and-gold form towered over Fáolan in all its vast mountainous glory—their kind tended towards stronger builds than most other dragons, but himself being only ten he found most adults imposing, if not outright intimidating, and his father most of all. A crown sat proud atop his head, bearing down on Fáolan with its even golden teeth, and yellow gems blinked across the King Lightbringer’s body, embedded between his scales. A lot of them—too many to easily count. Fáolan did not shudder at it now—had not for a long time—but he still did not enjoy the fashion of Cavrian nobility started by the Conqueror Queen, of wearing accessing gems not with jewellery, but in this more direct and raw way.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The King Lightbringer had summoned them to one of the spacious guest chambers of the castle. Its part-gilded sandstone walls boasted arrases of white and silver and gold, radiant suns and depictions of dragons raising their wings to light. The chandeliers burning steadily overhead and the red plush sitting mats around the ornate table did little, somehow, to give the space a feeling of comfort.


    Fáolan looked sideways to Taori; her eyes were fixed on the dragonar before them. Her beige-and-white scales with flecks of brown were almost as scantily patterned as Father’s, but had more flair than his. Feeling, perhaps, his eyes settling on her, Taori’s gaze skittered over to Fáolan for a brief moment, only to immediately return to the king. Fáolan followed suit.


    Even as a “useless generation” they were, at the moment, the only heirs to the throne, but even so, Fáolan could not help a heavy unease settling in his stomach, confirmed as the King Lightbringer said, ‘You are not whelps anymore. Turning ten you’re shaking off your second shell. With that your assessment begins.’


    Fáolan knew it was coming, yet the news almost made his neck-scales flare. (He glanced at his sister; hers were steadily low.) He focused to keep his ground.


    ‘Now,’ the king continued; if he saw Fáolan’s reaction he made no note of it, ‘the trials will be spread over the years, until I declare my heir apparent after your Accessing Ceremony.’ He smiled then, warmly enough. ‘The late Queen Conqueror claimed that only one in two generations produces dragons fit for the Cavrian throne. I reject that. One of you will rule after me.’


    After their Accessing Ceremony. Ten years of tests.


    Neither of them said anything, and as the king finished his speech a heavy silence settled over them. What he had said was not unlike what Mother had told him in the garden earlier that day, but he found Father’s words augmented his worry, rather than diminishing it.


    ‘What would you say,’ said the King Lightbringer when neither Fáolan nor Taori spoke, ‘are the most important qualities for a ruler?’


    Here it was—the first test. All at once Fáolan felt exposed, woefully unprepared. His nostrils flared. (What was this smell? Incense and flowers and some other note he could not tell.) Right. Think. One question asked to a pair of ten-year-olds would hardly determine the whole of the ordeal, but even so he found his heart beating faster as he considered his reply, his tailtip’s movements betraying his anxiety.


    ‘Strength,’ said Taori before Fáolan could form anything of his own. ‘Not physical, but of the mind. A strong will, certainty in leading Cavria on its brightest path.’


    Fáolan’s claws twitched against his sitting mat, his tail swishing back and forth despite his utmost efforts to stop it. Taori’s answer was very Cáondaiesque, and the force behind it startled him. It might have been the correct one, too, and now Fáolan had to give a different one, and as the king’s expectant gaze settled heavily on him, he found it hard to think.


    So he said his truth. ‘Compassion.’


    One word, and the room plunged back into silence, thick and choking like wet-wood smoke. Fáolan looked uneasily at the King Lightbringer’s snout, but found no reprimand there, only the same expectant look as before.


    ‘Is this… correct?’ he dared ask and ignored a little scoff from Taori.


    ‘Oh, son,’ said the king, almost amused, ‘do not look at this question in the means of right or wrong. I want to gauge your mind on this matter. So, if you could, do elaborate.’


    Fáolan swallowed. ‘The king or queen watches over dragons. Is responsible for them. And has to make sure they live as best they could.’ He took a breath, looked between the other two dragons in the room, and continued. ‘A ruler should then have their dragons’ best interest in mind. They should lead the realm to prosperity, but… we should all prosper. And so the dragoness or dragonar who sits on the throne should think of them. Be kind. Compassionate.’


    He finished, and when it was certain Fáolan would not say more, Father nodded, and Fáolan sighed with relief. From the corner of his eye he saw Taori looking a little unsure.


    ‘Very well,’ said the king. ‘From today I will start your introduction to the art of rule. It will not be much, at first, for you are still young, but I want both of you to be prepared by the time your ceremony comes.’


    ‘But only one of us will succeed you?’ asked Taori.


    Father almost smiled. ‘Yes. One of you will be chosen at the end, by me. Today’s test was introductory, but over the years I will watch you, and test you. In the end, one between the two of you will prove to be the better fit and will be named the Crown Prince or Princess.’


    What of the other one? Fáolan dared not ask. His mind was heavy with the question, but a fear gripped his heart and stilled his tongue—that if he were the one to ask, it would be him to suffer whatever fate the loser was condemned to.


    ‘Now,’ said Father lightly, ‘today’s test is concluded, and I have matters I need to attend.’ He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘Be ready. There will be much more to come. I will call for you two soon.’


    And with that he left his two dragonets in the chamber, now two rivals for the throne. The carved wooden door slammed shut behind him with grim finality.


    Fáolan and Taori looked to each other.


    ‘Well,’ she sighed as though a great weight fell from her wings. ‘I was not expecting this to come so soon.’


    Fáolan hesitated. He looked back at the gold-and-silver arrases on the walls, at the room’s lavish decor, but, finding no guidance there, he turned back to his sister. ‘Is that the most important thing? What you answered.’


    He was awarded a rare look of Taori searching for words, then a minute drop of her head. She looked around as well, ruffled her wings, then said, slowly, ‘I… don’t know. I may have overthought this.’ She was quiet for a time, and as Fáolan said nothing in reply, she resumed to fill the silence between them. ‘I gave the answer I thought would be correct. One that Father would like. I tried to be like Cáondai. But then… I don’t know. You said yours, and it did not seem to be wrong.’ She lifted her head back up, met his eyes, gold to gold. ‘I agree with you, you know? To some extent. I think both our answers are the way. Even if I still think Father wants us to be closer to Cáondai. She is considered the strongest of our line.’


    ‘We will see,’ he said, and then, again, unsure if he was going anywhere with it, ‘We will see.’


    ‘I will win, though,’ said Taori suddenly. Her eyes bore the vicious sparks of tryhard confidence. ‘Even if I agree with you, I have no intention of going easy with you.’


    A memory came—a garden, a statue, a conversation—and he was not sure where the words had come from, but they were out before he knew it. ‘You are not Cáondai, Taori.’


    ‘What?’ She frowned, indignant, lashed her tail, stomped forward half a step. Candlelight from above glinted across her scales. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ There was a flash of fierceness in her voice, an almost-growl, and for a moment Fáolan wondered what he was doing.


    ‘You are not Cáondai,’ he repeated. He did not back away at her advance, stood his ground. ‘But that is good. Neither am I. You are… you. You are Taori. So… be Taori.’


    She frowned again, but less accusation now, and more reflection, then closed her eyes and sighed. ‘You’re right. It is just… Father set all this—’ she gestured vaguely with her wing— ‘today, and it got to me.’She drummed her claw against the table, looked around the room, then to him. ‘Thank you.’


    It might have got to Fáolan too, were it not for the talk in the garden with Mother.


    ‘We are not useless,’ he said, and the look Taori gave him laid bare the truth that surprised Fáolan, even though it shouldn’t have. He said again, ‘We are not useless. And we will prove Cáondai wrong.’


    A stunned expression passed over Taori’s snout, but then it smoothed, and with new resolve she said, ‘We will. Both of us. Together.’