《The Crushing Light》


 Prelude

    A dragon washed ashore, unconscious. His body lay sprawled out upon a pebbly beach of a nameless isle, half-submerged as saltwater lapped gently against his cut back and slashed wings. Their almost tender touch fell in stark contrast to the storm raging farther over the sea.


    A stray wave lashed at him, submerging him whole¡ªas though the briny depths were trying to reclaim their little plaything¡ªbut it came back with no catch, receding alone into the watery unrest. The dragon¡¯s head shot up then, roused by the assault, and his body spasmed, and he retched what had to be a bucketful of seawater. He tried to stand, failed, and as his shaky paws gave way beneath him, he coughed up more brine and groggily blinked open salt-crusted eyes.


    All that greeted him was darkness. His mind reached for¡­ something¡ªsomething that wasn¡¯t there. He frowned, confused. What was he¡­?


    In the black of night he could see little, but as far behind lightning struck, for a heartbeat the image in front of him resolved itself into a beach of small flat-round stones, and a forest farther up. As his consciousness slowly slid back into place, with it came a stinging pain, and there was no part of him spared¡ªpaws and back and wings and belly, the whole of him felt like one giant wound, made worse by the briny water drenching him from head to claw. He looked himself over, and in the scant momentary light he was a bulky patterned form¡ªexact colours difficult to tell, smeared as they were with blood. His whole body was littered with cuts both big and small. The largest ones ran the length of his sides, four on each, evenly spaced. There were other wounds as well¡ªsmall ovals of scabs and missing scales. He counted eight of those, too.


    With some difficulty he lifted his head and looked back. A storm rumbled over the sea and obscured the horizon, great enough he could scarcely imagine himself flying through it, even in a better condition. Was that where he¡¯d come from? His throat felt parched, as though he had not drunk in days. He swallowed thickly, and it hurt.


    He forced his shaky paws to move, hefted his battered bulk onto all fours, swaying slightly. The wind tugged hard at his wings and he had to force them tight against his body, and hissed as wound touched wound.


    His eyes were getting used to the oppressive darkness. He tried to wipe at them with his paw and he nearly lost his balance, only barely managing to stay upright. It did little to improve his vision, so he tried to trudge to the forest to wait out the storm. His tail dragged limply across the beach.


    He wondered if he was supposed to be here.


    He did not know. In fact, he knew naught.


    Questions swam in his mind as he groped blindly for any sliver of memory, any remnant of his past. Where was he, who was he, how did he get here, what was this place?


    It would come back, he told himself. He was in shock. (How did he know?) The storm on the sea would pass, and the haze in his mind would too, he only had to wait it out.


    He did not trust himself to rest. Having crawled back into consciousness, he found it a fleeting thing. Every step was wobbly, every thought was groggy. He feared that, should he allow himself to sleep through the storm, he might not wake again.


    He went inland.


    The forest was a tricky thing¡ªhere and again his paw would snag on a creeping vine or a twisted root, there and now he would hear a hiss or chirp or growl, and he would wonder whether it were the land¡¯s inhabitants, or his tired mind playing tricks upon him. He saw no one else¡ªanimal or dragon¡ªbut the woods were dense and the sky was dark, and his sight allowed him little more than the extent of his outstretched paws.


    He made his way slowly, carefully, through the undergrowth, and after what had to be an hour (or a half? or a quarter? he could not tell) the darkness was broken by a shard of light a bit to the left. He gasped, awakening fresh pain in his parched throat, and veered in that direction. In a few moments he found himself at the edge of a clearing so luminous he had to squint against the light, and even then it stung his eyes. When his vision readjusted he looked up and stared.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Before him was a squat building of stone so white it seemed to give off its own glow. The source of light wasn¡¯t the thing itself¡ªthe stones were set aglow by something deeper in. A wide staircase led to a low-set platform and two rows of columns supported a triangular roof. The base of the platform was adorned in elaborate carvings he could not quite discern from this distance, and the roof appeared to mirror them exactly.


    He hesitated at the edge of the clearing. He knew nothing of this building, but on some deeper level, with a sense he could not quite place, he felt something inside¡ªthe source of light, perhaps¡ªpulsing and radiating with power.


    He took a step back into the forest and it felt wrong.


    The thing inside was calling him. He was struck with sudden fear, but found himself, despite his mind¡¯s incessant roars of protest, walking back to the clearing¡¯s edge and then onward still.


    He stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up. It was hardly a big climb, but tired and beaten and cut as he was, he wondered if he could make it. The beckoning he felt from the thing inside gave him little choice, as he found himself lifting a paw and setting it down on the bottommost step. All at once the eight different wounds¡ªand one other, somewhere else he could not see¡ªscreamed with a new, longing pain. His paw buckled, but he steeled himself and pushed on.


    The way up was slow and torturous, unspeakably so for such a short climb. Each step brought a new wave of melancholy, but he pushed on, and eventually his paws found the top of the stairway and the blinding white flatness of the structure. It hurt to look. He blinked, again and again, and then some more.


    It took his eyes a good while to get their bearings, and when they did he cast a look around the structure. To the sides the rows of columns were simple things, with minimal carvings at the base and top¡ªvines and trees and small wingless dragons in various poses, long, jagged crests running along their backs and tails. He frowned. He remembered little, but he knew he had wings himself¡ªcut and torn and hurting as they were¡ªand he knew that having them felt right.


    He stepped farther in. The pads of his paws squelched against the stone, glaringly loud in the tranquil temple. He grimaced at the sound and turned back to see a trail of watery pawprints in his wake.


    He hoped whoever saw after this place would not mind. If anyone did at all.


    Step after torturous step he approached the radiant thing. Set upon a pedestal of, if possible, even whiter stone, was brilliance hewn into a solid form¡ªa gem, colourless and neatly cut, about as large as his own head, pulsing with some alien strength. His heart beat faster as he stared at it, unable to move.


    A voice called from behind.


    He whipped around, panicked, and where before there was nothing but his briny trail, now stood a dragon¡ªbrown and big and bulky. He could not discern their scent nor voice¡ªcould barely make out the nondescript brown of their scales and a flattened white crest. No, not a crest¡ªwhat he¡¯d taken for one on the carvings was fur. It ran from the top of their head, along their neck, back and tail, culminating at the tuft at the tip. The stranger wore scant adornments, most notable of which was a metal band set against his brow, studded with three white gems.


    And, like the dragons on the carvings, the stranger had no wings.


    The two dragons regarded each other in silence, the storm now but a quiet thrum in the distance. The newcomer lifted their gaze at him, and around the black pupil, their irises were white. They spoke once more, but the confusion of sounds meant nothing.


    They stepped forward then, a frown on their snout, and, grabbing him by the shoulder (pain seared across it; he tried to break the hold, but it only hurt more), their eyes flashed with a whitish glow, and they said, ¡®Who are you?¡¯


    He blinked, too stunned to speak. Then he opened his maw, tried to speak, but words kept eluding him, lost somewhere between his tired mind and parched tongue. Finally, under the wingless dragon¡¯s relentless, shining gaze, he managed, ¡®I don¡¯t know.¡¯ And then, ¡®I don¡¯t remember.¡¯


    They frowned, clicked their foreclaws against the stone, then said, ¡®Come,¡¯ and released their grip. He barely caught the dimming of the glow in the stranger¡¯s eyes as they made their way to the gem, and he followed.


    They looked at him pointedly, seemingly unsure, then pointed to the gem, laying their paw against it. There came an audible whoosh and he took a step back, but after a few more frantic heartbeats nothing more seemed to be happening. Gingerly he padded back to the shining gem, all too aware of its hidden strength. (How?) But if the stranger could touch it, why could not he? As though for emphasis, they sent him an impatient look.


    He huffed and let his paw rest against the gem, and a roar loud enough to set the distant storm atremble ripped from his throat as the world exploded into shining whiteness.


    Remade.

 Prologue: Hatchlings [507-512 A.U.C.]

    507 A. U. C.


    Rubin tucked his paws close to his body as Melodia drenched their egg in white fire.


    It was a thing as customary as it was necessary. As the only dragons blessed with fire, the Ablyns needed heat to hatch, and with their turquoise egg nearing hatching-time it was imperative the parents stay at its side, warming it with their flames.


    From time to time Rubin added his, the reddish-orange glow complimenting the white of his mate, deepening the shadows that flickered against the cavern¡¯s walls and accentuating the deep black and crimson of his own scales. It was, though, only a symbolic gesture¡ªhe could never hope to produce flames as hot as Melodia¡¯s. Still, leaving her alone in the work was out of the question.


    ¡®Now, of all times,¡¯ he said wistfully. ¡®What kind of world will they hatch into?¡¯


    The stream of white fire broke. ¡®We¡¯ve talked about this, love.¡¯ There was no reprimand in her voice, though Rubin could still sense her impatience with the topic. ¡®By the time they grow up¡ª¡¯


    ¡®I know, I know,¡¯ he acquiesced. ¡®Still, in, what, a year? Two? Jagrav will want us back. How can we hope to raise a dragonet with that over our heads?¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll manage,¡¯ Melodia said with unwavering resolve, sending a particularly strong breath of fire for emphasis. Rubin admired her confidence, as much¡ªif not more¡ªas when they had met. The glow of her flames reflected off of her swirly patterns in varying shades of blue, danced in her turquoise eyes. ¡®Besides,¡¯ she added, ¡®if not now, when? Do you think the war will end in just a few years? As it is, our child may not hatch into peace, but could live long enough to see it. Perhaps even help bring it.¡¯


    ¡®I know.¡¯ He sighed, and then, quieter, added, ¡®I know.¡¯


    She bumped his snout with hers. ¡®I don¡¯t like it either. But it¡¯s not like our parents wanted this for us either.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re right, mine would¡¯ve given me over to the Cavrians even if it did nothing to stop this.¡¯ Rubin couldn''t quite stop this slight outpouring of bitterness, but regretted it as soon as it left his maw. He preferred not to think about it.


    ¡®Rubin dear. Stop giving them as much thought. Past¡¯s past. This¡ª¡¯ she sent another short stream of fire¡ª ¡®is now.¡¯


    He added his own orange flames in silent agreement.


    The egg began to rock.


    Rubin inhaled sharply and looked to Melodia, who looked back and beamed. She turned back to the egg ready to redo its white-hot coat.


    They continued their silent watch, adding occasional fresh flames, until, at last, a crack marred the otherwise perfect shell.


    Rubin shuffled forward, Melodia at his side. Her turquoise eyes, matching near-perfectly with the egg, shone with joy. His heart beat faster and faster as the fracture lengthened, widened, until finally, with a gentle crack that echoed weakly through the cavern, the egg split and a little dragon came awkwardly tumbling down.


    ¡®Hello, little one,¡¯ said Melodia, her snout a picture of adoration. ¡®Oh, how gorgeous you are.¡¯


    The dragonet wehed, squeaked, and lifted her head to peer at them, wide-eyed. Melodia¡¯s blues and Rubin¡¯s blacks blended across her scales, and her paws boasted dull silvery-grey claws, all shiny with the wetness of the newly hatched. A deep blue crest ran proudly along the back of her neck, and the twin pairs of her would-be horns were tiny whitish nubs, and her wings beat awkwardly as she struggled to stand up.


    Rubin thought his spirit might leave his scales to sing all through the sky as he looked down at his daughter.


    He tossed her bits of softened meat and chuckled proudly when their little hunter leaped and tripped and began vigorously gnawing at the things. When she was done, punctuated by a squeaky-hiccupy sound, Rubin scooped her up in his paws and held her close to his chest. He turned to his mate. ¡®Cynobria, then?¡¯


    Melodia nodded and scooted closer to look at their newhatched daughter. Cynobria peered back at her curiously.


    ¡®Welcome to the world, Cynobria. We promise we¡¯ll make it as good as we can, for you.¡¯


    ¡®Squeak,¡¯ chirped Cynobria by way of a response.


    511 A. U. C.


    It was a stormy night and Kyr was growing restless. The howling wind rid her of any ideas of sleep and she moved from window to window, looking out to see if any dragon found themselves fighting the merciless gale.


    Kyr didn¡¯t fear storms¡ªnot most of them at least, but this time it seemed strong enough to toss a dragon down from the sky. She was safe here, within the walls of their tree, but just thinking of anyone stuck out there was making her uneasy, and the creaking-straining sound of their home and the violent howl outside hardly eased the anxious knot in her gut.


    ¡®A tin for your thoughts?¡¯


    She nearly jumped at the sound. Hryns could pad as soundlessly as a lynx if he wanted to. She should really get used to that.


    ¡®You need not spend tins, silly.¡¯ She turned and, sure enough, standing in the wide entryway with a satisfied grin splitting his snout, was her sneaky mate in all his orange-green-grey glory. ¡®Though I might take some other things.¡¯


    He laughed at that, and she grinned, and for a moment she forgot her worry. She wondered when would come the time they no longer got drunk on each other¡¯s smiles and laughs, and hoped it would never come.


    ¡®Weather¡¯s rough tonight, huh?¡¯ he said, coming to stand next to her. ¡®I don¡¯t envy anyone who¡¯d have to fly through this.¡¯


    ¡®Where¡¯s Nythr?¡¯ she asked, if only to take her mind away from the storm. Outside the trees bowed low against the might of the wind, bending so hard she feared they might snap.


    ¡®Where do you think he is?¡¯ Hryns snorted. ¡®That dragon would sleep through the end of the world, and then some.¡¯


    ¡®At least one of us will be alive tomorrow.¡¯


    Hryns looked at her pointedly. ¡®It¡¯s an off-day. You¡¯ve got any plans?¡¯


    ¡®That¡ª¡¯ Kyr nodded at the window, at the storm¡ª ¡®will need some helping paws when it¡¯s over.¡¯


    ¡®Ah, my sweet.¡¯ Hryns extended his ash-grey wing over her and pulled her tight against his flank. ¡®Ykyrsh the Great, saviour of all!¡¯ he jeered and she looked at him sharply, and he relented with a gentle smile. ¡®Of course we¡¯ll help too, Nythr and I. Wouldn¡¯t think of anything else.¡¯


    A shape, some green-and-yellow blur, flitted across her vision.


    ¡®What was that?¡¯


    ¡®Hm?¡¯ asked Hryns, confused. Kyr shifted under his wing and rested her paws against the window, leaning closer to investigate the scene outside.


    ¡®I think I saw something fly by.¡¯


    He moved closer to the window. ¡®What kind of something?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure.¡¯ She continued to stare outside, but the night and the storm worked together to render the scene unreadable. ¡®It was too fast to make anything out.¡¯


    ¡®Are you sure?¡¯ Hryns withdrew a little. ¡®Because if you ask me, it¡¯s hard to see shit out there.¡¯


    Kyr sighed. ¡®I know. Still¡­¡¯ She let the word hang between them and didn¡¯t move away from the grown-in glass. Hryns was right, should have been right, and yet she was almost sure she¡¯d seen something.


    She fruitlessly scrutinised every bit within her line of sight, then sighed once more and moved away to join Hryns, who started making his way back across the room.


    ¡®I¡¯ll try for at least a little shut-eye. You in?¡¯


    Feeling resigned, Kyr nodded absentmindedly, coming to join him, but as she passed by another window, she caught some movement in the corner of her eye. ¡®What was that?¡¯


    ¡®Kyr.¡¯ Hryns sighed, turning to her. ¡®You¡¯re tired. You¡¯re just seeing things now.¡¯ But she was already looking out the window, searching.


    ¡®Hryns,¡¯ she said, urgency rising in her voice. ¡®Come look at this.¡¯


    He must have picked up on her tone, because in moments he was next to her, looking out.


    His ears went flat. ¡®Is that¡­?¡¯


    ¡®I think it¡¯s an egg.¡¯


    It was a guess¡ªit was hard to see anything in this kind of weather, rain and wind and flying leaves¡ªbut the bounding shape looked very egglike, a greenish, greyish, yellowish thing of just about the size and shape. It was currently trapped in tangled vines, but the heavy wind jostled it to the sides with such force it could get dislodged at any moment.


    ¡®How could¡­¡¯ He seemed to be at a loss for words. ¡®How.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m going out,¡¯ said Kyr and, without waiting for his reply, headed for the mudroom.


    ¡®Woah, woah, wait! You can¡¯t be serious!¡¯ Hryns called and she heard pawsteps against wood, following her.


    She was already by the door, searching for a wingstrap, when he caught up. The room was little more than a bare live-tree tunnel, three boxes and two doors and a single window its only features. ¡®Of course I¡¯m serious,¡¯ she said, finding the strap and turning to him. ¡®How could I not be? It¡¯s a fucking egg! It will get crushed in this storm! Here¡ª¡¯ she handed him the wingstrap¡ª ¡®help me with this.¡¯


    He accepted the strap, shocked at her outburst. ¡®We¡¯re not sure it¡¯s an egg. You want to risk yourself for a guess?¡¯ But even as he was saying it, he was helping her put on the strap, and then tightening it against her body.


    ¡®Wish me luck,¡¯ she said, noting that a touch of nervousness slipped into her voice.


    ¡®You don¡¯t need luck.¡¯ He smiled, almost encouragingly, but with too much uncertainty to truly lift her spirits. He gave her snout an affectionate nuzzle. ¡®Go get it, love.¡¯


    Her stomach tightened into a knot, but she nodded, and as Hryns withdrew deeper into the house and closed the door to the porch, she braced herself and opened the door outside.


    The gale nearly swept her off her paws, and the rain drenched each scale in seconds. She pushed a little forward, dug her claws into the ground and somehow managed to pull the door closed with her tail. The wind tugged at her wings, but the strap held them firmly against her body¡ªhad she not put it on she¡¯d have joined the hurricane of leaves in but a blink. She looked around, but didn¡¯t see anyone out there, just her against the storm, everyone else tucked safe inside their homes.


    Thunder roared while she trudged onward in the direction she saw the supposed egg. It was on the other side of their home, and with its cover the wind there should be less violent. Kyr made slow progress, but progress she did, and after a small eternity of tiny uncertain steps along the bark of their home-tree the wind lessened and she saw the window from which she¡¯d spotted the egg¡ªbehind it she could now see a dragon¡¯s shape. And then there it was¡ªthe tangle of vines that held the small round shape.


    There came a cracking then, amid the ceaseless howl, and then a groaning and a rustle, and a tree came toppling onto her.


    Heart in her throat, she moved before she could think, jumping to the side of the falling tree. She avoided the brunt of it, but a heavy branch broke off and, carried by the wind, it slammed against her.


    The impact sent her careening upwards with the storm, the air pushed out of her lungs in a single terrible moment. Vertigo dulled each sense as she spun head-over-tail and slammed into another tree, the bark scraping at her scales as she slid down. She struggled to turn around and to find her grip, and halfway down her claws found purchase in the rainsoaked bark, allowing her to slowly clamber down the rest of the way. Her back and chest ached terribly, and she was short on breath, but she got her footing once more. She looked around and was surprised to see she had landed not too far from the little egg. She allowed herself a small smile as she crept to it on careful paws.


    Up close she had no doubts¡ªit was an egg. Its surface was smooth, but marred with weirdly regular cracks.


    Her ears flattened, claws flexed. Was it already hatching? Or had the storm damaged the shell?


    She reached to pick it up and at that moment, weakened from the scraping of the bark, her strap gave way.


    She scrambled to clutch the egg to her chest as she struggled to not unfurl her wings despite the relentless gale. She looked up to the window, but it was empty now, no one left to see. She gritted her teeth, growled low. Had Hryns left?


    Holding the egg close, she hobbled back on three paws. It was treacherous, walking like this in a storm as strong as this one, and one misstep could cause her to be swept again, and the egg to be crushed to bits. She nearly crawled and tried for cover all she could, but even so the wind was doing its worst to spread her wings, to goad her into a final flight.


    And that it did.


    In a heartbeat¡¯s span her wings went wide and the wind rushed eagerly to fill them, and it was all she could do to hold the egg tight as she was flung skyward. She watched the ground recede in a muddy blur.


    Is this how I end?


    Another log slammed into her from above, pinning her to the ground. Her heart hammered faster than it ever had and she wasn¡¯t sure if it was luck or misfortune until she realised the thing that hit her wasn¡¯t a log¡ªit was not a thing at all.


    ¡®I¡¯ll hold them closed!¡¯ Hryns roared, barely audible in the storm. ¡®Inside, quick!¡¯


    Despite his urgent tone it took all too long for Kyr to see the door, and then several more painfully slow moments to crawl back with Hryns on top of her. They managed to scramble inside, falling to the floor in a wet heap of wings and scales, and Hryns rushed to close the door. Kyr surveyed the mudroom only to see the other door open too, and the house farther in was in a state she had not expected to see until they had hatchlings.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡®Did you get it?¡¯


    The question roused her from her thoughts. The egg!


    Her paws shook as she withdrew the egg from against her aching chest and set it gently on the floor. It was perfectly round, a dull yellowy green. As she examined it more closely, what she had taken for cracks turned out to be letters, scribbled clumsily in washed black lines.


    Zhyr.


    ¡®So you were right,¡¯ Hryns said unsteadily. ¡®It really is an egg.¡¯


    ¡®I wonder how it got here.¡¯ Kyr mused aloud. ¡®Where are its parents?¡¯ She lifted her head to look out the small mudroom window, suppressing a wince of pain. A puddle of rainwater gathered on the floor under her. All she could see through the rain-battered glass was the frenzied dancing of the leaves.


    A soft tapping came from the direction of the hall and in a few moments the bright green-and-blue form of Nythr stood in the round doorless doorway.


    ¡®What is this mess?¡¯ their mate asked sleepily as Kyr and Hryns collapsed onto the floor.


    They couldn''t find the egg¡¯s parents when the next day the skies cleared and the storm died down. They asked around the village, and in others close by, but no one claimed to have lost an egg. Unsure of what to do, they decided to keep it and waited for someone to come asking, all the while taking care of the little treasure.


    No one came.


    And when, in around two months, the egg hatched, revealing a scrawny light-and-dark green hatchling with grey-brown stripes and ecru socks, they decided to name him Zhyr.


    512 A. U. C.


    Ruari sat guard in the Royal Hatchery, looking after two beige eggs.


    The opulence of the place had never ceased to rouse her awe, even as she was no longer new to the line of Lasth¨²ir. She had traded sturdy valley manors for the mountain-set Lightbringers¡¯ palace, the seat of queens and kings. The gilded walls and ornaments, and softest silks she¡¯d ever touched were middling compensation for the scrutiny that came from being the wife of a possible future king.


    Aodhan wasn¡¯t with her, and he rarely ever was when she looked after their clutch. He was a busy dragon, he would say, and he¡¯d been right, but, in Ruari¡¯s mind, even the Prince Lightbringer could spare a moment to join his wife in looking after their brood.


    ¡®Well,¡¯ said On¨®ri, ¡®then tell him that.¡¯


    ¡®Do you think I have not tried?¡¯ Ruari shook her head in exasperation, ruffled her wings to get them more comfortably against her sides. ¡®He always says the same one thing. That he needs to study under the Queen¡¯s wing, be ready to take the rule when it is his due, and these are just eggs, and until they hatch they are not of his concern. Sometimes I almost wonder if he will keep this attitude when they do hatch¡ªif he notices, of course.¡¯ She could not stop a bitter note from slipping out.


    ¡®You are being a little harsh on him, don¡¯t you think?¡¯ On¨®ri patted Ruari¡¯s paw with her own. ¡®King or not, he would not leave his own children out of his life.¡¯


    ¡®C¨¢ondai did.¡¯


    On¨®ri sighed and withdrew her paw. Ruari regretted her comment at once, wanted back her sister¡¯s comforting touch. ¡®She did,¡¯ On¨®ri said. ¡®But he is not the Conqueror Come Again, despite what she might be claiming. Did you not tell me that yourself, back when you two were courting?¡¯


    ¡®I did,¡¯ Ruari admitted. She was glad to have On¨®ri here with her. From anyone else these words might have been empty things, but the two sisters would always manage to find a way to lift each others¡¯ spirits. She suspected Unity might have blessed them with some special bond of twins.


    Her husband could hardly claim such a connection with his own clutchmates.


    ¡®Ruari,¡¯ said On¨®ri suddenly, urgently. ¡®Ruari, look!¡¯


    Ruari frowned, unsure what her sister meant, until she spotted it too. One of the eggs was rocking gently. She watched with bated breath, and soon the other joined, and then small cracks were spiderwebbing along their surfaces.


    Breath hitched in Ruari¡¯s throat, and when she got her voice back, she called, ¡®Servant. Servant!¡¯ and when a dragoness came rushing to them Ruari said, ¡®Send for Aodhan. The eggs are hatching.¡¯


    The dragoness needed no further encouragement. She nodded and immediately set off, manoeuvring expertly out of the hatchery.


    ¡®Dear me,¡¯ On¨®ri said a little breathlessly, eyes sparkling with excitement. ¡®I am very glad I came with you today.¡¯


    She left unspoken the fact that she had accompanied Ruari on a near-daily basis, ever since the eggs were laid. She left unspoken who had not. The two dragonesses waited with their eyes set on the rocking-cracking eggs. A small crowd of hatchery workers in their distinct simple white vestments and higher nobles, scales adorned with gold and yellow gems¡ªworn as jewellery or, like the Conqueror Queen, embedded in their scales¡ªwas slowly gathering around them, but there was no sight of Aodhan. Ruari, despite the joyous moment, could not help a prickle of exasperation rising in her heart.


    Right as she saw a small snout trying to push its way out the cracking shell, murmurs came from outside, and the clanking of metal as the guards moved aside, and then, in all his white-and-gold radiance, entered Aodhan ¨¢l ¨¦oghan ith Lasth¨²ir, the Prince Lightbringer, grand and resplendent and almost late to the hatching of his own first clutch.


    The tiny crowd parted for him as he settled next to Ruari at the precise moment the first hatchling pushed her way out of the egg. He sent a mildly critical look towards On¨®ri, but said not a word, turning back to watch the hatchling and the egg, his snout curving in a gentle smile that looked honest to its core, from his posture to his mat gold eyes.


    A small stab of guilt at the earlier accusations pricked Ruari¡¯s heart, but it dissipated in a flash. He had not been there all those days she¡¯d been waiting, checking, looking after the eggs. She hoped after today he could spare more of his time for them.


    The second one was coming too¡ªa tiny paw already free of its confines, white-and-gold scales exactly as Aodhan¡¯s. It took a few more clumsy tries, but soon enough he was out of the shell, and the two hatchlings¡ªtheir daughter with Ruari¡¯s white and beige and specks of chestnut brown and her husband¡¯s minimal patterns, and their son with the white and gold of the prince, and Ruari¡¯s small spirals across his body, smoke-like patterns on the wings¡ªwere peering up at them with curious eyes, both the Lasth¨²ir colour of matted gold.


    The Naming Ceremony took place the next day.


    What scant preparations had not yet been made were completed with swift efficiency. The eggs had been expected to hatch soon, and most necessities had been arranged the past week. All that was left was to attend.


    ¡®Congratulations on the hatching.¡¯


    Ruari stilled, startled, and turned around to see the pearly-gold visage of her husband¡¯s sister.


    Iona ¨¢l ¨²na ith Lasth¨²ir was a startling presence, but ever since Ruari had started courting Aodhan, the dragoness had been making her uneasy. Under this dignified veneer was a mind Ruari dared not try to guess at.


    ¡®You are kind,¡¯ she said simply, dipping her head.


    Iona smiled pleasantly. ¡®No need to be as formal. We are family now, after all.¡¯ She tilted her head. ¡®Might we walk?¡¯


    ¡®Of course,¡¯ she said. Iona beckoned with her wing and Ruari followed.


    ¡®I must say, dear brother is in some haste. The first of us to court as seriously, and already with heirs. How does one manage to accommodate such responsibilities with the duty to the empire?¡¯


    He is twenty-eight, thought Ruari, but did not voice it. Of the royal triplets he was the only one with a partner¡ªassuming Lorcan¡¯s escapades were mere rumours¡ªand the other two seemed to be in no hurry to join him. Though with the current Queen Lightbringer having her first clutch at forty-four, when her iron grip on the empire was unbreakable and the conquests in full swing, Ruari saw where Iona might have been coming from.


    ¡®It is not an easy thing,¡¯ she ventured carefully. ¡®But I am certain my husband can manage.¡¯


    ¡®And what of you?¡¯


    Ruari stopped short for a moment, and had to rush a little to catch up to Iona. ¡®Pardon?¡¯


    The Princess Lightbringer sent her a pointed look, topped with a gentle smile that made Ruari want to cower, but she stood her ground. ¡®You are Aodhan¡¯s wife now. You have a rare privilege of joining the Lasth¨²ir ranks, albeit not by blood. You might have a say in the workings of the empire.¡¯


    Ruari shook her head. ¡®Not yet. I must admit, I have still not grown used to the goings-on of the court at this tier. One day, perhaps, but presently I want to make sure everything is handled properly with the hatchlings.¡¯


    ¡®Truly,¡¯ said Iona. Her tone gave Ruari an impression of a hidden snakepit. ¡®Thank you for your time. It was illuminating.¡¯


    ¡®Likewise,¡¯ lied Ruari and let herself drop back as Iona continued forward. She let loose a shaky breath. Every conversation with Iona felt like a test¡ªone she was never sure she had passed.


    If Ruari were to name one thing she did not like about the high court, it would be the endless tangled web of intrigues, dragons suddenly expecting her to know it all and bear herself properly, navigating through this twisted maze. It made her feel inadequate, thrust into a world she had not been ready for.


    ¡®My love? Here you are.¡¯


    She turned at the sound of this voice. The one in this palace that made her feel she belonged.


    ¡®The Naming Ceremony is going to start,¡¯ said Aodhan. ¡®Come.¡¯


    And so she came, and there proceeded the Naming Ceremony of the royal clutch, the first heralds of this new generation.


    Ruari stood there with Aodhan, the two hatchlings before them looking up curiously. It was a small event¡ªevery dragon present invited personally, from Aodhan¡¯s siblings, Iona and Lorcan, to his and Ruari¡¯s parents. On¨®ri was there too¡ªthe most deserving guest as far as Ruari was concerned¡ªtogether with her wife and their other two sisters (one hard look was argument enough to quell Aodhan¡¯s protest). The final guest, aside from temple staff, was N¨²allan, the King Consort, an empty place at his side. The Queen Lightbringer, C¨¢ondai ¨¢l Deal¨¢i ith Lasth¨²ir, called the Conqueror still in her life, did not come to witness the naming of the two new scions of Lasth¨²ir.


    The useless generation? Ruari held back a scoff at the thought. For all she cared the queen could eat her tail.


    The chapel was bathed in muted half-light¡ªenough it could not be called a darkness, but only so much that the inner glow of a diamond set on a low white marble platform was the brightest thing inside.


    As all the prayers had been said, and all the blessings bestowed, and all the other minute details taken care of, Ruari nudged her hatchlings forward and they came to a stop in front of the priest. He wore the ceremonial cloth of grey embroidered with arcs of white and black and darker grey, all outlined with golden thread. The symbol of Unity.


    He placed his paw against the diamond. The hatchlings peered at it curiously, little heads tilting, and then the little dragoness touched the gem. It blinked with a sudden white-light flash and the hatchling leaped back, startled. Ruari smiled and said, ¡®Taori.¡¯


    The priest nodded. For a moment that was it, until Aodhan nudged their little dragonar too. He gingerly rested his paw against the diamond, and a similar flash followed.


    ¡®F¨¢olan,¡¯ said Aodhan as the hatchling continued to stare into the brilliant shimmering interior of the ceremonial gem.


    ELSEWHERE, SAME YEAR


    Cynobria exhaled with as much fury as she could muster, but no fire came out.


    She huffed, irritated. Mum and Dad had said it would come, eventually, as it did to all the dragons of their kind. Except Cynobria was five already and she was yet to breathe her first plume of flame.


    She sighed.


    She turned her attention to the metal contraption she was playing with¡ªa tangle of bars and loops. She had seen it once at a market, at the stall with other such curious trinkets. She¡¯d asked what it was and was told it was a puzzle, one where she was supposed to separate the two pieces. The dragon selling the thing separated them under the counter, showed her the undid loops, joined them back and let her try to unhook them, and then Cynobria did try and couldn¡¯t, and tried again, and then the seller took it back and she¡¯d asked Dad enough times that he¡¯d got it for her.


    It had been over a week since then and she still couldn¡¯t do it. Maybe if she tried to loop this piece through that opening and twist it¡ª


    ¡®Bree, dinner¡¯s set up!¡¯


    Cynobria jumped at the sound and the thing tumbled to the floor. She huffed, annoyed, and tried to repeat what she¡¯d done, but the metal bar-loop-thing did not cooperate, so she threw it to the floor and scampered over to the kitchen where Dad was setting the table with a variety of meats and herbs. The whole kitchen was saturated in the smell of them, and her nostrils flared as it hit her.


    There was a commotion at the entrance, a thud, a bang, then rushing steps, and Cynobria only had time enough to look before Mum stood in the open doorway. ¡®Rubin!¡¯ she said, urgent and breathless. ¡®Have you heard?¡¯


    ¡®Hello to you too, dear,¡¯ said Dad, and it almost sounded as cheery as usual. ¡®Heard what?¡¯


    Mum grinned. ¡®The Conqueror is dead.¡¯


    He froze. ¡®Is she now?¡¯ He set a plate down, giving a short tap to the table before dropping to all fours. Cynobria wasn¡¯t sure who this Conqueror was¡ªshe had heard her mentioned here and there, but nothing much. She seemed important. ¡®Does Jagrav know?¡¯


    ¡®He brought the news,¡¯ said Mum. ¡®You know how he works, eyes and ears everywhere.¡¯


    Dad nodded. ¡®That he does. Do we know who takes the throne now?¡¯


    Cynobria looked between them. She hadn¡¯t been hungry before, but surrounded by the smells of herbs and meat her maw began to salivate. She padded to the basin to wash her paws, keeping a single ear on their parents, even if she understood little of what they were talking about.


    ¡®Not yet,¡¯ Mum was saying. ¡®My guess is on Iona or Aodhan, but I hope against hope they somehow choose Lorcan.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯d be for the best,¡¯ Dad chuckled. ¡®Still, any of these three is better than C¨¢ondai.¡¯ He grimaced at the name before smoothing his snout and clapping his paws. ¡®Well,¡¯ he said, ¡®that is that. Now, dinner.¡¯


    They washed their paws and took their places and Cynobria crawled-climbed-clambered onto her high stool. In front of each of them was a plate with the herbed slabs of meat Dad had prepared.


    ¡®May I, Bree?¡¯ he asked, reaching for her plate.


    ¡®I want Mum to do it!¡¯


    He hesitated as Mum failed to hide a snort. ¡®Look, Bree,¡¯ he said slowly. ¡®You know Mum¡¯s fire is¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ she said. ¡®I want it.¡¯


    ¡®Alright,¡¯ said Mum, chuckling softly. ¡®Pass it to me.¡¯


    Cynobria forced herself to stop bouncing on her stool as she slid the plate across the table. Mum took it in her paws and lifted it a little, then she opened her maw and breathed a thin stream of white-hot fire onto Cynobria¡¯s dinner and at once the kitchen was filled with a much stronger scent of burned herbs and charred meat. Cynobria looked in awe at the pouring whiteness, drooling at the tasty scent.


    When the flames abated, Cynobria blinked away the afterimage, took her now-ready (if a little scorched) dinner and said, ¡®Do you think I¡¯ll be a whitefire too?¡¯


    Mum smiled at that. ¡®We¡¯ll see, Bree.¡¯ And Cynobria grinned back.


    Whitefire. Breathing fire was a trait unique to Ablyns, and most of them could produce a reddish, yellowish flame, like Dad. Some, though, like Mum, could breathe white fire, much hotter than the regular one.


    And Cynobria really, really wanted it for herself.


    Mum and Dad leaned over their own plates and each breathed a little fire onto it. The beautiful scent only grew stronger and Cynobria drummed her claws on the table, waiting for her parents to start. Her tail was twitching impatiently, thumping against the legs of her stool, when she was struck by a thought.


    ¡®How do other dragons eat if they have no fire?¡¯


    Mum and Dad looked to each other, then both snorted a laugh, which Cynobria didn¡¯t understand. She had asked a serious question. None of the other dragons Cynobria knew could breathe fire, and though Cynobria herself couldn¡¯t do that either, she knew she would, eventually. But they lived in Tarange now, where the dragons¡¯ eyes were violet, not blue, and where they had no fire in their breath.


    ¡®Cooking meals with our own fire is an Ablyneese tradition,¡¯ said Dad. ¡®We could do it like it¡¯s done elsewhere¡ªwith hot coals, or a fire made a different way¡ªbut we are Ablyns and, even when we¡¯re far from home, it¡¯s important to keep living the Ablay way.¡¯


    ¡®But we live in Tarange. Aren¡¯t we Tarang¡­eese?


    ¡®Tarangean. And no,¡¯ said Mum, gently but sternly. ¡®We may have come here, but we were, all of us, hatched as Ablyns. That¡¯s who we are, and that¡¯s who we¡¯ll always be.¡¯


    ¡®Why did we move away?¡¯ asked Cynobria.


    Mum and Dad exchanged a weird look, and then Mum said, ¡®We had to do it for work.¡¯


    Cynobria tilted her head, frowning. ¡®There was no work back home?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s¡­ a little complicated, Bree.¡¯


    ¡®Who is Jagrav?¡¯


    At that both of them went quiet, and Dad sent Mum a serious look. He said, ¡®Now, Bree, your dinner is cooling down. Eat up.¡¯


    Cynobria pouted, but obediently dug in, and so did Mum and Dad. If she had any qualms about her unanswered question, they were gone with the first bite of seasoned meat. Even if a little too scorched, Dad¡¯s mixture of herbs and spices gave it a tail-twitchingly good taste, and in some mysterious way Cynobria couldn¡¯t get out of him, he managed to make the meat so soft it came apart at the slightest tug of her teeth.


    ¡®He¡¯s a colleague from work,¡¯ said Mum. Cynobria looked up from the meal, confused. Mum added, ¡®Jagrav.¡¯


    Many other questions ignited in her head and almost forced themselves to spill from her maw, but Mum¡¯s tone held them back. Not now, Cynobria decided. She would ask them later.


    ¡®How was school?¡¯ asked Dad, in-between his sizable bites.


    ¡®Ermf¡­¡¯ mumbled Cynobria and dug into her dinner.


    ¡®Did something happen?¡¯ Mum asked, a touch worried.


    Cynobria swallowed a chunk of meat. ¡®No, no, just¡­¡¯ She sighed. ¡®Others are looking at me a little weird.¡¯


    ¡®Weird?¡¯


    ¡®Weird.¡¯ She nodded. ¡®Nothing much. Sometimes they say I look different. That my eyes are odd. They ask me to say things in Svarish. Some tell me to speak in ¡°Ablyneese¡±. And it¡¯s nothing mean and nothing much, but it feels odd.¡¯


    ¡®Bree,¡¯ said Mum, a little sadly. ¡®You are a Svar. You are an Ablyn. Even out here, you are fire. It¡¯s a reason for pride. Never forget that.¡¯


    ¡®But I don¡¯t want to be ¡°other¡±. I want to fit in with my friends!¡¯


    ¡®You can, still. We¡¯re all equally dragon. But you will always be an Ablyn, and you¡¯ll¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Then why did we have to MOVE?¡¯ she yelled, and flames poured from her maw.


    Mum and Dad looked at her, stunned, and Cynobria sat still, wide-eyed, then hiccuped, and another little plume of fire appeared in the air.


    It wasn¡¯t white though. But neither was it the orange-red of her dad.


    It was blue.


    ¡®Well,¡¯ said Dad, still not moving from where he sat. The remnants of his dinner were still on the table, though the spices¡¯ scent was covered by the new hot-metal smell of Cynobria¡¯s flames. ¡®It looks like you¡¯ve got your fire, Bree.¡¯

 Ch1: A Fire Stoked [521 A.U.C.]

    Cynobria jotted down the solution to the final problem and sighed. She breathed on the ink to let it dry, then closed the book and set it down.


    ¡®Done already?¡¯ asked Yselle.


    ¡®Done already,¡¯ Cynobria said, flexing her paw. She removed the ferrule she¡¯d been writing with from her claw and wiped it against a cloth. ¡®They¡¯re making them too easy.¡¯


    She set the ferrule neatly on the small table she shared with Yselle. They¡¯d rented this nook in the library for a little after-class study session. It was a small thing, walls lined with books Cynobria didn¡¯t care much about, a small table just enough for the two of them and a lit chandelier overhead¡ªtwo concentric wooden circles lined with candles¡ªwhich made the room feel somewhere between cosy and cramped.


    ¡®Maybe you¡¯re just too good.¡¯ Yselle shot her a grin. In the well-lit library there was a red-purple glint to her dark scales, her eyes a light violet, set against the frame of her slim dark snout and curved graphite horns.


    ¡®Flatterer,¡¯ Cynobria teased, though she was happy¡ªif a little disappointed¡ªto hear the praise. This book was only one of many of the sort she¡¯d got¡ªfilled with riddles, problems and convoluted conundrums. She¡¯d used to spend hours solving them, relishing each for the challenge it had brought. As of late, though, it had started to fade. They grew too easy, too quick to solve¡ªand even a few days¡¯ challenge hardly brought the desired thrill. The thing about artificial problems was that there were patterns to them, many locks yielding under the same key, and once she cracked those, any challenge they gave went up in flames like straw.


    ¡®Well, if you¡¯re done, could you have a look at this? For the life of me, I can¡¯t come to terms with your weird Ablyneese grammar.¡¯


    Cynobria smiled and leaned to look over Yselle¡¯s shoulder, at her notes from the class.


    It wasn¡¯t Svarish, but it was close enough¡ªthey were studying Krahan, which belonged to the same family as Cynobria¡¯s native tongue and, despite some differences, she found little issue with it, even if for most of her Tarangean classmates it proved a challenge.


    Cynobria glanced through the page, looking for what Yselle seemed to be struggling with.


    ¡®You have to use the locative case here,¡¯ she said, pointing. ¡®And it will add an ¡°-e¡± suffix. ¡°NE HVASE¡±. Here. See?¡¯


    Instead of looking, Yselle¡¯s head fell against the table with a soft thunk. ¡®Why would anyone need seven grammar cases?¡¯ she groaned. ¡®It¡¯s like they asked themselves ¡°Hey, how can we complicate this to be as inconvenient for everyone as possible?¡± and someone was feeling particularly inspired.¡¯


    ¡®Hayar has seventeen.¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯ Yselle lifted a claw to silence her, head still flat against the table. ¡®No no no no no. Don¡¯t make it any worse.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not that hard, really,¡¯ said Cynobria, sliding the notes over to Yselle. ¡®You use locative when talking about where something is located, like¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Why do I add the ¡°-e¡±?¡¯


    Cynobria¡¯s wings twitched in a shrug. ¡®It would sound weird otherwise.¡¯


    Yselle groaned.


    ¡®It might seem,¡¯ Cynobria went on, leaning in, ¡®that there are more exceptions than rules here, but really, it all comes together quite nicely, if I may say so.¡¯


    ¡®Right,¡¯ said Yselle, sounding entirely not convinced. ¡®You know, if you complain about all your riddles being too easy, maybe you should try learning Hayar¡¯s seventeen cases instead. See how easy that is.¡¯


    Cynobria smiled, a reply ready on her tongue when she stopped, considering. She had never tried learning from scratch something as expansive as a language¡ªSvarish and Tarangean she had learned in her first years after hatching, and the Krahan classes provided hardly any challenge, so similar to Svarish at times she thought she had a better grasp on it than learn¨¦d Noteuf. Hayar in the other paw¡­


    ¡®You¡¯re considering it.¡¯ Yselle lifted her head, looking at Cynobria a little hollowly. Her frills quivered. ¡®You are really considering it.¡¯


    Cynobria grinned. ¡®You always have such wonderful ideas.¡¯


    ¡®I was joking.¡¯


    ¡®Well,¡¯ said Cynobria, tilting her head, flicking an ear, ¡®I¡¯m not.¡¯ Her tail-tip twitched excitedly. ¡®Oh, this could be interesting.¡¯


    ¡®It is official,¡¯ said Yselle, addressing the empty space of the nook around them, the shelves crammed with dusty books silent witnesses to her claim. ¡®My girlfriend is crazy.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, please.¡¯ Cynobria bumped her snout against Yselle¡¯s cheek, ¡®What¡¯s new?¡¯


    Hayar was hard.


    Some part of Cynobria knew it to be a good thing, and it relished the challenge the language had posed. It was unlike anything she had studied before¡ªit shared hardly any common ground with either Tarangean or any of the Ablyneese tongues. She could deal with vocabulary¡ªit was simple memorisation, which, though not much enjoyable, she prided herself on being good at (and the word formation, the turning of a noun to a verb to a participle clause, had patterns to it, ones she could look for, crack, understand), but the grammar¡­


    Was this how everyone else felt in the Krahan classes?


    Cynobria gritted her teeth, pondering an exercise, and jotted down an answer. She sighed, took up her book and flipped to see the correct declination of ¡°see¡±.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Her answer was wrong.


    Slow breath in. Slow breath out. No fire, not even smoke. She wouldn¡¯t want to damage the lovely Hayar book, would she?


    A few calming breaths later she was back at the exercise, trying to crack the next answer. It seemed¡­ oddly similar to her native¡¯s instrumental case. She frowned and then, not entirely sure, wrote her answer down. She read it aloud. It¡­ didn¡¯t sound too bad, hopefully? She leafed to the end of the book for the answer.


    Wrong.


    Again.


    She squeezed her eyes and slammed her paw into the table, and a metallic crack accompanied the impact. She winced and, with deliberate slowness, lifted her paw to an expected sight¡ªshe hadn¡¯t removed the ferrule she¡¯d been writing with. The thing lodged onto her claw and, on impact, broke, spilling dark blue ink across her black pad and the desk.


    She breathed in, barely managing to stop herself from clawing at the table once more. She moved to take the ferrule off, if only to continue her venting without making everything worse.


    It wouldn¡¯t come off.


    The impact must have dislocated parts of it, and now it was stuck on her claw, dirty and broken, taunting her like only an inanimate object could. She tugged harder, but to little avail. And then more. And more, and more and more andmore andmoreandmoreandmoreand¡ª


    The ferrule at last gave way under Cynobria¡¯s furious assault, but it didn¡¯t go out without a fight¡ªit relented by breaking further apart, an explosion of ink all across Cynobria¡¯s paws and desk and practice book.


    ¡®Flame-blasted¡ªURGHHH!¡¯ Cynobria roared, smashing her paw into the table again, strong enough to flare a fresh wave of pain. Cynobria hissed. She dimly realised she could damage her books even more, and a distant part of her knew she would be regretting this later, but at this moment she couldn¡¯t care. Because this blasted ferrule¡ª


    ¡®What is going on here?¡¯


    And of course Mum was here now because why not.


    ¡®Nothing,¡¯ Cynobria said flatly.


    ¡®Bree,¡¯ said Mum, with the barest hint of a growl, and Cynobria focused everything she had on biting back the anger that was forcing itself to spill.


    ¡®The ferrule broke,¡¯ she managed.


    ¡®Is that it?¡¯ Mum still stood in the doorway; she wasn¡¯t entering Cynobria¡¯s room, and though it was a little thing, it felt absurd just how grateful for it she was.


    Cynobria breathed for a time, Mum¡¯s presence at the door forcing the anger to withdraw. She wasn¡¯t turning to her, not yet¡ªshe needed to calm a little more.


    At length she said, ¡®I can¡¯t get Hayar grammar right.¡¯


    ¡®Bree, dear.¡¯ The impossible calm in her voice only fanned the slowly dying embers of Cynobria¡¯s ire. ¡®You can¡¯t expect to be able to do everything immediately.¡¯


    ¡®But it¡¯s been three months!¡¯ Cynobria whirled where she stood, finally looking at her mother. Melodia stood there, framed by the grey stone doorway, her mosaic of blue scales almost uniform in the shadow. A picture-perfect Ablyn¡ªa strong build, though without the bulkiness of Cavrians, and a nimble step, without the Taragneans¡¯ dancelike quality. Her crest stood proudly along the back of her neck, light blue wings folded neatly against her sides. Two pairs of curved white horns adorned the back of her head. ¡®Why can¡¯t I get it still?¡¯


    Mum looked at her for a few moments, considering. Right as Cynobria readied herself to speak further, Mum asked, ¡®How long, do you think, it took me to learn to speak as well as this?¡¯


    Cynobria frowned, only then realising the last sentence was spoken in Tarangean. ¡®Six months?¡¯ she ventured.


    ¡®A year,¡¯ said Mum, and before Cynobria could react, added, ¡®And even then it wasn¡¯t like this. I could talk without tripping on my own words. For the fluency I currently have it took another year of living here, and even after that I was¡ªstill am¡ªlearning.¡¯


    ¡®A year?¡¯ Cynobria groaned. ¡®That¡¯s too much!¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    Cynobria stared at her, stumped. Why? It was obvious, wasn¡¯t it? Clear as day. And yet, as Cynobria thought how to reply, she could find no words to say, no proper reason as to why.


    ¡®I¡­ uh, that¡¯s too slow,¡¯ she said lamely. Was that really the best she could muster?


    ¡®Who are you racing, Bree?¡¯ Cynobria said nothing. ¡®You took up Hayar yourself, didn¡¯t you? It should be fun. If it¡¯s not¡ªwhy force yourself?¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ Cynobria said with sudden defiance. ¡®I can¡¯t stop. I can¡¯t give up like this. That¡ª¡¯ she pointed to the miserable mess on her desk¡ª ¡®is my only ¡°fun¡± right now.¡¯ She realised how utterly ludicrous that sounded as soon as it left her maw, and Mum¡¯s expression was a silent mirror of that thought. There was a stinging in her eyes, and Cynobria grit her teeth, bracing for the inevitable comment that would crush her flimsy illusion of calm.


    ¡®Alright.¡¯


    Her head snapped up with a sharp and shaky breath.


    ¡®I can¡¯t stop you from learning Hayar,¡¯ said Mum. Calmly. Matter-of-factly. Sincerely. ¡®Nor should I. But mind, Bree¡ªno one gets it right the first time. And it might take a fair bit to hone your skill to a point you¡¯re pleased with it. You¡¯re a smart dragon, smarter than me, I¡¯d say, so you might take less than a full year. Or more¡ªHayar is much harder than Tarangean after all. But even smart dragons need rest. Take a break, for now, and come back to it later. Don¡¯t beat yourself up for failures. Failing is how you learn. Can you promise me that?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, Mum,¡¯ Cynobria said unconvincingly.


    A bit of hesitation. ¡®It¡¯s the war too, isn¡¯t it?¡¯


    Cynobria averted her gaze, jaws tense, and swallowed. ¡®It¡¯s far away from us.¡¯


    ¡®It is.¡¯


    Her paws flexed against the floor. Damn her. She was making her talk.


    Cynobria didn¡¯t know her homeland¡ªfourteen years, and all of them spent living not among her kin. They rarely visited, with her parents¡¯ busy schedule and the fractured relationship Dad had with his own, but most of all because it wasn''t safe. Vyl had fallen years ago. Recently, some Albyneese lands too, though with those the Cavrians¡¯ progress was much slower, especially after the Conqueror¡¯s death¡ªthank the spirits. Slower, but progress it was. If they sat by, would Cynobria ever see her homeland? Or should she not be learning Hayar, but Cavrian instead? Her parents kept telling her to be proud of being a Svar, and yet all Cynobria saw of their own love for the country was running away.


    Cynobria stilled her tongue. They¡¯d had this talk too many times before.


    When it was clear she wouldn''t speak, Mum exhaled slowly, lingered a little more in the doorway, then said, ¡®If you want to talk, I¡¯ll be in the kitchen with dad.¡¯


    ¡®Alright,¡¯ said Cynobria.


    She turned to the ruin of her desk¡ªthe blue ink splotches marring both the book and the desk itself, the broken ferrule sitting in the centre like a proud king.


    Anger stirred inside her again, but Cynobria only closed her eyes and breathed. Mum was right. She needed a break.


    When the tears eventually came they brought relief and cleansing, and she welcomed them with open paws.

 Ch2: The Useless Generation [522 A.U.C.]

    F¨¢olan 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


    C¨¢ONDAI ¨¢L DEAL¨¢I, THE CONQUEROR


    MAY UNITY¡¯S LIGHT GUIDE HER ETERNAL PASSAGE


    417¡ª512 A. U. C.


    C¨¢ondai the Conqueror. F¨¢olan¡¯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 F¨¢olan¡¯s and Taori¡¯s wings regardless.


    She had deemed her mother, Deal¨¢i, 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¡ªsuch was a dragon¡¯s nature.


    She had deemed her only son, ¨¦oghan, a soft buffoon, and refused to acknowledge him as heir. She had pushed him into a swift courtship, and his son¡ªF¨¢olan¡¯s father¡ªwas taken under C¨¢ondai¡¯s wing, and prepared to one day take the throne after her.


    So it came to be that every second generation of the Lasth¨²ir would bear the mark of ¡°useless¡±, and when F¨¢olan 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.


    F¨¢olan did not like to think of himself as ¡°useless¡±¡ªeverything determined before he had left the egg¡ªbut 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, D¨²lam¨¢n.


    ¡®What are you doing out here by yourself, F¨¢olan?¡¯


    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¡ªsilver studded with topazes and heliodors, her accessing gems¡ªand a mirrored pair of hornbands with fine engravings, denoting her status as Queen Consort. White and chestnut swirls spread across her body, similar to F¨¢olan¡¯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¡ªpeaceful, 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.


    F¨¢olan 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 ¨¢l Asari di Lasth¨²ir, 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, F¨¢olan,¡¯ she said. ¡®Aodhan did not try to make you think so, did he?¡¯


    A subtle growl tinged her words, and F¨¢olan was quick to reply, ¡®No. Not at all. But¡­¡¯


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


    ¡®C¨¢ondai is dead,¡¯ she said so sharply F¨¢olan 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, F¨¢olan found himself saying, instead of an answer, ¡®I like grandfather ¨¦oghan.¡¯


    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.¡¯


    F¨¢olan¡¯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!¡¯


    F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan 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 C¨¢ondai behind.


    ¡®One between the two of you will be chosen to inherit the throne after me.¡¯


    F¨¢olan shifted uncomfortably under Father¡¯s gaze. The king¡¯s white-and-gold form towered over F¨¢olan in all its vast mountainous glory¡ªtheir 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 F¨¢olan with its even golden teeth, and yellow gems blinked across the King Lightbringer¡¯s body, embedded between his scales. A lot of them¡ªtoo many to easily count. F¨¢olan did not shudder at it now¡ªhad not for a long time¡ªbut 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.


    F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan for a brief moment, only to immediately return to the king. F¨¢olan followed suit.


    Even as a ¡°useless generation¡± they were, at the moment, the only heirs to the throne, but even so, F¨¢olan 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.¡¯


    F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan¡¯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 F¨¢olan nor Taori spoke, ¡®are the most important qualities for a ruler?¡¯


    Here it was¡ªthe first test. All at once F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan could form anything of his own. ¡®Not physical, but of the mind. A strong will, certainty in leading Cavria on its brightest path.¡¯


    F¨¢olan¡¯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 C¨¢ondaiesque, and the force behind it startled him. It might have been the correct one, too, and now F¨¢olan 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. F¨¢olan 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.¡¯


    F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan would not say more, Father nodded, and F¨¢olan 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? F¨¢olan dared not ask. His mind was heavy with the question, but a fear gripped his heart and stilled his tongue¡ªthat 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.


    F¨¢olan 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.¡¯


    F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan 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 C¨¢ondai. 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 C¨¢ondai. 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¡ªa garden, a statue, a conversation¡ªand he was not sure where the words had come from, but they were out before he knew it. ¡®You are not C¨¢ondai, 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 F¨¢olan wondered what he was doing.


    ¡®You are not C¨¢ondai,¡¯ 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¡ª¡¯ she gestured vaguely with her wing¡ª ¡®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 F¨¢olan 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 F¨¢olan, even though it shouldn¡¯t have. He said again, ¡®We are not useless. And we will prove C¨¢ondai 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.¡¯