COOL WATER SLUICED ACROSS her face. A warm purr throbbed throughout her body, turning her bone marrow into fizzy sap. “Wake up, Allory Fae. Wake up. Come on, mrrr-prrr.”

“Momfae? Where am I?”

“Mrrwll! I am not your mother. You’re alive, apparently, no thanks to a galumphing case of gossamer-winged idiocy on your part,” snarled the Felidragon. So displeased was he, he tugged his own whiskers in annoyance. “What was that episode? HRRR?”

She touched her antennae nervously. “I … I thought –”

“I thought you were dead!”

He cared?

For the longest time, she could not process the switch from a dream in which she had died, literally crushed like a bug, and the reality of a Golden Purrmaine Felidragon glaring at her as if she were that very bug-smear and he wished nothing more than to flame her into charcoal.

Resettling themselves, her thoughts seemed to acquire new patterns, driving new pathways through the jungle of her mind. Each soul’s sap must be different, she supposed. Her thoughts flowed like sap, life-giving, gelid and effervescent. What if real fire shaped a creature’s mental processes? She peeked shyly at Yaarah. Why wasn’t he enraged all the time? A monster, a tyrant?

The Felidragon snarled, “Out of nowhere, you just drop like a dead fly and what am I supposed to think? How could you be so inconsiderate?” Fire whooshed away to her left hand as he averted his muzzle. Every consonant crackled and sizzled as he spat, “You wretched … thoughtless little mrrr-PSSST! How dare you? I cannot discharge a life-debt honourably if you insist upon tossing your existence away in a blaze of … whatever! Like that!”

Still shocked by his care, she breathed, “Like what?”

He stared down at the girlfae cupped in his forepaws, clearly nonplussed, exasperated and relieved all at once. “Like I nearly shed a perfectly serviceable coat of fur over your antics, you horrid … GNARRR!! Not horrid. Just … thoughtless. Grrr! Be more careful next time.”

“Next time?”

“THERE WILL BE NO NEXT TIME!”

Having survived the thunderous blast only because she hung on to his talons, Allory scrambled to her feet and reached out to stroke him beneath the chin. In her tiniest voice, she murmured, “I’m really very sorry. It shall be as you command, o mighty Felidragon.”

The Dragon gaped at her. His nose twitched. Then, his lips curled as if his toothy maw possessed a wild need to commit unspeakable crimes against diminutive blue creatures who had the temerity to express instant obedience to his wishes. An energetic sneeze immolated a perfectly innocent silver dragonfly buzzing above her head.

She said, “Did you feel it? Yaarah?”

“Maybe. Something tingled my whiskers before it swatted the living scintilla out of you. What was that?”

“Ariavanae,” she inhaled sharply, searching his face as if answers might be found there. “It – but I don’t understand – why would it hurt me? You felt it … in your whiskers, aye?”

Why would it let the memories attack her? Wasn’t it meant to be her heritage, the heritage of all Scintillant Fae? Why would it hurt her if it was a good, healing force?

At once, Yaarah dropped the paw which had been rubbing at his cheek pad.

Allory touched her back, but she had not been healed. Nothing had changed. Then, why? What did that strike signify? A new fear to take root in her heart? A mystical reprimand? She needed to bind this wound better to make sure it did not keep tearing open, but it was in a bad location. Every movement of her body or arms stretched it or tugged at the flesh.

Could that Wraith creature have sent the Marakusian Men to destroy her colony and capture her family? Could that be the connection? Yet they had been green-skinned and scarred on their cheeks, she remembered full well. The Men in her vision had been dressed differently. They were grey-skinned, with broader faces and shoulders – almost amphibian in appearance, like the grey jungle newts with their glistening, poisonous backs.

Brutes, those Humans. Their bestial thundering, their fervent dash in the service of their gods of war …

Suggids! Shake it off.

Forget everything. No matter how perturbing, no mere memory could oppress her forever.

Glancing about as the sound of water running nearby captured her awareness, she realised that Yaarah had brought her to the base of the Sentinel Tree grove. Soft blue-green grasses fringed a friendly flow a mere six or seven feet wide, the water chuckling between infeasibly spherical boulders covered in pink, mauve and crimson mosses. He waved a paw absently to chase away a luminescent pink dragonfly that dared to investigate his whiskers. Stepping over to a patch of cream anemones, Allory took a couple of calming sips of fragrant nectar.

She needed to stop. Think. Dwell in the now. Twenty-one seasons was a long time to be searching for anything. The Felidragon must imagine that her kind were important, but she could not fathom his reasoning. Maybe if he could help her to find and rescue her people, the capable ones could take over and she would be released from this unwelcome burden he wished her to bear instead? No need to go above, as Faerie said. There lay danger, anathema and death.

Shame sickened her stomach as she considered this humiliating, oh-so-Allory notion. Please, not me. Anyone but me.

No. One step at a time. Even if hers were the tiniest feet in all the Russet Jungles, she had to take steps toward making this catastrophe right. Any steps. Somehow.

She said, “Our colony stood not far downriver from here, Yaarah.”

Step one.

“Aye. Let’s go see what we can find. Then, by my Felidragon fires, we need to t –”

They both glanced up into the boughs as a characteristic muffled bark sounded nearby. Ripper Baboon. Her pointy ears twitched as she caught a slight rustling in the foliage upriver, as if a creature tried to pass through but had snagged on something sharp. Narrowing his eyes, the Felidragon motioned to her to mount up, to stay quiet. No problem there. Allory had no desire to mix with those Rippers anytime in the next thousand years. Still, it struck her that he must be thinking the same thing: why were the Ripper Baboons paying them so much attention? Could they be tracking a Felidragon, or worse, a Faerie? Was it possible?

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

What power beneath Middlesun could reach into the deepest, remotest jungles and smite a Scintillant colony into nonexistence?

Back aboard the Dragon – with a disbelieving giggle or two at her surreal existence – Allory had her first experience of how a predator could move when he wanted to be stealthy. He did not take off. Instead, he slunk away into the riverine undergrowth in a way that made her feel instantly sympathetic toward any creature a Dragon ever hunted. Even though his colouration was rich gold and she crouched upon his back, the shadows and dappling sunlight somehow embraced his lithe presence. She had to look twice to check he had not vanished. Was this magic? Or skill? The placement of each paw upon grass, stick-fall or leaves was utterly soundless, softer than any Faeling’s breathing in the night.

They tracked the flow for half an hour, creeping and slinking, dashing and diving, until she was convinced no Ripper could possibly know where they were.

At last, they came to a place where the gigantic root-growth of tarembis crystal trees had torn up the rocky substrate and created a maze of great boulders suspended in many cases hundreds of feet above the ground, liberally festooned in zahinga vines with their characteristic azure trumpet flowers. Their aroma effectively masked the scent of Faerie; according to the Philosopher Xertiona, a little-known secret.

Little good it had done them.

Allory directed Yaarah up a twisting trail into the heart of the maze, commenting aloud that while some of the Marakusian Slavers had come from below, most had penetrated the maze from above and the sides, surrounding the Faerie colony and leaving them no escape route whatsoever.

How had the Marakusians found this location so easily? Hard to believe.

Farther in, the access was tighter, at times a struggle for the Felidragon. He soberly pointed out places where the cut marks left by Marakusian pangas, a heavy-bladed jungle knife, still oozed sap. They wove between the long-stemmed hexagonal crystal clusters grown by the trees, which had no function anyone had ever explained to her but appeared to be massive, inflexible flowers. Yaarah whispered his admiration of their beauty.

Coming at last to a place from which she could view the central cathedral around which the Faerie cocoons were arranged, Allory gasped and ground her knuckles against her mouth. She heard herself make a terrible, lingering groan.

Ruin.

Not content merely to take their slaves, the Marakusians had ripped this Faerie colony apart and scattered the furniture, clothing, supplies and knickknacks of her family and friends about the colony space without a care. Faerie had no treasures that Men might value, neither gold nor jewels … perhaps they valued Faesilk? This was … evil. Beyond evil. This was what she had left behind when she hid while her family suffered. Allory sobbed silently, taking in the tiny Faebear playthings of the Faelings, the torn hammocks, spoiled food, entire cocoons ripped out of their branch or crystal spar footings to lie splayed open, violated. Some of the warriors’ bodies had clearly chewed upon by scavengers.

Horrific beyond her wildest nightmares.

She wailed in muffled horror, “Oh, oh, oh no … please … no …”

“I am so sorry, Allory.”

Even the Felidragon’s voice trembled and cracked, his shock at the scale of the wanton destruction more than clear. This had been a beautiful, peaceful, happy place.

Nothing left now. Desecrated.

Why?

O Soul of Spheris, why allow this?

Then, she gagged in realisation. No! Over to her left, her sisfae Narembi lay face-up as if asleep, but the way her neck was crooked over her shoulder and her eyes stared at nothingness said all too much.

A scream closed off in her throat. Allory almost fell off the Felidragon, sobbing, wailing, unable to accept this fresh horror.

“Alright, Allory?”

His paw tried to raise her to her feet.

“Give me … a second. It’s my –” she pointed helplessly, stumbling toward her sisfae “– she’s …”

Sobs could not express the molten anguish consuming her heart. Allory’s pulse roared in her ears. The silver sap of her Fae life curdled in her veins. Narembi had been a strong warrior, the most capable of the seven siblings. Beautiful. Noble of heart, always caring for those smaller than her. She had been unfailingly supportive, often standing up for her tiny sisfae – and now look at her. Grief burned; how could it burn like wildfire yet leave her still among the living?

Clambering over the rubble and ruin, she moved to her sisfae’s side. Oh, Narembi! Beside her lay another warrior, Narembi’s sweetheart Aloxan. They had just exchanged the First Vow of Intention, a precious promise that began the journey to marriage. Now, they were joined forever in the afterlife.

Her bare foot snagged on a line.

Twang!

Allory shrieked piercingly as a net leaped about her body, snarling her up in an instant, then shot her into the air and over toward one of the crystal flowers. She bobbed about for a few seconds as a little bell tinkled merrily beneath her feet.

What the …

A large shadow stepped out into the light.

“Always one left behind, yarr-ha-ha!”

Despite that the Man laughed, no mirth shaded his tone.

Light green skin, three deep tribal scars along each cheekbone and greasy, tied-back emerald hair proclaimed him as a Man of Marakusia, one of the Slavers. He wore solid leather armour and hefted a solid wooden crossbow casually in his left hand, pointed at the ground.

A cruel, triumphant smile full of black teeth twisted his lips as he regarded his prize.

“You … you brute!” she whimpered.

“Brute? Suits me just fine.”

She spat in his direction, “Suggid-sucking bastard!”

“Is that so?” he drawled. “So, patience rewards the hunter. Ye’ll fetch me a fine bounty, me teensy beauty. Make me rich. What’s yer name, little Scintillant? Mine’s Grothar. Grothar the Great.”

As he spoke, gold shifted stealthily into the corner of her eye.

Her nape crawled. Felidragon on the hunt! The way his hackles stood upright, he suddenly looked twice the size. A terror on paws.

Grothar caught the betraying flicker of her gaze and whirled, smooth and incredibly quick for a big, burly Human, but not quick enough. The loaded crossbow had barely reached the level of his hip when Yaarah struck in a single, long pounce, thundering, SSKKKRREEE-SSSS!!

Seven seconds of growling rumpus later, Grothar was much less great. He was also reduced to several different pieces and very dead indeed.

Yaarah panted between crimson-stained fangs, “Alright, Allory? Sorry I didn’t scent him earlier, mrrr-hssst. Maybe we should have questioned him, but I … I couldn’t stand it, not after seeing what they did here.”

Allory gaped at the barbaric sight. He’s a killer. Just like them. I … oh suggids, did I just savour the scent of revenge? I’m a monster, too!

Dropping her aghast gaze, she whispered, “Just get me down, Yaarah. Please.”

Nothing would ever be alright again.

Allory quivered her way through the afternoon. Numbness made her every breath feel dull, her hands and feet tingled, her stomach churned unceasing. Yaarah helped her to gather the fallen. He said he was no Philosopher, but he could not stand to leave the bodies to be despoiled further. They deserved a proper sending-off to the afterlife, to have the greatness of their deeds and the wrathful recompense of injustice promised over their spirits.

She did not understand his draconic ways.

Twenty-eight of her people. She had known every single one since her youngest Faeling days beneath Middlesun.

Here were her sisfae Narembi and her pupae-brofae Eskan and Tornal, wearing their battle armour. Yaarah found them beneath the rubble, their sapphire bodies pierced through by Marakusian crossbow bolts placed with devastating precision. So much silver blood had leaked from the heart shots. The Felidragon took time to arrange each body carefully, while she took a vial of sacred embiss oil she had stumbled upon and moved alongside the Dragon, anointing them each upon the forehead, heart and hands. She lay with the dead for a long time, eyes closed, breathing in their spirits until she felt able somehow to articulate the blessing that each soul deserved.

Soon, they must join the boneyard. The nearness of home brought that truth to rest in her cocoon. This was all she had feared to face, and more.

Why did the spirits linger over their dust?